Morning Glory Massacre

Soaked for over a day,
The seeds hold heavenly blue promise.
Carefully nicked then planted
An inch apart in groups of four,
Caressed by the rich earth in the front corner
 Just next to the chain link fence.

Seedlings emerge on schedule only to be
Ruthlessly thinned for their own good.
Each day their growth
Sends soothing green shoots of well being through my heart.
I envision the vines climbing the fence,
The eventual morning emergence of blue glory.
Pride goeth before the fall.

One fine Monday the unintentionally ruthless lawn crew
Diligently edges, edges, edges
The grassy patch of hope.
Off with their heads!
Thus occurs The Great Morning Glory Massacre of 2015.

Now I reach down into the depths of my soul
For comfort, for the right story to tell myself,
For the energy to replant.
I remind myself of various global tragedies, comparing mine.
I pause to breathe.
Then patiently explain the entire story
(Well no, the Reader’s Digest version of the story)
To Andy’s Pretty Good Lawn Service:
Offering reassurances (how were they to know?),
Receiving reassurances (they will take greater care!)

The Dalai Lama said, “Choose to be optimistic; it feels better.”
Besides, I see now that a few seedlings from the first planting survived,
No doubt hoping for companionship--
No doubt optimistic because it feels better.

Turning Point

New Year's Eve

Pearl Street Starbucks

A time comes when there are so many reasons to go that you know it's time; the center cannot hold, the balancing act can't continue.  You realize you're needed and wanted much more in a different universe.  I woke up this morning inventorying in my mind the removal and disposal of all the stuff in my office at work--perhaps the tide has turned?  What does one do with heavy glass recognition plaques marking one's 5, 15, 20 years at a company one must ultimately leave?  And what of all the books on leadership, Agile development, and more--would anyone else even want them?

I'll keep the six tiny carved laughing Buddhas; not so sure about the fountain with the stalk of bamboo growing in it.  How about the beautiful flowering cactus?  Yes.  I can surely keep it alive.

Many will envy me if I make this move and never guess how terrifying it is.  Shall I tell myself a different story?  It's not terrifying, but thrilling to imagine moving beyond this phase in my life to something new and potentially far more fulfilling.  

The sun obligingly shines through the Starbucks window and reflects a prism rainbow right across my journal page--purple-blue, then brilliant green fading to yellow, then orange and red.  A beautiful sign that taking care of myself and my family first is surely the right path, not selfish but wise beyond analysis, something that in the end I will not regret because of the new experiences I'll encounter on the next leg of the journey.  It is indeed a journey--not a final destination to save even more money so I'll finally, finally feel secure.  Nothing's secure anyway.  I have only to count already fallen friends and family to know that all is ephemeral, including the prism rainbow already fading from my page but marked by me while it was there in the moment as a sign, noticed before it was quickly gone, giving me a moment's joy.

To notice more--this is part of the journey; to be here now.  The unhappiness comes with fear of the future and regret about the past, but not from now.  Now contains joy and contentment and wonder.  Just remembering to breathe and be grateful for the oxygen can be such a relief.  Releaf?  And my current work becomes less important in a relative sense as my priorities change from more security and money to more time. 

Time to move on.

Martha Beck says:  "The way we do anything is the way we do everything."

The way I do things is to think, think, think.  This has left me with less ability right now to listen to myself (or others) and learn the heart's deepest desires.  But I'm hearing more and more clearly now.

Magically, the prism rainbow returns to illuminate my page!  A sign to be sure, if I‘m willing to tell myself that story. The colors are even more glorious than before and the joy returns.  Surely I'm on the right path.  I don't want to stop writing because I'm enjoying the rainbow so much.  I move the page so my hand doesn't block the light.

The message:  Do not allow yourself to block the beauty and happiness, for it is surely you alone who block them when they're right there!

The way you do anything is the way you do everything.  My way tends to include much cautious analysis.  I seek full assurance that everything will be okay and all my decisions will be the right ones.  In the last third of any life there is only one guarantee:  it will end.  All the rest is a crapshoot.  How do I want to spend the last third of my life?  What things no longer give me pleasure but are instead breaking my heart, and why do I still cling to them?

Martha Beck again:  "Everything I've ever taught boils down to this--I cannot believe people keep paying me to say this--if something feels really good for you, you might want to do it, and if something feels really horrible, you might want to consider not doing it.  Thank you, give me my $150."

Carpe Diem.  

Near Enchanted Mesa...

Near Enchanted Mesa the breeze breathes
through the pine trees.

Many spend forty days, forty nights
or more
in the wilderness 
seeking the centered peace I feel 
right here, right now.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

Been There, Shrunk That

At M’s recommendation I read an article in the NYT Sunday magazine called “My Life in Therapy” by Daphne Merkin, about one woman’s 40-year epic with psychotherapy—all her hopes for how it would fill the terrible holes in her psyche and finally give her the love and attention she never got enough of from parents and lovers. She describes a sometimes amusing, sometimes harrowing sampling of a wide range of therapies from age 10, including classic Freudian psychoanalysis which I frankly have no earthly use for since I’ve always believed it was demeaning and disrespectful to women (and probably men as well) and seemed more likely to keep people stuck in the past focusing on the inevitable imperfections of their childhoods.

My own experiences with therapy have been numerous. I too was taken to see a woman who was probably a psychiatrist when I was around 10 years old and had suddenly decided I hated school when previously I had loved it. The root cause for this was that I was having difficulties with arithmetic, and this was the first time in my brief school career that I had found anything in the classroom remotely difficult. However, I didn’t talk about this during my session. Instead, I told the attentive white-haired lady about the recurring dream I was having in which I was arguing with a talking skull, and how I had eventually learned in the dream to wake myself up by pushing the skull away with my hand and uttering a “bad word.”

“What was this bad word?” asked the psychiatrist.

“I can’t say it out loud.”

“You can say anything in here.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Excuse me?” she responded with surprise, since up to this point I had been a very good little girl in the session.

“Shut up was the bad word—we’re not allowed to say ‘shut up’ at our house.” And indeed we weren’t—it was literally considered an unacceptable word in our household.

Later in my 20s and 30s I struggled with shifting moods and depression, and a few severe cases of a broken heart along with a profound fear of failing at school and later at work. I drifted from one therapist to another with little or no progress in my estimation. It was only the year after my mother died, in 1999, that I was forced by a vicious darkness of the soul to do real work in therapy in order to survive that grief and the several more that followed. My therapist then told me that there was no way out but through…and introduced me to the cognitive behavioral therapy. And from that point, I did find a few good therapists who helped me make some progress; I also began reading a large number of books on my own, centered around letting go of rumination about past and worry about future and focusing on living more in the present. And also paying more attention to that blathering negative voice in my head and how to step outside its influence and talk back to it (even telling it to “shut up” on occasion).

Can therapy be an addiction? This is suggested in Merkin’s article and it likely can be, but for me it was more like a journey that simply took a long time and that in the end was productive. It just takes time and experience to finally wake up and see through the fog to notice what’s really going on and how much power you hold in the search for serenity.

Daphne concludes the article with: “Therapy gave me a place to say things I could say nowhere else, express the feelings that would be laughed at or frowned upon in the outside world—and in so doing helped to alleviate the insistent pressure of my darker thoughts.” I agree—in other words, it helped me find my voice.

She also says therapy “provided a space for interior examination, an education in disillusioned realism that existed nowhere else in this cacophonous, frantic planet.” Agreed again—in other words, it helped me wake up.

What about your experiences with therapy good or bad?

Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Life is but a Dream

Ever drifting down the stream--

Lingering in the golden gleam--

Life, what is it but a dream?                    

                        Lewis Carroll

I’m plowing through Stephen King’s Dark Tower series this summer and just finished book four, “Wizards and Glass.”  A key theme and phrase in these books is “there are other worlds than these,” and there are many instances in the series where characters move in and out of worlds and times in a dreamlike fashion where death is not an absolute and people are never quite who they at first appear to be.  Also, I recently saw Christopher Nolan’s “Inception,” in which Leonardo DiCaprio plays a thief who can move in and out of his own and others’ dreams—but when can he be absolutely sure he’s not dreaming?

In both of the worlds created by these fantasies a person to some degree is able to choose his dream.  In the Dark Tower, Roland the Gunslinger seizes  opportunities to move between worlds (or are they dreams after all?) in his obsessive search for the Tower.  In “Inception,” DiCaprio’s Cobb character moves between dream worlds as easily as pressing a floor button in an elevator, choosing to invade the dreams of others and even plant ideas in those dreams with dangerous and tragic results.  In the end he must choose to return from a dream he’s having trouble letting go of but which he knows is destroying him.  And in the end, is his chosen world just another dream, albeit a happier one?

It seems our experience of life is defined by our perception of it, so we can choose our dream—but it’s so damn hard to keep that in mind (as is the case when you are actually dreaming, especially during a nightmare).  It’s difficult to be mindful that we have far more space and choice than we perceive, and that we can choose to swim up through the murky water toward the surface and the light rather than succumb to the illusion we’re drowning. 

The other thing it’s hard to keep in mind is that everybody else is in their own dream, in various states of unconsciousness or wakefulness, and that their dreams are not yours, or vice versa. 

Nothing is quite what it seems on the surface.  If we’re not awake enough, we box ourselves and other people in with assumptions, “truths,” “limitations” that are not real.  If only we could have a way to jog the memory like Cobb does in “Inception”--to spin the little top to help us see what is real.  On the other hand, if we’re happy and at peace, isn’t that all the real we need?

Skullcandy

Last Sunday I decided to venture out and buy a pair of headphones for our home PC so that when I wanted to listen to music or video clips while I’m on the PC in the family room, I can freely do that without having to worry about disturbing M while he’s reading or watching TV.

So we went to Best Buy and got some advice from a patient young man, very tall, very skinny, a huge mass of long, golden brown curls haloing his head. Since I’ve never owned headphones before (I know, hard to believe), I had amusing questions for the young man like, “do you think that little hole in the front of my computer speaker is for earphones? How can I be sure?”)—but he answered all my questions with a bemused look (you can also plug these headphones into the similar little hole you will find in the IPod you have). He warned me that the earphones were quite powerful so I should take care not to blast my ears to kingdom come on the first try.

I wanted something fairly inexpensive since I had no idea what I was doing, but of high quality that would shut out ambient sound pretty well so that I don’t have to hear the Nuggets game in the background when I’m listening to Joni Mitchell. I ended up walking out with the somewhat age-inappropriate earphone brand “Skullcandy”, thoroughly secured in snappy clear and black plastic packaging decorated with ominous looking skulls. The brand name has made me feel slightly more dangerous than I have any business feeling, I think. 

I went home and plugged these headphones into the little hole in the speaker without incident, and then (being careful to keep the volume low at first), tried listening to a song I had recently downloaded to iTunes, Bonnie Rait and John Prine’s version of John’s “Angel from Montgomery.”

Wow. It was wonderful.

Now I understand better why my kids make sure they have music wherever they go, in the current age a possibility when previously it was not.

The music came through beautifully, in all its nuances and glory, and I was left wondering why on earth I had waited so long to treat myself to this “skull candy.” I was so transfixed that an annoyed M had to stand right in front of me waving his arms to get my attention—he’d been trying to talk to me from behind, and I hadn’t heard a thing. In the classic teenage move I lifted up one of the earphones and said, “WHAT??”

Anyway—lesson learned. This was another reinforcement of the importance of treating my brain regularly to new experiences and sensations—great music, books, art, nature, conversation. What else have I been unwittingly starving for? And what are you starving for?

Remember what the dormouse said,
Feed your head. Feed your head. Feed your head.

                        "White Rabbit" - Grace Slick

Inverness at South Padre Island

“If there is anything you need and don’t see, please let us know…and we will show you how to do without it.” - Sign on the bathroom wall in the Inverness condo at South Padre Island

And after a few days at Inverness I see that I have everything I need. Maybe it was the constant sound of the surf, or the sleepy heat of the beach between wind bursts, or the 11th floor balcony looking out toward the infinite ocean horizon, or the large sign under the big-screen TV that said “RELAX.” In any event I feel like I can smile easily again and have had a good rest.

I found time to do things like bend myself backward in repeated attempts to capture pictures of seagulls and pelicans in flight from my bird’s eye perch on the 11th floor. And to just sit by the ocean and listen to the waves and read and read and read and read for hours on end. And to let the heat reflected off the sand soak into me and then to finally swim in the salty cool waters, dodging the clumps of seaweed. And repeat. And also to be rested enough to be willing to get up in the middle of the night to observe the thunderstorm and light show out at sea. And again in the morning to arise and gaze down the shimmering path of light leading to the sunrise over the water.

We call it a “vacation” in the U.S. which sounds so empty and clinical. I prefer the European word for it. Believe me, they know how to take time off, and they call it “going on holiday.”

Here and Now at The Laughing Goat

I spend part of the morning at my new favorite coffeehouse, The Laughing Goat. Near Pearl and 17th, the coffee is great and the ambience hits a sweet spot for me somehow. I usually sit at the front tables to soak up the sun’s warmth. The tabletops are a subtle rich mixture of orange-brown-green metallic color. A sign over the espresso bar says “Be Nice or Leave”, and further down the bar the light fixtures are covered with a warm orange-brown crinkly fabric that reminds me of Cecropia moth cocoons. Flyers advertise poetry night on Monday evenings, the Beat Bookstore a few doors down, live Jazz on Wednesday nights, and more.  The walls are black-painted cinder block and artwork in orange and turquoise covers the walls. There is a Buddhist shrine in the front window with an orange shroud, incense burners, candles and prayer flags. Bluetech rhythms swirl from the sound system. On a high shelf, a white ceramic goat stands with a toothy grin and a green and gold saddle on its back, seasonally sporting a red Santa hat with white trim.

All in all, a good place to write my New Year’s resolutions. Aside from the usual self-exhortations to work out more on the treadmill (the only technique guaranteed to get my heart rate up to the desired level), eat less crap, write more, etc. etc., my main resolution has to do with…paying more attention to what I need and want in the present.

As I type this, Emily the Cat lies in front of the computer, batting at the cursor as it moves across the screen, along with, occasionally, the (hah!) mouse pointer. She has only recently discovered the wonders of the computer, after I changed the screensaver to a marquee message in light blue English Gothic lettering, the message being simply: Here and Now

Whenever the screensaver kicks in, “Here and Now” gyrates, whirls and tilts against a black screen in a manner far more enticing than a mere mouse could ever be. Emily bats wildly at this message, much as I do several times every day.

My main resolution is paying attention to what I need and want, Here and Now. This may seem like a no brainer to many people who are well-versed in knowing what they want here, now, there and everywhere, but for me—a person who throughout my life has focused on making everything run smoothly, helping everyone find what happiness might be possible for them, earning what approval I can and never earning enough to satisfy me—it is not a no-brainer.

Much can be learned from Emily the Cat, who consistently focuses on what she needs and wants here and now, whether it be her morning treat, to be let in, to be let out, to be petted on a warm lap. At the moment she would like to catch in her claws the odd little vertical line that scoots randomly across the screen, sometimes backing up for a moment as I fix a typo, then jerking forward again in teasing fashion. Come to think of it, she wants the cursor here and now, but she cannot have it—ever (though at least she knows what she wants). So this analogy has perhaps fallen to pieces right before my horrified eyes, and yet it amuses me, right now this second, so it hasn’t been a complete loss.

In hasty conclusion, I do believe there’s simple joy in Here and Now…let’s see if I can remember that this year.

Persimmon Pudding

When I was a little girl back in Indiana we always went to Grandmother’s old brick house on Dunn Street in Bloomington for Thanksgiving Dinner. The table would be set beautifully, with polished silver candlesticks and flatware, and a real lace tablecloth. We feasted on roast turkey, rich dark brown gravy, dressing, mashed and sweet potatoes, green beans simmered with bacon, and Grandmother’s special, tart, not-for-everybody cranberry and orange relish. For at least one dessert we would always have persimmon pudding with whipped cream on top. The persimmons were gathered from beneath persimmon trees on a nearby property my grandparents called “the farm.” I knew nothing of how such a dinner was orchestrated and set upon the table with exactly the right timing—Grandmother made it look very easy. I might be asked to bring some of the dishes to the table or fill the water glasses.

After Grandmother was gone, my mother made the Thanksgiving dinner each year at our house on Sugar Lane. I helped a lot more at this point so I could start to see how bringing such a feast to the dinner table was like an air traffic controller managing the simultaneous landing of several Boeing 777’s at the same airport—a calm demeanor and careful planning were both essential. My Mom also made it look easy but I began to understand what it took, and helped as much as possible with the relish plate containing the olives, celery and carrot sticks, and the traditional green beans simmered with bacon. But my father was always the one to make the persimmon pudding. He had planted persimmon trees many years before up in his vast garden, using seeds obtained from the farm—and each year he would harvest the persimmons that had fallen to the ground and were starting to soften, peel them and mash them into a rich orange pulp. With the precise care and intense breathing he applied to most important tasks he would mix and bake the persimmon pudding. I began to see that this was homage to his mother perhaps, although we never talked about it.

Later, I moved far away to Colorado and began to have Thanksgiving dinners of my own, learning to overcome the momentary panic when confronting a large turkey ready to be stuffed, calling my mother for advice where necessary.

Me on the phone: Mom—there are icicles inside the turkey!!
Mom: Yeah, there always are—just knock ‘em aside and stuff the old bird.

My father would painstakingly ship me enough frozen persimmon pulp for one batch of persimmon pudding, which due to his master skills at packaging and shipping would arrive in perfect time and condition for me to make the dessert for my Colorado Thanksgivings.

Dad is gone now, but persimmons can be found around this time of year in the produce department of most grocery stores.  And so this holiday I give thanks for these memories and I pay homage to those who came before me as I slowly and lovingly mix the ingredients for today’s persimmon pudding we will have with our family feast to come in a few hours. M is in charge of most of the cooking, since he is the master cook in the family, but I do the pudding, and the traditional green beans simmered with bacon.

Happy Thanksgiving to all. May each person reading this make and hold dear all the beautiful memories of your own families.

Little Old Lady Ninja

The blues come on little rat feet…apologies to Carl Sandburg. I have been pondering new ways to avoid the Sunday night blues after a particularly bad bout with the Sunday night blues last weekend.

The other night I was vegetating on the couch with my feet up reading junk fiction after a long day fighting dragons and tilting against windmills at work.  I was wearing my black satin pajamas, and as I rose smoothly (hah!) to get myself a cup of tea my husband remarked that I looked like a “little old lady ninja” in those black pjs.

Okay, I’ll take that. My goal as I get older is to remain strong in body and spirit, at the ready to fight the demons and dragons found mainly in my own imaginings. Better this than a feeble old lady in a flannel nightgown.

The Sunday night blues is one of my demons. Every Monday morning at work when I ask people how their weekends went they say “Great—but too short.” (I am excepting of course those who have worked all weekend).

I’m pretty sure many people of all stripes fight the Sunday night blues. There are many blogs and articles with tips on how to beat them, from distracting oneself with non-stop activity, to planning some special treat for Monday morning, to meditation, to sunshine and exercise. As a matter of fact, it’s a gorgeous, sunny, September Sunday here in Boulder. Revel in it, I say! The ultimate trick I have is pure determination—to just be hell bent on wringing every last drop of joy out of each moment, Sunday or no. So - fight back against the Sunday blues like a little old lady ninja—and if it helps, imagine me: black-clad, feet planted, hands raised, staring down the demon blues in mock ferocity.

Synecdoche

I saw Charlie Kaufman’s film “Synecdoche, New York” last night – a complex, image-rich movie about a playwright in a severe mid-life crisis, trying to find truth in his work and relationships. The term “synecdoche” is interesting: it is a type of metaphor in which either part of something is used to refer to the whole thing, or a general class of thing is used to refer to a part or a sub-class of the whole. One example of synecdoche is the usage of a single characteristic to distinguish a fictional character—e.g. calling a character “Bright Eyes” or “Brown Shoes” – usually done when the observer doesn’t know or care what the name of the other character is. Other examples might be “suit” for a businessman, or worse “empty suit” for an incompetent businessman, or “gray hair” for an older person. I remember once at work recently talking to a large financial customer about their mainframe applications and requirements and asking who in their company could tell me more about their current needs. “You mean the gray hairs?” responded the brash young New Yorker. Ah well.

Another example is Shakespeare’s “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players."

Anyhow, as I apply this to the film, the main character Caden Cotard (played by the gifted Philip Seymour Hoffman) is a playwright who has had some level of success in regional theater in Schenectady, NY (get it? Schenectady/Synecdoche). He is suffering from a mid-life crisis in which everything seems to be falling apart including his own body and his relationships with his wife and daughter. By the way, Cotard’s Syndrome is a mental illness in which a person has the delusion that he is already dead. Although his wife takes their daughter and leaves him, Caden ends up winning a monetary award that lets him work on his masterpiece play. As the film progresses there are more and more dream-like sequences—he hires actors for his new play, but then seems to be hiring actors to play the roles of important people in his real life. Eventually he finds an actor to play his own role, and with greater insight than he himself seems to have.

The love of Caden’s life is Hazel, who lives in a house that is always smoke-filled and burning. Even when we see her purchase the house she thinks aloud with the realtor about whether she will end up dying in the fire—strolling contemplatively from room to room as flames flicker through a window or in a corner.

Caden’s four-year-old daughter Olive, who he loves dearly, remains four in his mind long after his wife and her lesbian lover have spirited her off to Germany and she has grown up to be a tattooed erotic dancer whose flower tattoos are dying as she does and who has, inexplicably, a German accent. In the end, each character including Caden himself is defined by a particular characteristic (here’s one of many cases where synecdoches seem to come in) but at the same time we see how limiting and artificial those definitions are, and that in reality each character has layers and depths that we can only begin to understand. A few words in shorthand from the director to tell the actors who they are or how to be seem more and more inadequate.

I think Caden in his mid-life crisis feels trapped by these limitations he has applied to himself and others around him. In the end of the movie when he’s much older as is Hazel, there is a beautiful, golden scene in which they are briefly able to move beyond these limitations and their love shines through. But of course life is short and there is a price to pay for choosing to live in a smoke-filled house afire, or loving someone who does. They only grasp what is truly important and real at the last possible moment.

Eventually, Caden takes on the role of his ex-wife’s cleaning lady Ellen, and the actress who was playing this role becomes the director, guiding his actions through a small earpiece he’s been provided. The last instruction he gets is simply, “Die.”

Let me make it clear that these observations only touch the surface of what is going on in this very complex film – it is definitely worth seeing and will generate some good conversation.

Pretty Little Feet

Each summer when we were young, my Mom’s mother would fly out from California for a few weeks to visit. We got to go to the airport (which had a very exciting ride called an “escalator”) to pick her up. To make room in the tiny Ellettsville house, my brother would move out of his room into the garage to sleep, the garage door rolled open to the summer air. I slept out there also to keep him company, and my mother made things cozy with an old oval rag rug, reading lamps, and late night snacks.

Granny, whose first name was the very old fashioned Hazel, would arrive with her small suitcase--a sturdy woman with silver-gray hair who without fail enjoyed a daily solitary morning walk through the neighborhood in her sensible size 9 shoes. She was a widow; my Grandpa had died when I was only two. Granny never raised her voice to us, and yet somehow even an expression of mild disappoint from her would bring us to despair, so we were always on our best behavior for her visits. If we behaved particularly well, we could expect to be treated to a Chinese restaurant dinner in Bloomington with fortune cookies and sherbert for dessert.

Once when I was sitting next to Granny on the couch with my bare feet propped up on a chair in front of me, she glanced down and said, “You have such pretty little feet,” a compliment that made me inexplicably happy. And despite the fact that I cannot claim any credit for the feet I was born with and the more prominent fact that my feet are less than extraordinary, I have never forgotten this positive comment. Forty-six years later as I look down at my enameled toes and lightly tanned feet each summer her words come back to me and give me a small measure of happiness—a great lesson in how much influence a single kindness can have on a child throughout his or her life.

The Greening of Boulder

Rain has been more plentiful than usual this May in Boulder and I’m reveling in the sight of unusually lush green foothills and trails.

We walk from South Boulder up to Chautauqua, down to Pearl Street for a writing session at Bookend Cafe, then home in the pouring rain, and we’re happy. Our walk is in a parallel universe with the massive 10K Bolder Boulder footrace also occurring in town today but we walk alongside many of those who've completed the race as we make our way home in the downpour.

It was also May when we first arrived in Boulder in 1977, with every belonging we had packed in a tan square back VW (two guitars, a tent and cook stove, our clothes, and a remarkable number of books). For the first few nights we pitched out tent along the creek at the Wagon Wheel Campground in Four Mile Canyon outside town.

That year the weather was mild and very dry. Colorado’s arid climate and the muted sage green and gray of the Flatirons were a radical change from the emerald green forests of maple, sycamore and oak in southern Indiana. We were luckier than we knew, since May in Boulder can be quite rainy; some years, late season snowstorms cruelly weigh down and break the flowering fruit tree branches. It is only after many years here, some during severe drought, that we fully appreciate the precious rain when it comes. So it’s been raining all Memorial Day weekend in Boulder and I’ve been falling into grateful sleep each night to the steady, gentle patter on our roof.

Up in Chautauqua the sage was abundant--we each picked and crushed a leaf; the delicious scent filled me with peace and joy. When it’s been raining this long it seems as though all the green plants come out of hibernation and suddenly it looks a lot like Ireland without quite so many pubs.

Also in Chautauqua Park is a small circular flower garden with four pebbly paths leading up to an oblong sign that proclaims, in multiple languages: May Peace Prevail on Earth. As I’m reading the sign and saying my own little prayer, a woman drives by, leans out the window with a smile and calls out “Peace for all the world!” I do feel peace in my souI right here, right now in Boulder.

It's All Right

After a weeklong business trip with the usual sense of isolation combined with strange moments of connectedness with airport strangers that business travel usually brings me, I woke up intensely grateful to be back in Boulder. This morning I listened to a Paul Simon song that’s been running through my head all week, the music based on a Bach chorale and the words so very relevant for the current time and for my return home from traveling: “American Tune.”

Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken
And many times confused
Yes, and often felt forsaken
And certainly misused
But I’m all right, I’m all right,
I’m just weary to my bones
Still, you don’t expect to be
Bright and von vivant
So far away from home, so far away from home

This country continues the long struggle of picking up the pieces from the latest hurricane in Galveston and environs. I see pictures of the places we visited in March on the west coast of the island, now totally destroyed. Meanwhile Wall Street has had its own hurricane and the U.S. government, counter to the current administration’s usual philosophy of letting the free markets resolve these messes, is stepping in to bolster the “giants who cannot be allowed to fail” before they topple and destroy our economy. But it’s only money, right?

Do listen to "American Tune." Simon sang it for the Democratic Convention in 1980. He sang it again on the first Saturday Night Live after 9/11. Simon has said in interviews that he wrote it in 1973 after Nixon won reelection.

And I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
I don’t have a friend who feels at ease
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
Or driven to its knees
But it’s all right, it’s all right
We’ve lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road we’re traveling on
I wonder what went wrong
I can’t help it, I wonder what went wrong

In these times it’s important to remember how lucky we still are and how much we have to be grateful for as we seek the change we need in November. You can imagine Paul Simon waking up on a November morning to another four years of Nixon and writing this:

We come on the ship they call the Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the age's most uncertain hour
And sing an American tune
But it’s all right, it’s all right
You can’t be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow’s going to be another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest
That’s all I’m trying to get some rest.

The song could leave you with a bleak feeling but I choose to take it as a hopeful call to find our way and make it all right before it is too late, to find our way again on this “long strange trip.” It’s time for a different approach. McCain represents safety and assurance to some, but there is no security because we are blazing a new trail on many fronts: financial, international and ecological. These lives we are all living—what radical changes may really be required to continue to live in this world and ensure that all the other inhabitants may also live? I believe Obama recognizes what we all must realize--much must change and greed must fall.

I intend to continue to recognize the abundance I have in the simple joy of living. To draw my happiness from the moment, not from all the “stuff” and money and accumulations. A key question: am I being generous enough to my fellow human beings? Am I practicing enough acts of random kindness? Eckhart Tolle says:

Many poets and sages throughout the ages have observed that true happiness is found in simple, seemingly unremarkable things...Why is it the "least thing" that makes up the best happiness?...The form of little things leaves room for inner space, and it is from inner space, the unconditioned consciousness itself, that true happiness, the joy of Being, emanates. To be aware of little, quiet things, however, you need to be quiet inside. A high degree of alertness is required. Be still. Look. Listen. Be present.

And…if you are having a cynical moment (or two or three) as you read this, please ask yourself how you like living with this cynicism every day and what you or anyone else is getting out of it. As John Lennon sang: "You may say I'm a dreamer...but I'm not the only one. I hope some day you'll join us, and the world will be as one."

Expecto Patronum

In the celebrated J.K. Rawlings books about Harry Potter, one of the worst villains is the Dementor, a creature who feeds on happiness and positive emotions and sucks all hope and joy out of you, leaving behind only the coldest feelings of hopelessness and despair.

The remedy in the magical world of Harry Potter is a particular spell, Expecto Patronum, which when successfully performed invokes a silvery being call a Patronus filled with happiness and light – but who can feel no unhappiness and can therefore defend against the Dementors. The Patronus is an animal image, unique to each wizard or witch; Harry’s is a stag. The spell is difficult, and only successful if the wizard is strong enough to focus on one of his happiest thoughts or memories. Together the spell caster and the Patronus (Patronus is Latin for patron saint) are able to drive off the Dementors.

In the latest novel of the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, one of the climactic scenes has Harry and his friends Ron and Hermione desperately attempting to cast the Expecto Patronum spell but being overwhelmed with grief and sadness by an army of Dementors. Then three friends show up with new hope and strength, and the six of them together are able to conjure their Patronum and overcome the Dementors. It is a parable about how strength of will and determination to push back thoughts of sadness and hopelessness can win out, sometimes only with the help of friends. Rawlings is said to have suffered from depression, and perhaps this was drawn from her own life.

Lately I've been battling depression and despair myself. I have found that it actually helps to utter the mantra Expecto Patronum from time to time. Mind over mind. Who knew.

Broken Record

Have you ever found yourself repeating the same story over and over again? If you say no, think again, because I think this tendency is part of the human condition. I’ve caught myself doing this with my closest family members and best friends—people who patiently listen to my stories and vents and are too courteous to tell me that I am repeating myself, again.

So I have a theory on why I (and other people) do this. I believe that in telling and retelling and retelling the story again and again, I am seeking resolution—some way to explain the sorrow or injustice or fear or pain at the center of the story, so that I can move on. But it’s like a broken record—it skips at the very same place and will keep repeating over and over again until I am able to take action by lifting up the needle and setting it down in another groove. (for those of you from generation whatever, see this link for the mechanics of phonograph records and needles.)

How, oh how, do you get to the next groove? That is the question.

You (and others if they get too tired of your repetition) can scream, “Stifle yourself!” at the first sign of broken record syndrome. But this does little or nothing to fix the problem...just as yelling at a skipping record album will not reset it to a new groove.

You have to finish the story. Explain it to yourself in a positive “I can move on now,” sort of way. Cognitive therapy is about this to some degree—hear the distorted thinking in your story (the catastrophic fear, the all-encompassing assumption, the unfounded guilt) and then offer yourself an counter-argument to keep it in perspective.

Suppose one of the repeating stories is about being a mother and making a mistake. Great mothers do make mistakes, because we are talking about on-the-job training here for one of the hardest jobs in the world, and nobody is perfect. Instead of going over and over the mistake you made, think of the ten things you did well as a mother recently—and write them down. Oh yes, you will come up with them once you get started. Because in all likelihood you are a good person, a good mother. Not perfect, but doing the best you can. This is what you would tell yourself if you could step outside and look back in.

And when someone else is being a broken record, help divert that person too—help him or her remember all the good things and finish the story in a positive way. As my Dad would have said, “I’d do it for a dog.”