Am I Paying Attention?

The last public event I attended before the pandemic shut everything down was an appearance by Scott Simon, the NPR broadcaster, sponsored by the New York State Writers Institute. He talked about his career in journalism and the book he had recently written. In the course of the discussion, he said something I made note of and continue to think about. He said, and this may not be an exact quote, but I believe I got it, “If you have the same convictions at 42 as you had at 22, you aren’t paying attention.”

Hmmm, I wondered, do I agree?

As I sat in the auditorium, I think I construed convictions as equivalent to values. And, my values have not changed over the years: honesty, integrity, kindness are steadfast principles and always will be. So, at first, I rejected his premise. Subsequently, I looked up the word conviction: a firmly held belief or opinion. Ahhh, that is a different question. Have my opinions changed?

What were my convictions when I was 22?

When I was 22, I had just graduated from the public administration master’s program at Columbia University. It was 1982, an important year in my life that I have written about here. What did I believe?

I was a Democrat and, though Ronald Reagan was popular, I voted for Jimmy Carter in 1980 (it was the first presidential election in which I was eligible to vote). I didn’t believe in Reagan’s message – he campaigned on small government, tax cuts, trickle-down economics and the whole ‘greed is good’ mentality. I didn’t buy it. I still don’t. That is one conviction that hasn’t changed.

Over the many years since then, even with the disappointments in our government, all the instances that corruption has been uncovered and scandals revealed, I still believe in the potential for good governance. I was 12 years old during the Watergate hearings; old enough to understand the implications.  I knew big corporations were just as problematic, though, if not more so. Over the years my understanding has become more nuanced, but I grasped early on that the common denominator was human nature. People could abuse power and money in any setting. Justice and fairness are best served by checks and balances. I stand by the notion that elections and oversight from journalists and governmental entities are more effective mechanisms to ensure the greater good than the “free” market. The market has its benefits, and I still call myself a capitalist, but a strong government is essential for the common good. That opinion has not changed. 

In 1982 I believed in Gary, and our future together. That hasn’t changed either. I believed in the importance of family. My thoughts on one aspect of that has changed. Forty years ago, I thought I could be a career woman and a mom at the same time. I no longer believe that, at least for myself. In fact, I had to let go of that conviction to maintain my sanity. I honestly think I was headed for a nervous breakdown if I didn’t adjust my expectations. It took a long time, a solid decade or more, to not blame myself for not achieving the dream of a successful career and happy, healthy children and husband.

As time passes, I see just how challenging it is for women to balance the competing demands of career, motherhood and all the other roles we play (wife, friend, daughter, etc.). I was not able to – at least not at the same time. Sequentially it might have been possible, but not all at once. Perhaps the particulars of my circumstances conspired against it. Gary’s career was, and is, all-consuming. I didn’t see how both of us could be pursuing work that demanded so much of our respective energy and still attend to our children appropriately. We weren’t rich enough to pay for nannies or housekeepers. We didn’t have a support system of family and friends that could substitute either. Something had to give. Maybe I could have sustained a job, but not a career. I was fortunate in that I could make a choice. I left the workforce, except for some freelance assignments, for ten years.

I also had to come to terms with the fact that my career wasn’t what I envisioned anyway. When I graduated with my MPA, I hoped to make meaningful contributions to public policy. Early on I found myself working for Pittsburgh’s Department of Finance and a decade later I was at the Department of Tax and Finance for the state of New York. This was not what I had in mind. I believed in the importance of an efficient and effective system of taxation, but when I thought about ‘public policy,’ I wanted to help people more directly by improving the quality of community life or helping people move up the economic ladder. That was quite a stretch from what I was doing buried in the bureaucracy. My career path was unfulfilling. It made sense to step off it. I am very glad I did.

I think there is truth in what Mr. Simon said. Our convictions should evolve. We need to be paying attention – to other ideas, to new information, and other perspectives. We need to test our beliefs to see if they hold up. Sometimes it is painful to let go of a closely held belief. Unfortunately, these day too many of us don’t do the work of examining our opinions. We are entrenched in our ideas, stuck in our echo chambers. One constant for me, at 22, 42 and now as I approach 62, is I am always wondering, questioning and thinking. In answer to the question I posited in the title of this post, yes, I am paying attention. Many of my opinions have remained, some have evolved.

Have your opinions changed since you were 22? Which ones? Care to share? It would be interesting to hear how and why your beliefs evolved.

Neat or Messy?

Note: I am changing the names in this essay to protect the innocent! I don’t want to embarrass anyone or tell tales out of school, but I am sure that many can relate to the topic.

“Would you drop clothing on the floor – you know, let’s say you’re tired or whatever and want to get to bed?” Samantha asked.

“No, I don’t do that. It’s simple enough to put it in the hamper or hang it up,” I answered.

She nodded.

She followed up, “Can you go to sleep with a dish in the sink?” I had to smile. “Uh, yeah! No problem,” I said. She rolled her eyes. Clearly, my cousin could not imagine it.

My cousin, and her adorable, precocious and kind 6-year-old son, came to visit from New Jersey. In honor of their making the long drive, local family gathered in my backyard, and we had a small pool party. Somehow the topic of how we kept our houses came up. A range of philosophy and practice was represented among the five households present. Some among us struggle to keep things organized, others are fastidious. Samantha needs things to be just so, she told two stories that illustrated her point.

She and her son arrived at a friend’s house to babysit and upon entering the living room, strewn with toys, her son blurted out, “We need to clean this room up!” Samantha was embarrassed. And proud, too; he had clearly absorbed her lessons. After you finished playing with a toy, you put it away before taking out another. Though many moms try to get their kids to abide by that rule, most are not as successful as Samantha. They proceeded to help clean up the room, much to the genuine delight of her friend.

Samantha’s other example involved the time she invited some of her friends over for a housewarming. Her walk-in closet was arranged by color. Her friends thought it would be funny if they took a white blouse and put it among the blue, mixing up some of the carefully arrayed items. Samantha laughed about it, then she put everything back where it belonged.

I explained to Samantha where I fell on the continuum of neat to messy.  “I would say I’m in the middle – I am certainly no neat freak. But I can’t abide chaos in my house either.”

In some households this issue can be a bone of contention. When I was in college, my roommate, Merle, kept things neat as a pin. I was messier back then. I wanted to believe that saying that a ‘messy desk is the sign of a creative mind.’ We both compromised. I tried to do better, she took a deep breath and lowered her expectations (as least as far as my side of the room went).

This was not so much of a thing between Gary and me. We seemed to be on the same wavelength. At least I think that is the case. The truth is that for all the time we have lived together he has been immersed in his career – first medical school, then training, then treating patients. I have been responsible for ‘keeping house.’ One of Gary’s great qualities is that he knows better than to criticize when he isn’t in a position (or maybe he isn’t willing) to do it better.  I don’t recall us ever having an argument over the state of the house. Now that we are empty nesters, our house is considerably neater. Children make the battle against mess infinitely more challenging.

One nephew of mine, Jonathan, married a very discerning woman who wanted a well-organized, clean, and orderly home. In the home of Jonathan’s youth neatness was not emphasized. He simply didn’t have the skills. He was a willing learner, though. Jonathan made the transition and is fully capable of maintaining their lovely home. I was not privy, nor do I need to know, what went into that process. It may have had its ups and downs, but they have arrived at a meeting of the minds.

One of my nieces grew up in a very orderly home. Neatness did not come naturally to Elizabeth. She gave up trying. She found a partner who is fastidious. They are in the process of working that out. Elizabeth has upped her game considerably, but they are still negotiating what is reasonable. They were laughing about it poolside as we all compared notes.

Another nephew, Jonah, who grew up in the same house as Jonathan, and was similarly challenged in the cleaning and organizing department, married a lovely woman, Margaret, who is also stationed on the messy side of the continuum. Margaret rebelled against the demands of her mother who kept the family home very neat. Margaret prefers to put her energies into fun activities. Add babies to the mix and you have a ‘situation.’ Jonah’s father jokingly offered to pay Samantha to organize their house. Samantha’s eyes lit up. The challenge appealed to her – she loves to create order out of chaos. “Let me run back to my house and get my label maker! I’ll be right back!” Samantha laughed. She lives four hours away. That will have to wait for another day.

When my mother-in-law, Paula, who kept a dust-free home, visited back in the days when my children were young, was very diplomatic about how I did things. She never criticized me and never appeared to judge me. In fact, I remember one visit where I apologized for the disarray, and she told me not to worry. “You are spending time with your children, that is more important.” How kind was that?

I do recall another visit when Paula relayed the wisdom of her mother. “My mother told me, ‘before you go to sleep, clean the kitchen, do the dishes. This way when you get up in the morning, you start fresh.’ It feels good.” I told her I appreciated that, and I would try, but I wasn’t sure it would work for me.

These days after dinner is my time to hang out with Gary. Whether I am using that as an excuse or not, I don’t know, but the dishes are still there in the morning. If I have trouble sleeping, it has nothing to do with the dishes in the sink. Cleaning the kitchen has become part of my morning routine

I think for some keeping your surroundings orderly is one way to stave off the anxiety of the chaos in the world. Maybe it isn’t that complicated and some just find it more peaceful to live in uncluttered spaces. How do you navigate it? Is it a source of friction in your household?

My sink this morning. I slept fine!

Successfully Replenished

Thank you to all who responded to last week’s post. Many of you shared, here on the blog or on Facebook, what you do to de-stress and refill yourself. So many good ideas were offered: physical activities (for example, bicycling and yoga are two that stay with me), talking to family and friends, sleep (of course we need to be rested!), cuddling with animals, grandchildren or spouses (not necessarily in that order) and crafting were some of the many suggestions. I am grateful to have more tools to call upon, though I know some are not a good fit for me.

Some crafts would be stressful. Anything that requires patience and fine motor skills is just going to frustrate me. Sewing, knitting and the like, which I have tried, are definitely not for me. I respect those who are creative in that way. I appreciate the product, but the process would make me crazy. While painting and drawing may be done more successfully if you have excellent fine motor skills, I think they can be done without that. Watercolors appeal to me. I may be signing up for a class or looking for some Youtube videos in the near future.

The idea of talking to friends or family is interesting. I definitely benefit from venting sometimes or from processing an issue with someone I love and trust (most often that would be Gary or Merle, though I have called upon others), but sometimes talking is the last thing I want to do.

Though no one mentioned this idea in the comments, we spent time with friends this past weekend who turn to their faith. I am quite sure they are not alone in calling upon God or whatever higher power one believes in. I think many pray for guidance and find it helpful. I believe our friends, in times of stress, call upon their pastor. I have heard and read of folks who believe that through prayer or reading the bible they received guidance through a sign or a peaceful feeling coming over them. I have not had that experience. Prayer is one of those things about which I have contradictory impulses. Intellectually I don’t believe in the power of prayer. I don’t judge anyone who does, in fact I envy them their faith. On the other hand, when I am most challenged, I find myself praying. Maybe it is like that saying ‘there are no atheists in foxholes.’ When my father was dying, I must have silently asked for strength to get through it, for the wisdom to know the right things to do for him and for mercy on him so he didn’t suffer, ten times a day, at least. I can’t say doing it comforted me or refilled me, not consciously anyway. But I did it, so maybe it served some purpose. Or maybe it was a form of meditation that centered me. At the time I believed that the best way to comfort myself was to sit by the ocean for ten minutes (it was a few minutes drive from the hospital) or taking a walk in the bird sanctuary that was also nearby. Either way, I did find my way through it.

This past weekend, spent with friends from medical school, was replenishing. Though their life experience is so different from Gary and mine, and their faith is so strong and central to their lives in stark contrast to ours, we have lots of common ground. We were in Cooperstown, New York which is a lovely, charming town and home to the baseball hall of fame. It also has a large lake, named Glimmerglass for a reason. A museum (not an art museum, but a museum nonetheless) and nature – two of my favorite things. Plus laughter, friendship and good food. Now back to real life, a bit tired, but refreshed.

Some scenes from our visit:

To whoever planted that field of sunflowers – thank you! We came upon it as we drove out of Cooperstown on our way to the AirBnB and we had to pull over to take it in.

Letting Go

Being able to let go of something – a person, a belief, a dream, a habit – is terribly difficult. I can’t say I have done it successfully very often, certainly not as often as would be healthy for me. I was thinking about this the other morning when I woke up feeling lighter. It was not because I had lost weight (I wish!), at least not in the physical sense. But a noticeable heaviness had lifted from my shoulders and heart. It happened while I wasn’t looking; snuck up on me. It was not a conscious decision, but rather an accumulation of thoughts and actions.

As I reflect on the times that I have successfully let go of something that was dragging me down, I realized that this was my pattern. It wasn’t like I could just decide to move on and, boom, I did. It was more subtle and required sustained effort. I would be making progress and I didn’t even realize it – until I did.

The earliest I remember it happening involved my first serious boyfriend. That relationship lived in my head and heart far longer than was healthy. It was clear that it wasn’t working. We were too young, he wanted to be free to see other people, I wanted commitment. I couldn’t let go of what I saw as our potential future together. I blamed myself, I thought it was some deficiency in me.

Finally, after months of mourning and wallowing, I consciously put my energy into college courses, nurtured new and existing relationships and took better care of myself physically. Eventually I got the payoff. One night, long after we had officially broken up, he called because something reminded him of me. I realized, in that moment, that I didn’t feel hurt or longing when I heard his voice. I could have a conversation with him, but I wasn’t invested in some outcome. I was okay where I was – I was free. I couldn’t tell you when it happened. It was an accumulation of all the actions I had taken – some of them awkward and painful, some more rewarding. But, the combination of time and effort, did its thing, and I moved on.

I had a similar experience in graduate school, though this time it had nothing to do with a relationship. I was torturing myself that I wasn’t doing as well in my classes as I expected. The breaking point came when I got a B on my Cost-Benefit Analysis midterm. I was devastated. A B might not sound like a bad grade but, in my experience in graduate school, it is more equivalent to a C. It felt like failure. The fact that I had a 17-month old baby and was pregnant with my second was no excuse. I went to see the professor, trying hard not to cry. I told her I was very disappointed in myself. She assured me that no one in the program, I was in the public administration doctoral program at the State University of New York at Albany, thought I was a B student – regardless of the grade I got on that test. I tried to let that sink in.

I was still overwhelmed – our house was a mess, toys, laundry, and piles of paper everywhere. I was hanging on by the skin of my teeth, but I expected more of myself. Gary was in his third year of his residency program in internal medicine and was stretched to the limit. My parents and friends tried to talk sense to me. My folks paid for a cleaning service to come to our house every other week to help ease the burden. It was helpful, but I had to clean up before they could do their work!

I couldn’t turn off the pressure until something clicked. While I wasn’t conscious of the moment, one day I realized the critical voice in my head had quieted. I accepted that I was doing the best that I could and that would have to be enough.

A year and a half later I took a leave from the doctoral program. Gary and I realized that financially the ends were not meeting, we did not want to accumulate credit card debt, so I went to work for the state. Family had been called upon enough to help. Ultimately, after working for a couple of years, I decided I didn’t need or want to complete the doctoral program. I had done the coursework and taken the comprehensive exam, but I would still need to write a dissertation to finish. I concluded that I didn’t need the credential for my career. I didn’t want to be a professor.  To work in government, a PhD in public administration didn’t add much value, I already had a master’s degree. I made the decision to leave. I let it go without regret and haven’t looked back.

More recently, when I awoke that morning feeling lighter, it dawned on me that I had let go of the dread and helplessness I felt about my mother’s health. It was not that I wasn’t still worried about her or that I didn’t care – of course I did and do. But I had been carrying a sense of responsibility for her condition that was causing great stress. After months of trying to find an explanation and treatment for Mom’s breathing problems, I finally accepted that it wasn’t in my control. Gary, my husband the doctor, who has been advising me throughout this journey, pointed out to me repeatedly, “If different cardiologists and pulmonologists, who have years of training and experience, can’t come up with an answer, don’t you think it is unreasonable to expect you to?” As much as I wished I could fix it, or at least understand it, I couldn’t. The first three times he asked me that question, it didn’t take. I knew the answer, but I had to internalize it. Finally, when I wasn’t consciously aware, I woke up that morning realizing that I had.

I was doing the best that I could and that would have to be enough. It is hard enough to deal with the losses and disappointments that life brings us. Adding blame and guilt, when it is misplaced or unearned, is a burden too much to bear.

Now if I could only figure out how to let go a bit sooner, I would be grateful. But, as they say, the only way through it is through it.

More Hard Questions

Note: It has been another challenging week for me. Aside from my mother’s continuing health issues, I am troubled by the violence in Israel, Gaza and the West Bank. I do not subscribe to the narratives offered by the far left or far right in explaining what is going on there. I believe all the participants share responsibility for the violence and that they all need to change to come to peace. In view of these events, I thought it was a good time to revisit a book review I wrote a couple of years ago. The book, Salt Houses, was insightful and provocative and was written from a Palestinian perspective. Even if you haven’t read the book, I hope you find my discussion of it enlightening and thought provoking. It is clear that we, across the globe, all of us, need to find better ways to address trauma that has been passed down through the generations. We see the impact of failing to do so everywhere we look.

https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2018/12/24/hard-questions/

Karma

To say it has been a stressful week is an understatement. But in keeping with my effort to reframe things, I’ll start with what I am grateful for:

  1. I can replace my destroyed laptop without enduring financial hardship. I know that many are not in that position. It would simply not fit in the budget. Laptops are expensive, but Gary and I can absorb the cost.
  2. Thanks to my daughter, my laptop was backed up to an external hard drive. A couple of months ago, Leah encouraged me to create a more professional office set up by helping me purchase and then connect the hard drive. I can’t begin to imagine how crazed I’d be if my writing had been lost.
  3. My husband didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow in judgment when I told him where I found the mutilated laptop. He didn’t add to my frustration, anger or disappointment. In fact, he was kind (not a surprise to anyone who knows him).

So where did I find the crushed piece of technology? In the middle of the righthand lane of Route 155, not far from where we exited the Albany International Airport an hour earlier. How did it get there? A reasonable question.

We were loading the car with our luggage upon our return from Florida when I put the laptop on the roof of the car. I got distracted by the various things I was arranging and left my precious laptop where I had only intended to rest it briefly. We pulled out of the parking spot, made several turns to emerge from the garage, went through the ticket booth, exited the airport and turned left on to Route 155, a four-lane divided highway. The laptop, in its purple polystyrene case, tenaciously hung on the roof through all of that – hoping I would notice its absence before the laws of physics became too powerful to resist. I didn’t notice. We picked up speed and drove home.

When we pulled into the driveway and unloaded the car, I immediately realized something important was missing. I thoroughly searched the trunk, as well as the front and back seats. I had a feeling I might have left it on the roof as I replayed my actions in my mind, but I wasn’t sure. Sadly, this was not the first time I had left something on the roof of the car. A large cup of Starbucks mocha splattered the back and side windows from one such oversight. In another case, which cost a lot more money than the mocha (though that coffee was expensive), I left my cell phone up top, only to have it smashed to smithereens by an oncoming truck. I seem to be leaving larger and larger items on the roof of the car. What could be possibly be next?

Though I had my suspicions as to the fate of my laptop, I returned to the airport to see if it was in the lost and found. Maybe it slid off in the garage and a good Samaritan turned it in? I retraced my steps, surveyed the parking garage, reported the loss to the airline and then got back in my car to go home in defeat. I exited the airport again and was driving in the right lane when I saw it sitting on the roadway. I maneuvered the car so it wouldn’t run over it and looked for a safe place to stop. There was no shoulder so I made a u-turn and parked in the cellphone lot. I waited for a break in the traffic and dashed across the highway. The case looked strangely swollen, not a good sign. I picked it up – saw black tire marks, heard and felt the crunch of broken glass as I lifted it. I didn’t even try to open the zipper – there was no point. I stood in the grass by the side of the road, silently cursing my idiocy. I waited again for a pause in the traffic and ran back across the road. I sat in the car contemplating what to do next. No solution presented itself. I drove home.

Though it felt like a Sunday, it was, in fact, Monday. When I came in and told Gary I found it and it was irretrievably broken, he asked, “Should we go to the Apple store?”

I realized that it probably was open, but….

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow. I can’t deal with it right now.”

I just needed to regroup.

Trips to Florida seem cursed. Though I have no one to blame but myself, I think it is karma. The Sunshine State is getting back at me for not appreciating it. Our visits to Florida, especially over the last 15 years, have almost always involved looking in on our aging parents who faced one health crisis after another. Though we wanted to visit them, and we would try to make time to catch some rays and enjoy the ocean breeze, I associate Florida with aging and as Zada, my maternal grandfather, said many years ago, “Getting old is not for sissies.” I am coming to understand the truth of his words more and more with each passing day.

It is now Wednesday afternoon. I had my appointment at the Apple Store. In the age of Covid you can’t just show up and shop. I bought a new MacBook Pro, successfully loaded my files from the external hard drive and I am back in business. Though our wallet took a big hit, I am lucky. The laptop is replaceable. People are not.

Three morals from this story: (1) back up any important files to an external hard drive, (2) don’t rest things on the roof of your car (especially if you are prone to distraction like I am), and (3) remember what is important.

Eccentricities

Nadal arranging his water bottles. Photo grabbed from https://www.tennislifemag.com/rafas-rituals-so-much-to-do-before-he-can-play/

Gary was watching tennis on television the other day. Rafael Nadal was playing. Aside from the fact that he is one of the best tennis players of all time, Nadal is interesting because he offers a host of ritualistic behaviors that are far beyond any other athlete I am aware of. All people have quirks and athletes typically have superstitions. Some pitchers won’t step on a baseline when leaving the mound to return to the dugout. Others have pregame routines that they try not to vary. Rafa is in a class by himself. From how he arranges his water bottles to the predictability of his sequence before he serves, he clearly has quirks. Gary noted when Nadal’s game was over and it was time to change sides, Nadal walked toward the net and made a sharp right turn to go to his chair – not your ordinary approach. These behaviors could be amusing little eccentricities. Or they could represent a disorder that interferes with his life. I hope it is the former or something in between that doesn’t create problems for him.

It is kind of funny that Gary was commenting on Nadal’s routines given that he is a creature of habit himself. I guess we all are to varying degrees. Gary’s habits are harmless and amusing (to me). His process for cleaning his glasses is a whole production – if he tells me he needs to clean them before we leave the house, I know I have plenty of time to sit down and read the newspaper. Not surprisingly, his glasses are far cleaner than mine. Once in a while I will ask him to give my lenses his special treatment. I am amazed at the difference – he clearly knows what he is doing.

I walk with a friend who used to need to circle the stop sign instead of just reversing course when we got to the end of the block. Snow could be piled up knee deep on the side of the road, but the walk didn’t feel right to her if she hadn’t done that. I remember when she decided she didn’t need to do that anymore. Humans are so interesting.

These rituals must give us some comfort, some control, or we wouldn’t do them. I have routines, too, though I can’t say I see them as quite so specific or engrained. I get up in the morning and do things in the same order – I think – go to the bathroom (TMI?), wash hands, brush teeth, take meds, make the bed, get dressed, head downstairs. I continue the process by taking my little hotplate out and plugging it in (a gift from Dan and Beth because they know I like my coffee to stay hot), pour my coffee, prepare my breakfast, open my computer and start with the New York Times Spelling Bee, then move on to the crossword puzzle and end with the mini puzzle. Next up, I clean the kitchen – most nights I have left the dinner dishes to be done in the morning. Then I start my day – up to my office to write, read and research. I’m okay, though, if my routine has to change – if I have an appointment, or if Gary hasn’t made the coffee that morning or whatever comes up. The routine gives some structure and a beginning to my day, but I am not married to it. It doesn’t cause me anxiety to do it differently.

Are there people who specifically choose not to have a routine? I imagine that there must be though I don’t think I know many. I wonder what that would feel like. From what I hear from friends, most are pretty devoted to their schedules.

I was taking my brother home from the hospital after his hip replacement surgery a couple of years ago. The nurse was going over the discharge instructions. Mark asked about climbing the stairs to his bedroom. They asked how many steps it would be. “15,” he replied with certainty (I could be remembering the wrong number, but the number isn’t the point). I looked at him, “You know the number of steps off the top of your head?” He looked at me quizzically. “Of course.” Later when we were in the car, I asked him about that. He responded, “Don’t you count the steps when you go upstairs in your house?”  “No, I have no idea how many it is.” Apparently, Mark counts things – and not just the typical things that we all count (like reps in the gym). My brother has his oddities, too.

You never know what might be going on in another person’s head. Well, maybe that isn’t entirely true. I know the thoughts in mine are quite different from my brother. I might be replaying my last conversation with my son or composing my next blog post while Mark might be constructing his all-time Yankee batting order, putting his love of numbers to good, productive use, or he might be thinking about how he might next tease me. Either of those thought processes are totally alien to me.

To the extent that we find our partner’s, family members’ and friends’ little quirks and eccentricities charming, amusing or at least not annoying, it works. When it drives us crazy or when it gets in the way of their functioning, then it is another story.

Privacy

Privacy settings on Facebook

A snippet of conversation overheard:

“I can’t think of anything worse than finding a picture posted of me on the Internet without my permission,” he said.

“I don’t actually remember if he asked before he posted,” she replied. She didn’t sound perturbed by it. “He may have asked, I don’t remember…..I mean, I don’t like when someone does that either but….whatever.” She shrugged.

He shook his head disapprovingly.

The exchange got me ruminating about my own actions. I surmised that she was surprised to find a photo or video posted of herself online, and to him the idea of that happening, of personal stuff being out in the world that he didn’t put there, is an anathema. He wants his privacy. He doesn’t want anonymous people knowing or seeing his business.

Clearly, I don’t share that feeling. This blog offers plenty of evidence of that. I know better than to post a picture of a person without getting the okay beforehand, but I been known to make mistakes. Overhearing that conversation, I could imagine the young man saying to me, “You’re nuts for putting all that stuff out there!”

I know the exchange had nothing to do with me, but it hit a sore spot. I feel some measure of self-consciousness about what I do.

I don’t share everything. I draw boundaries.  I make choices about memories or experiences I want to write about. I also want to be careful that I am sharing my story, not someone else’s. Most of the time when I write something that involves another person in a significant way, especially if it can be seen negatively, I show it to them first. I have edited pieces in response and sometimes I censor myself. I have invited folks to share their perspective on the blog, too.

I want to share my experiences. It is a way of feeling less alone. When a reader responds that they identify with what I have shared, it is validating. And, even more importantly, writing about painful feelings, takes away of some of their power. Things that live in my mind as embarrassing or irritating are made less so when I put the feeling in words and set them free.

Why do I feel the need to justify that I do this? There must be a part of me that questions it, wonders if it reflects weakness or a failure to properly value my own privacy.

This question of privacy, though, goes well beyond social media etiquette. For instance, people make different choices in regard to sharing information about their health (I’m not referring to what is shared on Facebook, I mean even in everyday conversation). Some are an open book and might share more than you ever wanted to know. At the other extreme, some don’t want to be asked how they are feeling. As we get older, health becomes more and more of a focus. It can be hard to avoid discussing it. I think I fall somewhere in the middle. I want to be open with my husband and my children. If it is something that can be inherited, like high blood pressure or diabetes, then I think I owe it to them to share the information. If it is something that is affecting the quality of my life or my mood, it seems only fair to clue them in. I’m not big on putting on a happy face – at least not for those closest to me. I also tend to think secrets have a way of blowing up.

There shouldn’t be shame attached to illness either– it shouldn’t be seen as a sign of weakness or a personal failing. We’ve lived too long with people hiding mental illness or addictions, in particular. Some illnesses carry judgment – if you are a smoker and get lung cancer, or if you are obese and are diagnosed with Type II diabetes, you can feel like you deserve it and/or that others deem it as a just punishment. None of that is helpful. If it were simple, no one would smoke or be obese.

By the same token, I understand not wanting to feel like your condition is tattooed on your forehead. We don’t want to be defined by an illness. It is a matter of personal choice if you want these things widely known. There is no right way to be about this. We need to respect each other’s wishes. What makes it complicated is if we assume that others share our standards.

For me, the health issue is particularly vexing. My husband is a doctor. I have been with him from the beginning of his training and while I am not confused about the fact that I did not earn a medical degree, I think it is fair to say I have more knowledge than your average citizen. If someone speaks to Gary as a patient, he doesn’t share it with me. If it involves our children, he will. Our kids understand that (if they didn’t, now they do). I find, for whatever reason, some people do confide in me about these things; others don’t. It can be surprising who falls into each category.

I will admit to having pretty strong problem-solving skills. When my dad was sick, it made me feel better if I came up with something that helped him to be more comfortable. When Dad was getting chemo, he and Mom were staying in an extended-stay hotel. Dad was spending a lot of time in bed, aside from being tired, the chairs in the sitting area in their suite weren’t that comfortable. I found a place that rented furniture and we had a reclining chair delivered for the duration of his stay. It was a win-win. I still feel good about that. If Mom hadn’t shared her concern about Dad being in bed so much, I couldn’t have helped find a solution.

Combine the familiarity with medical issues with a propensity to want to fix things, or help people, and I can probably overstep. Or maybe I don’t. Geez, my brain is a confusing place to live.

I started this essay by recounting an overheard conversation that led me to question myself. Now, having written about it, processed my thoughts, and putting it on the blog, it isn’t eating at me anymore. I won’t go so far as to say I am at peace, but I am not ruminating. I’ll call that a victory.

Crime or Misdemeanor

Photo from Chad McMillan

‘Crimes or misdemeanors.’ My husband uses that phrase when we talk about making judgments about people’s behavior. We are walking in our neighborhood and I am telling him about my distress because someone disappointed me. After listening to me vent for a bit, he will ask, “Crime or misdemeanor?” a reminder to put things in perspective. Do I want to hold a grudge? Do I want or need to discuss it with the person? Gary isn’t saying it to minimize my emotional response to the incident, but to ask me to step back and look at it afresh.

Some transgressions are minor, others far more significant and it is useful to make that distinction. It is relevant in terms of how we evaluate the person’s character and assess the consequence. Lately, particularly in the context of the #MeToo movement and accusations of racism, it feels to me that we are losing the capacity to be discerning, especially about the punishment. I think there is something to the argument that ‘cancel culture’ has gone too far, even if the phrase is a Fox News favorite.

I believe Harvey Weinstein got what he deserved. Even if one wanted to say he was canceled, he should have been. In my saying that the pendulum may have swung too far in canceling people, I am not offering a defense of indefensible behavior. Rape, assault, stalking, unwanted touching, ogling, unwelcome flirting are all unacceptable, but they represent a range of wrongs. I think we need to ask what the appropriate punishment is depending on the offense. In the context of sexual harassment at work, options could range from criminal charges to a warning. Potential responses include referral to the police, an internal investigation, bringing in an outside consultant, a counseling memo in their personnel file, firing, required training, reassignment or some combination of these. Perceptions will vary about the appropriate response. The problem we are up against is that for years and years and years, nothing was done. Women weren’t believed or the problems were swept under the rug. Perhaps in reaction to that, we are overcompensating now.

When the New York Times reported that Peter Martins, the director of the New York City Ballet (NYCB), retired because he was being investigated for creating a hostile environment, which included sexual harassment, my mother was outraged. It wasn’t clear whether the investigation had been completed when his decision was made (it seemed he was forced to retire). Mom was a huge fan of his dancing – we both were, we followed his career and enjoyed his performances over the years. She thought he was being treated unfairly. I argued that the organization likely had a lot more information than what was in the paper. I reminded her of some incidents that had been reported about him in the past. I also made the point that NYCB likely didn’t undertake a major investigation and accept his retirement without good cause. I asked her “Why would you assume that the charges are all lies?” She still thinks he was done wrong. While I don’t know the details, I don’t believe he was ‘canceled.’

In part the difference between my mother’s and my response is generational. Some behaviors that today we recognize as inappropriate were acceptable or expected to a woman of Mom’s age. Some of the #MeToo reporting didn’t sound so bad to her. (Let me be clear, she does not think sexual harassment is okay.) A coach was allowed to be verbally abusive. Sexual innuendo was part of office banter – at least in some places. A man giving a woman a compliment on her appearance may have been appreciated – it may still be.

There are intangible things at play – whether it was 50 years ago or today. Two men saying the same thing can be received very differently – tone of voice, body language, previous interactions, the look in their eye all inform the meaning of the words. “Pretty dress,” can sound innocent or lascivious. Two women hearing the same comment may respond differently – one may be flattered, another may be uncomfortable. One person may be motivated by a coach yelling, another may shut down. We can acknowledge that this can be fraught without giving up making judgments. We also can’t sustain knee-jerk reactions to every accusation. We need to make the effort to navigate this messy, confusing and difficult terrain.

We also can’t know a person’s intention. The law makes distinctions based intentionality – harming someone purposefully is different than accidentally. It can be hard for prosecutors to establish intent; harder yet in a harassment claim. Did they mean to make someone uncomfortable? Are they on a power trip? Are they racist or ignorant? Does intention matter? Yes and no. Sometimes the action speaks for itself. The guy in Atlanta may deny racist intent after he murdered six Asian-American women, but what he did belies his words.

Ignorance is an inadequate defense, too. If you make no effort to educate yourself, then you bear responsibility for not knowing the meaning of words or symbols. Is it believable that a person doesn’t understand what a swastika represents?

 Another question is: Can we give the harasser an opportunity to redeem themselves? I am troubled by the idea that people are written off or deprived of their career without slowing down to investigate and then give due consideration to the punishment.

What guidelines can we use? I think it can be helpful to ask what if the behavior/action happened to our child, spouse, friend or relative? Imagine yourself as the victim. See if that empathy changes your perspective.

By the same token, ask yourself if the person who is accused was your spouse, child, friend or relative, what would you think is fair? Does that change how you would like them treated?

We also need to be cautious in reacting to what we see in the media. Sensational headlines get attention. Sometimes the full story gets lost. Let’s all take a breath.

Accusations should be investigated, fairly and thoroughly. Once facts and perceptions are understood, we need to find a just response; one that is not inflamed by political extremism, righteous anger or a rush to judgment. In the long run, we all benefit from a thoughtful, fair process. We don’t want the pendulum to swing too far back in the other direction, silencing voices that have only begun to be heard.

When is Enough, Enough?

When is enough, enough? The question resonates today. Last Wednesday, when the U.S. Capitol was overrun by a mob, I hoped we had finally arrived at an answer, at least on the national political stage. I had enough of Trump and his rhetoric long, long ago. I hoped that my fellow citizens would finally arrive at the same place: enough of Trump, enough of conspiracy theories, enough toxic politics. It remains to be seen whether that will be the case. I hope we have reached the bottom and are on the way back up. It is hard to imagine wanting more of the same. But the question of when enough is enough applies in many situations.

I was thinking about it in a totally different context as I was listening to an interview with Mandy Patinkin, the actor/singer. He commented that performing for an audience was fulfilling up to a point. Needing applause can be problematic because you can be left with feeling like it wasn’t enough – maybe not enthusiastic enough, or not long enough. Or, you get the adulation, and then you come off stage and go back to your hotel, and what do you have? Is it enough to fill you up? And then you do it all over again. You can drive yourself crazy – the thirst for validation can be unquenchable.  

I am not a performer, but I totally got what he was saying. If you are doing something mostly for the feedback, you can set yourself up to be in endless pursuit of more. If I get 150 reads of a blog entry, I could feel unsatisfied because I didn’t get 200. Then if I get 200, I can be thinking ‘why can’t I get 300?’ I can forget that when I first started, I was often lucky to get 30 or 40 views. And if I get one meaningful comment, is that enough? What if I get 50 likes and no comments? By the way, I was told by a literary agent that you need 40,000 followers to be seriously considered for publication.  So, there’s that. Clearly, since there is no monetary reward to my blogging endeavor, and the numbers aren’t impressive, where does that leave me?

Of course, it isn’t reasonable to discount audience reaction entirely. If you are putting something out into the world, if you choose to share it, part of the reason is to be in conversation with others. It is only natural to want that dialogue to be plentiful and positive. But there needs to be balance. The process of creating itself, in my case of finding the right words, conveying my thoughts, doing the research, has to offer its own reward. I need to be able to find satisfaction in putting down on paper clear ideas, authentic emotions and compelling images. Sometimes that needs to be enough, regardless of the reaction or the numbers. As the years of blogging have gone by, I am getting better and better at this.

Another pitfall can be comparing yourself to others. If I compare myself to others, I can set myself up to feel like it isn’t enough, depending upon who I use as my measure. I can continually fall short because there will always be authors with far more success, no matter how it is quantified.

This calculation, how much is enough to feel sated, is complicated. I was struck by it in yet another setting. My father-in-law died almost three weeks ago. My husband has received countless calls, texts and sympathy cards. Many of his patients offered their condolences when they saw him in his office. I think Gary has the capacity to allow himself to be comforted by the show of support. I don’t believe he spends much time (if any time) thinking about who didn’t call or whether enough was done for him. Having the capacity to receive, whether it is comfort or praise or love, is essential for our mental health.

Not having preconceived ideas seems to be part of the equation, too. Do you have expectations? Of course we do! But are they reasonable? Can you accept what you have been given, rather than focusing on what might be missing? I sometimes find myself thinking more about the latter, but then I check myself. Like the classic question of seeing a glass as half full or half empty, or as was the case with my brother’s friend, who in the midst of his fight with ALS, said he saw his cup as overflowing – we can choose to change our focus. For some of us it may come easier than for others. I have to work at it, but I can do it.

Is that enough? It depends. How thirsty are you?

This doesn’t mean that we can’t continue to pursue excellence and growth. We can and we should. The motivation needs to come from a healthy place, from curiosity and creativity, rather than from a bottomless well of need.

When is enough, enough? More often than not, I think the answer is now – we have enough right now.