The Christmas Cactus

A little less than a year ago, I received a Christmas gift. It was a Christmas cactus with a note attached explaining that if I took good care of it, next Christmas it would bloom.  I set it on my desk at work, and as the new year began I made a pledge to myself that despite my decidedly not green thumb, in this case I would channel my father the master gardener and tend lovingly to this cactus, in hopes of seeing the promised Christmas blooms.

The Internet is your friend in cases like this and I found a wealth of advice on how to care for a Christmas cactus, with promises of abundant blooms next holiday season.  I conquered my sense that it would be hopeless (based on the mourned deaths of houseplants past who were unfortunate enough to be under my care).   I acted on faith alone and  entered a repeating note in my computer calendar for each Tuesday morning that said:  “Smile.  And water the Christmas cactus.”  Each Tuesday I did just that.  

A few months ago something told me to move the cactus to a sunnier corner of my office to catch the western sunlight.  In early November the Christmas cactus pushed out many promising buds.  By Thanksgiving, glorious pink blooms emerged.  And they’ve continued to grace my office with their happy color all this holiday season.

I assure you that I am grateful for the many ways this past year I’ve seen proof that faith can work miracles and bring unexpected blessings; I wish both of these for each of you this Christmas season.

The Old Bag Allegory

A domestic conversation with M recently had clear parallels with what I’ve observed at work. At the time, I was performing the mildly onerous daily task of sifting the poop out of the kitty litter box with my trusty slotted scoop and dumping it into one of the used plastic bags we save for this kind of thing. A particularly battered bag had been prominently placed next to the litter box so I went ahead and used it. M said, “From now on, be sure to use the old bags I put by the litter box.”

“Okay,” I said. “But how do you define old bags?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we have a drawer full of plastic bags and to me they’re all used and therefore old bags. But I’m sensing you have a more specific definition of the preferred oldness of the bags to be used for kitty poop and I’m just trying to understand your logic.”

“You don’t need to understand my logic. Just use the bags I set out for you by the litter box.”

“But I do want to understand the logic.”

“Why? Why do you need to understand the logic of which bags are the old bags?” he said with some annoyance.

This is where I started to see the work parallels. I smiled.

“Because, one day when I’m ready to scoop the poop and you are not around, alas and alack there will not be a bag set out for me to use, and I may have to Think for Myself and select a bag from the old bag drawer. Wanting to do the best possible job of following your old bag orders under this challenging circumstance it will help me greatly to know how I can tell which of the old bags are suitably old enough to be graced with cat poop,” I explained.

“Ah—well, a bag that has merely been used to convey vegetables from the grocery store to our house is not sufficiently old. A bag that has been subsequently reused after initial arrival at our house—that is a truly old bag,” he said. We were both laughing by then.

“Aha,” I said. “Now I know.”

And so it goes at work. If you want people to do work that meets your expectations then you had best give them the supporting logic as well, and you’ll get more consistently positive results, even when you aren’t around. They might even help you come up with some better logic; you never know.

“I assume that since you never reuse the green bags the newspapers come in that they can immediately be classified as old bags suitable for kitty poop; would this be a correct assumption?” I asked.

“Why yes,” he replied.

And there you have it.

Eschewing Techie Twinkies

"Moderation in all things - including moderation." - Mark Twain

Too much of a good thing...are social networks, computers, and mobile devices of all stripes robbing us of our opportunity to truly connect with each other and with nature as well as our basic ability to think in depth?
An article in the Sunday Boulder Daily Camera called "The Technology Diet" likens our constant high tech connectedness to a fast food addiction. Some folks, even 20-somethings, are going off the grid completely, seeking to again hear themselves think and get to a point where they can read a book steadily for more than a few minutes without checking email and Facebook.

The article mentions Lewis Mitchell Neef who has posted about Internet craving and the damage it does in his "Adrenal Fatigue Project," a "satire on the pointless blurbs of misinformation that the Internet constantly bombards us with, inducing a heightened awareness and fatigue." Neef urges not to drop out completely but to "use your time wisely and be present" (good advice under any circumstances). Use the Internet to find real connections and further good causes.

Also mentioned is Laleh Mehran's and Chris Coleman's W3fi movement (pronounced "wee-fy"), showcased recently at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art. They outline a three-step approach for being productive and avoiding mayhem on the Internet: know yourself online, be aware how your actions affect others, and know how you can connect with others positively and productively.

Andrew Weil has written another of his excellent down-to-earth books recently called Spontaneous Happiness on finding happiness in the modern world and one of his prime recommendations is to limit digital distractions and seek more connection with others and with nature to find the peace and sense of well-being we all seek.

There was a time I remember, my children, when we didn't carry around cell phones, when we didn't have something called a "digital presence on-line," when we read more, made our own music, had real conversations with each other.

I'm becoming more mindful of that lonely state I find myself in sometimes late at night, continually seeking something real online, long past the point of exhaustion, looking for truth in all the wrong places. That's a strong signal that it's time to power off and tune back in to real life.

The Bug

How to describe my fascination with Ellen Ullman's 2003 novel The Bug? The scene is Silicon Valley in 1984 when the mouse as an input device is still an innovative new technology. The story is told from the perspective of software developer Ethan and a tester Berta--both doing battle (often at cross purposes) to track down an insidiously elusive bug they end up calling "The Jester." The bug takes on a personality of its own, appearing only intermittently at the worst possible times, sabotaging important demos, and ultimately becoming a haunting nemesis for both of them. In the end, Ethan's efforts to debug his code become intertwined with his efforts to debug his life, which is rapidly unravelling all around him as he loses his wife, colleague, and the manager who appreciated him and lured him into the project to begin with despite Ethan's self doubt.

Ethan's real passion is an artificial intelligence program he calls the simulation in which he tries to program his cyber creatures to socialize and thrive. Survival in the simulation depends on whether a cell is surrounded with other healthy cells, but Ethan's creations are not thriving, despite his efforts. The novel's structure is divided into four parts, each preceded with a diagram from the simulation, showing the progression as a hapless cell is deprived of each of its neighbors in turn, paralleling Ethan's own life of increasing isolation.

The author was an English major before she got into high tech (I can relate to that) and weaves a number of literary allusions into the novel including Eliot's Middlemarch, Kafka's The Metamorphosis and Shelley's Frankenstein (the tester's name is Roberta Walton and the name of the narrator in Frankenstein was Robert Walton).

Ullman's descriptions of software engineers and their quirks absolutely rang true from my own experiences in the industry of the 80's--from the relentless fascination with puns to the office collections of toys like squirt guns and boffo swords, to the hilarious description of Ethan's attempts to answer pointed questions from the bean counters about The Schedule while balanced precariously on the only seat remaining in his manager's office--a bouncy ball.

The toys and puns take on a vaguely hostile air as the intense pressure from the venture capitalists to deliver on the impossible schedule increases. Ullman vividly describes the 7x24 obsession with churning out and debugging huge quantities of code and the challenges many technically brilliant engineers have with emotional intelligence and deciphering what is really going on in their bewildering social interactions. She also does a great job of depicting the challenges of management, aka herding the cats--both what an excellent manager can mean to the productivity and sanity of technical people as well as what havoc can be wrought by a terrible manager. She shows rather than tells us these things--with dark humor and clarity. The story does take a very bleak turn at the end, but she has lined up all the events that lead to this so thoroughly that the ending is logical and inevitable.

Ullman also penned a 1997 autobiography called "Close to the Machine: Technophilia and Its Discontents," about her Silicon Valley years as a software developer--she mentions that she was the first engineer to be hired at Sybase to work on the client side of groundbreaking client-server architecture. In "The Bug" the company is called "Intelligentsia" but includes an eerily accurate portrayal of one of Sybase's founders and his habit of nodding and smiling during every conversation regardless of the content.

Other novels have explored the computer world and its sometimes cutthroat ruthlessness. There aren't many novels that delve into the complexity of a coder's brain, motivations and inner life with this level of depth and empathy. To unambiguously tell the machine what it is you want it to do, you often must become part machine yourself--sometimes at great cost.

Authenticity and Facebook

"If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything."

Mark Twain

I found an interesting article in the New York Times last Sunday about authenticity, especially on-line. (Anybody who's been around for awhile surely recalls the old cartoon about how "nobody knows you're a dog when you're on the Internet.") Everybody these days seems to be professing authenticity, a big topic of discussion in connection with the many GOP presidential candidates. One thing I'm pretty certain about: the truly authentic don't have to announce it to the world.

The article mentions Facebook--how it is usually our presentation of "ourselves on our best day." And that a typical person's post is an attempt, consciously or not, to sell him or herself. I think Facebook is a little more complicated than that; people who post are driven by one or more motivations including the need to publicly reveal:

- the best possible face

- a singular item expected to awe/amaze/amuse

- a whine, with the hope for sympathy

- an opinion, with the hope that many will agree with it

- a series of compulsively recorded details about every day life in a ploy for attention

- a polite, dutiful periodic comment in order not to appear to be too much of a lurking voyeur

- a short response to someone else's post to demonstrate solidarity and/or some level of participation in life

There are probably many other modes--do people even think about it anymore? Or is Facebook so ubiquitous at this point that asking these questions is like asking what "mode" somebody is in when they use a telephone or send an email?

I think the underlying motivation is to connect with other people in some way, but without any great investment of time, energy or commitment. However, this basic need to connect is authentic, no? Even though the "face" people present on Facebook may not be truly accurate or authentic, it does give people a way to maintain at least a very low grade connection with others. And so Facebook has redeeming value because it allows people to stay connected albeit in a very superficial way for the most part.

So, back to authenticity--how to define it? Is it telling the truth no matter what, even if it does more harm than good? I think it's telling yourself the truth, and acting in close concert with your most deeply held values, no matter what the cost. Given this, mentioning authenticity and presidential candidates in the same breath seems highly contradictory.

Summersense

The grassy green fragrance of Queen Anne's lace,
The brassy sassy yellow-black sunflowers,
The snowmelt rushing downward

Under soft warm air.
Lightly salted sweat at mouth corners,
Deep breaths.

The last waltz of summer.

***********************

Bill Keller wrote a great column in the Sunday NYT about those plodders on Capitol Hill who are all so very sure of their viewpoints. He says what they all need is a good dose of poetry and he quotes the poetry columnist David Orr who commends poetry for encouraging "hesitation, doubt and ambiguity."

The column also includes these wonderful but sorrowful William Carlos Williams lines:

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

I've always believed more progress is made by people who have a modicum of humility about whether they've got all the answers. And yet our election process seems to insist on absolute surety on every subject.

On Songwriting

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung 
Would you hear my voice come through the music? 
Would you hold it near, as it were your own?
It's a hand-me-down. The thoughts are broken.
Perhaps they're better left unsung 
I don't know, don't really care 
Let there be songs to fill the air.

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed 
Nor wind to blow

"Ripple" - Robert Hunter/Jerry Garcia - The Grateful Dead

I’ve been thinking about the experience of writing songs--which I have only done a few times in my life a long time ago.  One friend I know launched passionately into a major period of songwriting recenty, inspired to go actually arrange and make a recording in Nashville.  I’ve seen M launch into lengthy, intricate guitar riffs that are completely improvisational.  I’ve known many friends through the years who have written music.  The other night my brother-in-law played a Beatlesque tune on my back porch that was so good I was trying to dredge up the memory that would tell me which 60’s band recorded it when, only to learn that it was an original.

I myself wrote three songs (that I remember) earlier in my life.  They came to me out of the blue and almost fully formed with only some lyric tweaking needed, and it was like a small miracle each time.  Writing songs is magical.

I just finished reading an autobiography called “Life” by Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones.  The book was aptly named since it is remarkable that Keith is still among the living after his colorful career immersed in blues, rock and roll, and every drug you can name.  The book is surprisingly detailed and insightful and has some special treats for guitarists since he talks about his discovery of open G tuning as well as his early and electrifying (literally) experiences with amps and sound systems.

Keith has this to say about song writing:  “What is it that makes you want to write songs.    In a way you want to stretch yourself into other people’s hearts.  You want to plant yourself there, or at least get a resonance, where other people become a bigger instrument than the one you’re playing.  It becomes almost an obsession to touch other people.  To write a song that is remembered and taken to heart is a connection, a touching of bases.  A thread that runs through all of us.  A stab to the heart.  Sometimes I think songwriting is about tightening the heartstrings as much as possible without bringing on a heart attack.”

Keith talks at one point in the book about the search for the holy grail of the lost chord--many songs have been sung about that one.  Especially interesting to me are the great songs about songwriting, like The Grateful Dead’s “Ripple” quoted above, and of course, Leonard Cohen’s oft-covered “Hallelujah” which also speaks of that elusive chord:

I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do you?

Well it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift,

The baffled King composing Hallelujah.

Hallelujah indeed to all the great songwriters of the world, known and unknown but all appreciated.

Bad Moods Are Like Secondhand Smoke

I am not an overly moody person most of the time, although I admit I do have my moments. Lately it seems I'm surrounded by moody people, however: people with lots of ups and downs, people who are easily angered by the unavoidable black flies in the chardonnay of life (with a shout out to Alanis), people who are never satisfied, cynics and pessimists of all stripes, people who take work too seriously or not seriously enough. Stop. Wait! This is becoming a moody list of Things That Really Piss Me Off and that is not the topic of this blog.

The topic of this blog is the impact of one person's bad mood on those in the vicinity. Especially those very black moods that twist and curl their sinuous ways around our heads before we have time to move away. Like secondhand smoke, they are inflicted by one thoughtless, oblivious person on others, sometimes many others, in no time at all. The impact of a dark mood on others is hard to undo, even more so if the moody person holds great power either through love or authority.

Knowing all this, I try to be mindful of my own attitudes and moods (especially the darkest ones) and stifle myself where appropriate. Perhaps there should be a special glassed-in area set aside where people with bad moods can go to unleash their secondhand miseries on each other after which they could return to civilized society with only the faint odor of bleakness lingering on their persons like a cheap perfume.

Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats. - Voltaire. 

Kaizen

Lately I've been mindful of Kaizen, the Japanese concept of continual, incremental improvement. The first step with Kaizen both at work and at home is awareness: clearly seeing the possibilities for improvement.

Since improvement is incremental with small measured experiments to check progress, the concept of Kaizen can overcome that sinking feeling that "this mess is way too big to tackle." It does require a degree of trust, optimism, and faith in oneself and other people, however, since very often an improvement can't be made without some agreement and cooperation from the larger group. Open, frequent communication is essential to Kaizen.

I had a conversation with a colleague who was new to one of our teams at work yesterday. I was (from my perspective, of course) attempting to communicate the benefits of working well across teams, explaining the history behind why this federated group of teams had joined together for common goals, how important it was to maintain respect and collaboration across these teams. "I want you to be successful on this team," I said at one point as I was trying to convince her to be more mindful of how her actions were impacting the group as a whole. "I'm already successful," she snapped back. Just one time in my life I would like to feel that kind of certitude, but I don't think it would help me for the long haul. To understand why, keep reading.

How can you be successful without considering the team as a whole? Kaizen assumes that the group works together to identify ways to improve quality and efficiency, and then incrementally implements these steps, testing progress at each step. It doesn't work well for those who don't want to acknowledge mutual dependencies.

I was heartened the other day during a team retrospective meeting to hear a respected and brilliant software architect comment that very early team communication about how a task will be accomplished can help guide it the right way from the beginning and can therefore reduce waste of time and resource. But this takes time up front, and some patience, and the natural urge to proactively communicate. Not everybody is born able to do this. It has to be encouraged and developed.

My dentist (of all people) has a saying his staff quotes during lectures about proper dental hygiene: "The trouble with communication is that people think it's happened."

True everywhere in life. If you think you know what's going on already, and if you're absolutely positive you're on the right track, you don't bother to ask, and you jump straight to a solution that may have little to do with addressing the root cause of a problem. I've done this so many times I've lost count. But at least I'm mindful of the trap.

My Kaizen thought for the day: ask five whys to understand a difficult problem, and always question what you think you already know.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Of Mice and B-bikes

I steel all my courage. At the bottom of the path through the CU campus and across the creek is the B-bicycle station which I have carefully cased previously, its red bikes on display. Ive already walked a couple of miles to get this far, and today I intend to check out a bike for a short spin. I follow the instructions to insert my credit card.


On my first try, with only 30 seconds of insistent beeping allotted to pull a bike from the rack, I get confused and press the silver button which is only to be pressed if you have a special B card which I of course don't have. Three beeps tell me the bike has been "successfully returned," still locked tightly into the rack, not my intention at all. But since I have 24 hours of usage for my $5, all I have to do is swipe my credit card again and this time I hastily yank the bike out of the nearest slot. I now have the B-bike in hand and, happily, no onlookers have seen me fumbling.

A small sign on the bike says "B-cycles will self destruct when ridden on commercial sidewalks and pedestrian malls."


I imagine what this self-destruction might involve: whooping alarums? A poof of smoke and perhaps for drama a small lick of flame? A mechanical recording that warns "this bike destructs in 30 seconds" or perhaps simply "I can't do that, Lynn?"

My plan is very simple, anyway. I will ride the bike strictly on the bike path from here to the next station, just past Broadway--about 7 blocks. But this does take courage on my part, because I've always been nervous on bikes: a wobbling, unassertive rider too shy to call out "on your left" when I pass a pedestrian. And I am also doing the unconscionable (given my frequent exhortations to my children); for this short experiment I am Biking Without a Helmet.

I keep my backpack on my back rather than using the basket, hoping it will be more stable. I try to remember the last time I was on a bike. I take a breath and careen off down the path, which is not flat of course since each bike path underpass involves a small dip down and back up again. Despite my ability to walk relatively long distances, I'm out of shape bike wise and actually have to suppress my humiliation and briefly walk the bike back up from the underpass at 17th.

It is an unstable but quick ride, and the sharp pain in my right hip from my walk that had caused some limping a bit prior to arrival at the bike station has magically disappeared, perhaps because the hip got a rest as I sat on the bike using muscles and joints in different ways.

But my relief is palpable at being able to get off the bike again, push it back into an empty slot in the rack behind the Municipal Building, and observe the reassuring triple beep and green light indicating that it has been successfully returned without self destruction of either me or bike.

For my $5 I can do that again and again anytime in the next 24 hours free, as long as my rides are under an hour. And rest assured, if I try it again today, it will be another short ride. I love the concept though, encouraging alternative forms of transportation with these $1000 smart bikes that are tracked by GPS and are suddenly so readily available along our Boulder Creek Bike Path. I hope they end up being successful. Biking as an alternative does seem to make sense for me and my hips, so maybe I'll continue to take baby steps like the one today.

Laughter Yoga and The End of Days

I could only chuckle to myself when I awoke this morning to the realization that I had been Left Behind; I had not been "raptured" as predicted by a certain Christian minister who was sure he knew when the big event would occur despite clear biblical references saying that only the Big Guy himself really knows the timing for these types of events. Of course, I would have been left behind anyway since I can't claim innocence from at least some minor and possibly major (depending on your flavor of religion) transgressions I've committed over the years. But I was also still safe in my bed and had not been dumped out of it by a cataclysmic earthquake either, so unless the end of days is a lot more subtle than previously suggested I think we've all dodged the bullet.

I am glad I chuckled, since I've been working lately on being less grim and serious, hoping to increase the joy in my life. Laughter is supposed to be a key component for this. I bought an app for my iPhone that randomly supplies one-liners from famous standup comedians like George Carlin and Richard Lewis. And I ventured out last Monday night to try something completely different--Laughter Yoga.

This is a group exercise in which everybody forms a circle facing each other and maintaining eye contact while a leader guides the group through various simple exercises in laughing--the deep, guttural, Kris Kringlesque haha hoho kind. This is not an opportunity to be the life of the party with jokes or standup comedy. It's more like a guided physical experience in using all the parts of the body together to produce extended mirth--lasting a good 40 to 45 minutes or longer. It takes a surprising amount of physical energy to sustain and I'm sure that's part of why it's beneficial. It doesn't matter if you aren't in the mood to laugh. You "fake it 'till you make it." And my experience was that the laughter can be infectious and can turn genuine.

A number of studies have shown that the act of laughing (even when you're forcing yourself) can be very beneficial--reducing stress, raising dopamine levels, increasing positive moods. It is also a natural way to connect on a basic way with other people.

I think I observed warmth and compassion in the eyes of some of those surrounding me, and a certain level of acceptance for whatever measure of laughter I (the only newby in the group) might achieve. Since we were supposed to be maintaining eye contact as we cavorted about the small wood-floored room with the royal blue meditation cushions stacked in the corner, I sometimes caught glimpses of more complicated emotions--grief, quiet desperation, hope. One man's laugh lines crinkled in friendly smile, a woman's wide-eyed glance sprang from the corner of her eye like a startled thoroughbred's.

I'm not sure yet what I made of it. But as I thought about the experience Tuesday morning while driving to work, I laughed out loud in a way I perhaps wouldn't have without the experience. And when I caught myself thinking sad thoughts this morning I forced a smile--and felt a little better. Good signs, no?

After all, those of us who have been Left Behind had best keep our spirits up.

Requiem for the BookEnd Cafe

It’s like a missing tooth you keep feeling around for with a wistful tongue.  My favorite espresso joint in Boulder closed on May 1. A kindred spirit who also loved the place sent me some photos to remember it by.  I keep thinking I’ll head down there, and then realizing it is no more.  Why was it so special?

For one thing, it was attached via an inviting brick archway to the independently-owned  Boulder Bookstore, one of my favorite places in the world.  A person could sip a latte, then go next door to peruse the inviting shelves, then come back for more latte, and repeat.  BookEnd had old red brick walls, and shelves filled with ancient tea tins and pots.  There was a large ball of string on display, and a huge painted wooden frog.  The soundtrack was usually playing music I enjoyed and the overall hubbub of the place was enough to energize, but not so much that it overwhelmed.  

You could sit next to the tall windows and people watch for hours as the parade of humanity* which is Boulder’s Pearl Street ambled by.   Or you could sit outside at the stone tables next to the black iron grillwork and listen to that long-haired old guy with the beard who sings pretty well, knows the words to every folksong ever written and always seems to know which one you want to hear next.  Chess players, students, tourists, silver-haired groups in lively conversation, writers, families--all found a cozy place to hang at Bookend.  I can only hope for a swift resurrection.

*The Pearl Street parade can include the likes of a small boy balancing a luminous green-purple peacock feather on his index finger as his proud father looks on, a smiling young couple holding up a sign offering “Free Hugs,” several people in a row on mats doing yoga on their backs and offering to balance onlookers on their feet, a ragtag band with a guitar, washboard and fiddle singing fast jazzy tunes in raucous harmony, a flamethrower and juggler explaining to a member of the audience how not to toss the axe up to her  while she’s pedaling the unicycle lest bloodshed occur, a blonde belly dancer undulating to a languorous drumbeat gradually building to a fast crescendo...and so much more.

Impostor Syndrome - True Confessions

All my life I’ve suffered from Impostor Syndrome--that persistent certainty that I’m not worthy, that everything I’ve achieved is by chance, an inexplicable twist of fate.  And that surely any moment my fraudulent charade will be uncovered and I will be drummed out of my position in mortal shame.  This self doubt has crippled me at times and generated huge anxiety for me.  So often I’ve felt that I just don’t belong where I am in any way, shape, or form.  According to my research, this is a surprisingly common affliction for women and men.   The prescribed treatments include:

• attending group therapy with others in the same boat--hearing how common this state of mind is with others who by all outward appearances are deservedly successful
• imagining what the response would be if you explained your “incompetence” to the supportive people you have “fooled”
• keeping records of positive feedback received
• employing positive self talk: “I will do well in this presentation” rather than “I know I'll screw this up somehow”

In my own experience, no amount of self talk has been fully successful in eradicating this feeling, but awareness of it has helped me to stay mindful of the distorted thoughts around it and able to resist it to some degree.

I do remember a conversation I had with my father about 12 years ago (he of the “Horrible Example” fame) when I told him that I had been promoted.  (I will resist the urge here to itemize all the reasons still lurking in my own head for why this was surely an improbable turn of events).  My father’s reaction to the happy news was sheer, unmitigated disbelief.  I could see it in his eyes and hear it in his tone of voice.  He could not comprehend how it was possible.  I do know that my father loved me very  much--but this reaction was painful for me I must admit, and further contributed to my own doubts about my worthiness. 

In thinking back on it, I think my Dad’s reaction was driven by his own negative world view--the self doubt that tortured him all of his work life and caused him huge suffering. 

I remember once in a therapy session (oh, yes, I know from therapy) with a male grad student when I was in my 20’s being called on my “dumb blonde act”--it was a pretty crude and roughly handled confrontation but I’ve never forgotten it and eventually I came to understand what he was driving at.   He said, “You’re just a little cream puff, aren’t you?”

Understanding all of this, today I’m able to let go of the hurt and feel compassion for my father’s past suffering, and the suffering of all who feel like impostors, who have the excruciating sense of unbelonging that can make life such a grind.  

So--for all those fellow suffers who may be reading this and looking for a solution--please look objectively at the evidence, and then choose to believe in yourself.  You are not perfect, but your achievements are real and deserve your recognition and self love.  

Comments appreciated (but I’m determined not to think less of myself if there are none).   Dear, dear.  What a piece of work I am...

The Sheening

As one of the most well known actors in American sit-com history axes a hole through the American psyche and sticks his head through to yell, "He-e-e-re's Charlie!" I have to weigh in on addiction and our attitudes toward it in this crazy culture.

Every standup comedian and late night host alive has won some laughs now at Charlie Sheen's expense.  Some people suggest Charlie is laughing all the way to the bank as he flits from one paid interview to the next.  the world is well aware of his cocaine and alcohol addictions, his crazed comments about maggots and devils and flying monkeys ( okay, he hasn't gotten to flying monkeys yet but it's only a matter of time), his repeated acts of self destruction.   His name has been added to the Urban Dictionary as a synonym (verb) for outrageously out-of-control behavior.

Anybody who has loved another person In the grips of addiction has a hard time laughing.  Addiction is like a whole other entity--it is the other woman, the best friend, the first choice always for an addict not in recovery.  It comes ahead of family, love, work, even food. It is like the devil himself, possessing its victims and changing them into heedless, soulless zombies or ax wielding family wreckers.

And, like a horror picture, we all want to laugh about it to keep ourselves from crying or screaming.

So my heart goes out to all those who are close to Charlie and who are getting sheened once more in a long series of sheenings. May they, and he, find peace.

Rooting Out Resentment

"Resentment is like swallowing poison and then waiting for the other person to die."

I've been thinking a lot about resentment and how it eats at at you relentlessly if you let it. It is a wicked bad waste of energy--like weeds in a garden that are best pulled out by the root.

Roots of Resentment:

1. Comparing your lot in life with others

2. Doing things for somebody else they could be doing for themselves

3. Imprisoning yourself by limiting your perceptions of what is possible

4. Refusing to accept what is

5. Dwelling in the past

Remedies for Resentment:

1. Being grateful for what you do have

2. Setting boundaries

3. Thinking outside the box, trying new things, keeping an open mind

4. Letting it be

5. Forgiving and letting go

Ah. That feels better.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

I've been hearing a lot about Amy Chua's book, interviews and articles on how and why Chinese mothers are different from Western mothers in their parenting style. In this excerpt from her book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother," she describes an epic battle with her 7-year-old daughter in which she insists the girl practice her piano piece until she's got it right on the night before her next lesson, at a huge cost to the peace and psyche of the family. Her argument is that this is a demonstration of true parental devotion--based on her unshakeable faith that the kid can and will be able to achieve the goal.

When, after a night of screaming and denial of such comforts as supper, water and bathroom breaks, the daughter finally manages to play the piece correctly, she is so thrilled and happy with her achievement that she comes to her mother's bed to cuddle.

According to Amy Chua, Chinese mothers don't allow activities like sleepovers or watching TV--ever. All the more time to focus on the goal of perfect A's in all subjects (gym and drama exempted) and mastery of either piano or violin (no other choices allowed).

Western mothers, on the other hand, are overly focused on their child's self-esteem and don't possess the same unshakeable belief in the resiliency and strength of their children. They want to help each child find her true passion but, for the sake of a kid's happiness or self esteem, are unwilling to push and shove their kids past the inevitable early difficulties when learning a new concept or skill.

In the end Chua does show some balance in her viewpoints on parenthood, concluding with the comment that all decent parents act out of love for their children despite their different parenting styles. She says:

"Western parents try to respect their children's individuality, encouraging them to pursue their true passions, supporting their choices, and providing positive reinforcement and a nurturing environment. By contrast, the Chinese believe that the best way to protect their children is by preparing them for the future, letting them see what they're capable of, and arming them with skills, work habits and inner confidence that no one can ever take away."

The above conclusion rings true for me in my own observations of the contrasts in the two cultures, but why can't these goals be combined by applying a balance of approaches to parenting, based on the kid and the situation on the ground? One size does not fit all; sometimes strict discipline is the right tool and at other times letting go and allowing a kid to stumble and learn from the consequences can be the better path. You've gotta play it as it lays, because parenting is much harder than blindly following one set of rules.

Parents, kids - what do you think?

Tiny Bubbles

Though life is made up of mere bubbles

'Tis better than many aver,

For while we've a whole lot of troubles

The most of them never occur.

Nixon Waterman

I spotted an interesting article called "20 Questions That Could Change Your Life" a few days ago--it recommended questions a woman should ask herself on a regular basis in order to have a full and happy life.

The last question listed is, basically, "Really, truly -- is this what I want to be doing? And what could I do to make this moment more delightful?" I was in my office on a Friday on the last of the week's day-long conference calls with people in distant time zones, my joints creaking from sitting way too long in one position, and I asked myself this question. I gazed around the office and my eyes settled on a tiny green plastic container shaped like a champagne bottle that I'd gotten as part of my 20-year work anniversary a year ago. I picked up the little bottle which held a soapy solution and had a tiny bubble-blowing wand attached to the inside of the cap.

As I continued to listen to the call, I blew bubbles, lots of bubbles, which floated briefly in the sunlight in my office like little beacons of joy. I glanced over at the small fountain I have on a corner of my desk surrounded by six tiny laughing buddhas. And I smiled.

Why Am I Not Serene Yet?

     “Serenity is not freedom from the storm, but peace amid the storm”

One of my plans for the new year is to find a path toward greater serenity. Here are my top ten ways to become more serene:

10. Minding my own business rather than everybody else's.
9. Letting go of things I can't control.
8. Opening my mind to greater spirituality.
7. Counting my many blessings.
6. Taking care of myself with healthy food and exercise, and remembering to breathe.
5. Connecting with other people.
4. Focusing outside myself on ways I can be useful to others in need.
3. Listening to my heart to know what I want and need.
2. Spending time in fresh air, sunshine and nature.
1. Living in the moment rather than regretting the past or fearing the future.

Any others you want to add?