I never signed up for this...

One Man's Heart

With the election only 5 days away, I'm hoping until then I can hold on to the inspiring attitude I got yesterday from Rachel Naomi Remen.  I've still got the afterglow--feeling that each of us, in our own ways, can help to impact someone else. 

Clearly the universe wanted to be sure I got the point---because the universe immediately followed up by sending a second person to remind me of the same message.  I don't know if my nephew Max has ever heard of Rachel Naomi Remen.  But he's staying in our house and I can ask him tomorrow when I get up.  He lives in LA and seems to end up here only for weddings--one this weekend and one last year when his brother got married in our backyard.

Max is not on V's side of the family, or on mine--but on my first husband's.  I've grown much closer to H's side of the family since H and I divorced. (You can draw your own conclusions from that--and assume that H just dodged a bullet...)  I wasn't part of the family yet when Max was born with congenital heart disease--which has shaped his life.  And he draws on that to touch and change the lives of others.

 

 This book pulls it all together--his talents as a photographer, a writer, and a human being.  All I could add is to click on this link---since everything is beautifully told in Max's photographs and words--the words of some of the 25,000 kids born every year in the US with congenital heart disease.  The cover is Max's X-ray which shows the pacemaker put in when he was 8 years old.  

In addition to this book Max is a fantastic professional photographer and writer of his own blog, llinked here--which is the first one I ever read, even before I had any idea of what a blog was. 

And now I'm going to stop because Max is very humble and he has no idea I"m writing this and I'm thinking it could be awkward for me when he wakes up tomorrow and finds out.  But I'm sure he'll just smile and forgive me for bragging about him. 

The thing is--Max never signed up for this but his heart ended up at the center of his life in more than the obvious way.   To a doctor, Max's heart has a mechanical defect--a medical problem.  But to another human being like me, Max's heart is full of love, and perfect. 

Not such a light lunch

It's not every day that you sit down to lunch and something rocks your world.  That happened to me today--when I found myself crying over my lunch in the middle of a crowded hotel ballroom.  I could have been crying over a number of things--that my chicken was overcooked, that there were raw onions on my salad, that the Republicans could steal the election, that I was wearing warm weather clothes on a suddenly crisp fall day.

What made me cry was the guest speaker at today's luncheon, Rachel Naomi Remen M.D., author of Kitchen Table Wisdom--a renowned educator and pioneer in how the mind can help heal the body.  Her life is an inspiration, and her wisdom struck right at my heart--and at the heart of the person I would like to be.  Her stories might not make you cry, but they would make you think.  Because her message is that each of us, in our own way, can change the world.  

Most of us are not aware that we can make a difference in the world just as we are right now--that within ourselves we carry the power which can transform the lives of other people just by opening our hearts, or making  a simple gesture.  Her stories were clear examples of how human connection is not only healing, but is life-changing.  The way she changed my life today.

Because her message was what I needed to hear right now---at a time when we are electing a new president, when people are anxious about the state of the economy, the country, the planet, the future for our children. 

I read her books years ago, and at the time, I took her words and wisdom to heart.  But life goes on, and we sometimes forget what's most important.  Today, I got a reminder--- that no matter what, we are still people, we still have the ability to love, to make a difference, and to fulfill our role as human beings by connecting with each other.  Through her words, I could see the way I could do this, by connecting through my own stories, and through my heart. 

I also felt comforted to know that even if the worst happens on November 4, I can still continue connecting...from New Zealand.

Marital Troubles

Celebrities are the subject of endless fascination--but who really knows what goes on behind closed doors?  The recent rumblings of trouble started the same way as always.  Petty gossip.  Inside sources.  Whispering--by his camp and hers--spinning stories of slights and hurts and offenses committed by the other side.  Rumors swirled---he said, she said.  Pretty sooon the rumors spilled over into headlines---and all we were lacking is official confirmation that the marriage is over.

Not the marriage of Madonna and Guy Ritchie---the political marriage of John McCain and Sarah Palin.

Even though politics makes strange bedfellows, this coupling still stood out.  They didn't meet cute.  Their union had nothing to do with chemistry--and more like the desperation of a jilted lover cruising profiles on Match.com.   John McCain turned to Sarah as a running mate only on the rebound, after he couldn't make it work with Joe Lieberman.

He fell for her story, her youth and her beauty--and the bloom was on the rose, as it always is during the early days of a relationship.  She provided an infusion of energy and glamour, and made him feel younger than his 72 years.  He provided an infusion of power and influence, the heady intoxication that draws young beautiful women to older men.

Their romance was like a Woody Allen movie--with him starring opposite a young starlet.  Like Woody's leading ladies, Sarah got the best lines, camera angles, and clothes--and stole the spotlight.  Ignoring his ego, as she recited her lines on camera she was looking beyond her supporting role to her future career.

They weren't even together long enough to acquire a nickname like Bennifer or Brangelina. Palin + McCain= Pain??  And the cracks began to appear, even before the honeymoon had a chance to get started.

In their public appearances together, the couple still seem locked in a united front of wedded bliss.  Just like Madonna and Guy Ritchie appeared only a few weeks ago. 

By now, the inside details of the Material Girl's marriage scream from magazine covers.  Just like we will read about McCain and Palin after November 5.  The ugly truths will surface, and we'll hear more than we ever wanted to know about what went on behind the scenes.  The sad truth is that anyone in Hollywood could have written the ending.

Waiting for Mr. Goodbar--or vice versa

We're in the final countdown.  Only a few days left.  The signs are everywhere I look, and I'm starting to feel the pressure and the excitement building.  The big day is almost here.

Of course millions of other people will participate, but this day will be especially significant to me.  Because Halloween is the only day of the entire year when a person can gorge on chocolate and feel OK about it.

In the old days, Halloween was pure bliss.  A holiday as American as hot dogs and apple pie--that included other favorite all-American foods like Snickers, Milky Ways, and M and M's.  As a patriotic American, my role was to go out and buy enormous amounts of candy with the completely acceptable excuse that it was intended for trick-or-treaters.  In my world, buying a supply for Halloween could take place as early as mid-July.

Not only did I have an available source of chocolate on hand for weeks, but Halloween itself was a day like no other.  I would dress up my two precious munchkins in adorable costumes, and then send my innocent, unsuspecting children out into the world-- with the sole mission of procuring chocolate.

They would come home with their little plastic pumpkins overflowing with goodies.  According to the family ritual, they would dump out their assortments so I could admire and assess what they had accumulated.  And then came the Mommy moment of grace.  Every year, with absolutely no hypocrisy whatsoever, it was perfectly legal for me, as the parental police, to confiscate all of the candy---which I would immediately stash away, out of their reach.

With luck, the kids would forget about the candy up in the tall cabinet.  I never did.

Those were the good old days.  When my kids lived at home.  Back then, life was sweet--but now I'm bitter.  Because now that I have an empty nest, Halloween presents a major dilemma.

So far, it's been business as usual.  I have bought industrial-size assorted bags as I always did, filling up huge bowls of candy just in case the entire Harlem Boys Choir happens to fly into California and show up at our door.  But the choir has never showed up.  For the past few years, we've had only a handful of actual children come to our door---thus leaving the bulk of the candy--and I don't use that word lightly--to be consumed by adults.  Namely by me and V.

I know very well that the same thing will happen this year.  Which is why I carefully avoided the candy section today at the supermarket.  I plotted my route so I stayed at least two aisles away at all times.  But I could still hear them calling me--the Tootsie Rolls, the Snickers, offering me a big Payday.  I pretended I wasn't listening, and I managed to narrowly escape empty-handed.  But I know if I go back to the store in the next few days, Mr. Goodbar will still be there, waiting to hit on me.  And unfortunately, he knows that I'm always willing to bring him home.  

The morning-after blues

The countdown to November 4 is torture.  Everyone is worried.  Everyone is losing sleep.  For some people, most famously Larry David, the election can't come soon enough.  For me it's the opposite.

This fall has been political Nirvana.  A constant supply of raw meat for the blogosphere.  Rachel Maddow is more popular than Rachael Ray.  Every day there's a new plot twist.  The best part is that, except for the economy, everything is moving in the right direction.

But now that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, I feel a sense of malaise as the dark days are approaching.  And I don't mean the end of Daylight Savings Time.  I'm starting to have withdrawal symptoms--stirrings of discontent and desperation that come just before a crash.  And I have to confess the truth--I wish it would never end.

Because it's been a hell of a ride.

The whole country has gone political.  Tempers flaring; juices and water coolers flowing; shouting matches at dinner parties.  Rallies on college campuses for something other than football.  Soccer moms wearing McCain hats or Obama t-shirts.  Every house in my neighborhood has a sign out front.  No one's stuck for a topic of conversation anymore.  Even hurricanes have stopped coming, as if they knew it was time to cede front page space for political headlines.

But barring another Florida, it all ends on November 5 when we will wake up and be back in the real world.  The economy will still be tanking.  The globe will still be warming.  The kids will still be fighting.  We'll all be stuck in our own lives.  Without anything to fill the gaping hole in our time, our brains, and our psyches.   The Amazing Race on CBS is going to seem really dull compared to the amazing race we've all been watching.

If the election goes the way it should, we won't have John McCain and Sarah Palin to kick around anymore.  And I have to admit I'm gonna miss them.

With only a week to go, I'm already feeling the blues.

I guess I can handle the blues, as long as that translates to the color of the map on November 4.

(Also posted on the Huffington Post)

In a nutshell

I did say awhile back I was giving up Sunday blogs.  But the election is only days away, and I couldn't help myself.

I don't think it's ever happened before.  Both presidential candidates took the highly unusual step of suspending their campaigns during the final push to the election.

First is John McCain.  A few days after the bottom fell out of our financial system, McCain announces he is suspending his campaign indefinitely, to return to Washington and work on a solution to the economic crisis.   He waits a full day to make the trip, attends one widely publicized White House meeting where he contributes very little---and we hear opinions of disbelief from the media, his colleagues, even from David Letterman.  McCain's dramatic gesture is considered....a dramatic gesture.  McCain slinks back to the campaign after being roundly criticized for pulling a transparent publicity stunt.  Afterwards, he repeatedly mentions suspending his campaign as an example of his commitment to fix our ailing economy.

A second suspension comes days before the election, when Barack Obama announces that he will suspend his campaign just long enough to fly to Hawaii to visit the bedside of his grandmother, who raised him.  He is willing to risk the election but unwilling to risk the possibility that he would miss seeing her for the last time.  He gets on a plane and goes to Hawaii where he does what he said he would do--visit his grandmother.  End of story.   The press respects his privacy, and he does no grandstanding, no pleas for the sympathy vote and no campaigning while on his trip.

And there you have the election in a nutshell.  Two candidates, two choices, two suspended campaigns.  In my opinion, these two incidents offer a revealing insight into these two men--who are asking us to evaluate their characters and make a choice.  

Maybe after 3 debates,  two years of campaigning, miles of newsprint, and thousands of speeches, actions really do speak louder than words.

I'd also like to pass on some words other than mine.  First, words set to music sung by a hockey mom:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bh9BmNuqeiQ

And words from some Conservatives explaining why they support Obama:

http://conservativesforchange.com/

Cinderella Shops for the Jewish Vote

I have to confess I disliked her from the moment she opened her mouth.  The snarky sneer.  Torturing the language.  Delivering lies with a straight face.  Discussing hot button issues with ice cold emotions.

Sarah Palin was a star the instant she stepped onto the national stage--and became the flashpoint of the election.  Maybe it's living so close to the North Pole that makes her so polarizing--magnetically attracting attention both pro and con.  Partly due to her prose, her pros are diminishing and I've watched with satisfaction as most of the country came around.  Until suddenly, I find myself spinning in the opposite direction.

So she believes she can stare down Putin from her front porch.  So she believes evolution is new age fiction.  So she believes in witch hunters and forcing women to have the babies of their rapists.  Underneath the beehive hairdo and behind the sights of her rifle, Sarah is just a woman like me, and I've dug deep into my soul to find a little sympathy for her.

Finally, this week, I found common ground: at Neiman Marcus.  I have to confess that at times, I too have allowed my shopping to get out of control.  I would be happy to let the Republicans pay for my splurges.  Not to mention having a professional makeup artist on call.  But I think the core connection between Sarah and many women is this: who can resist the lure of the Cinderella story?

It was a fantasy in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere handed Julia Roberts a free pass to Beverly Hills and she morphed into appropriately attired arm candy.  But for Sarah Palin it was real--the Republican fairy godmother really did wave the magic wand and Sarah found herself in Gucci instead of the Gap.  And is there any doubt that the modern version of the glass slipper would be labelled Manolo Blahnik?

So I forgive Sarah for her emergence as the Victoria Beckham of politics.  And for proving that if she does read, it's InStyle Magazine rather than the Wall Street Journal.   I even forgive her in advance for keeping her goodies rather than giving them to charity.  With two teenage daughters, I doubt any designer clothing will ever make it out of Wasilla.

But there is one lingering issue that bothers me about Sarah's shopping habits.  She is obviously an expert at hunting for moose--so I wonder why she's not hunting for bargains.  I can assure Sarah that there is a sale going on right now at Neiman Marcus--and also at Saks.  And she also might have tried that magic word she is obviously familiar with: Ebay.

Her failure at bargain shopping is especially pertinent since one of the few states still considered a tossup is Florida--home to so many Jewish voters.  McCain and Palin are working hard to reel in this group--while lots of alarming emails are flying around the Jewish community, inflaming rumors about Obama secretly being a Muslim. 

So Sarah Palin had her opening into the hearts and minds of Jewish women like me.  But when the truth came out--our hearts and minds snapped shut.  She lost not only our votes but completely lost our respect--because she committed the one absolutely unforgiveable sin during her shopping spree--she paid retail.

A Yalie roots for Harvard

There are boo hoos instead of Boola Boolas in New Haven this year.  For the first time in 40 years, there will be no Yale graduate on the ballot for president or vice president this fall.

I was in the first group of women who graduated from Yale, which went coed after nearly 300 years as a completely male institution.  I'm not a particularly active alum, but I always felt proud of my association with Yale.  Until I was associated by definition with another Yalie--who graduated 3 years ahead of me.

George W. Bush represented a longstanding tradition--when birth into the right family guaranteed a Yale diploma.  His was the last class that was composed of privileged white sons who could glide into Yale based purely on their father's names.

Bush represented the end of an era.  Women like me represented the beginning of a new one.  I stepped onto the Yale campus only months after Bush left it.  But it was already a different institution, thanks to Yale's president Kingman Brewster and Admissions Director Inslee Clark, who changed admissions policies, battled furious alumni and transformed Yale forever.

In the late 1960's, Yale, one of the world's top schools, began to admit the top students.  Today this is a given--our top institutions are diverse communities, with need-blind admissions, based on the merit system.  Where achievement and ability can trump an elite pedigree.

A typical example of the new era is Barack Obama, graduate of Columbia University and Harvard Law School, who in the old era would never have set foot on either of those renowned campuses.  His place at the top of the ticket this year represents a seismic shift not only in politics, but in our elite educational institutions.

John McCain, son of a decorated admiral, won a place at the naval academy due to his family history--and graduated 894th out of 899 students.  That's the old system.

Obama, son of a Kenyan student and an impoverished young mother, won a place at Harvard Law due to his qualifications and hard work--and was elected the first black president of the Harvard Law Review.  That's the new system.  Which ideally represents the best our elite institutions can offer.

Though a Yale graduate will not be on the national ballot this year, I'm proud that I was part of the changes in those "elite instututions".  And on November 4, this Yalie, for the first time, will be rooting for Harvard.

Only in California

An east coast friend remarked on the "touchy-feely" nature of my recent blogs.  And maybe that's a reflection of my status.  Because at some point two years ago, I crossed over an invisible line-- I have now lived in California longer than I have NOT lived in California.  Which I figure makes me officially a Californian.  The other day I even posted some photos to salute the beauty of our coast.  

I know lots of people who wake up every day, and look outside at California and say "What a glorious day it is!" --and really mean it.   I am NOT one of those people.  Maybe I'm too snarky for that kind of remark.  Maybe I'm spoiled since so many days are boringly glorious.  But in any case, I am perfectly capable of waking up and looking outside on a glorious day...and ignoring it.

I might not make a fuss over its glory, but I do enjoy the great outdoors, usually on a walk or a hike.  I've failed to convince V to join me, since his kind of walk involves a bag of clubs and 18 holes.  But you know how it is when someone else suggests the exact same thing your spouse suggests, and suddenly it's a great idea?  That is how V and I ended up on a hike today with another couple.

This very rare occurrence felt like a mini-vacation.  Or my third retreat in one week.  And it turned out to be a glorious day in every way--the weather, the hike, the conversation, being with such good friends.  It was perfect.  The kind of day you can have year round only in California.

There was one other aspect of today that is also unique to this part of the world.  Near the top of the uphill climb, I felt a little dizzy.  Not only am I in the worst shape of the four of us, but I was also doing the most talking.  So I stepped off the trail and sat down in the shade.  After a few minutes, my friend came back, so I could join her and start downhill.  As I stood up, she looked down and remarked, "Isn't that poison oak you were sitting in?" 

I think I've made it clear that I don't notice details.  Details like the appearance of the plant I was sprawled in---which grows only in California and the west coast.  Like poison oak, my kids are native Californians.  They were taught to spot it, and Daniel has had some nasty episodes.  I've never had it.....so far.  And if I wake up in the morning without a rash, I might finally look out at my adopted state and say "What a glorious day it is!"  And really mean it.  Wish me luck.

Circles

Now that I'm circling back timewise, I'm thinking that there really is something about women and circles.  And the way we instinctively gather together to share---quilting, knitting,  gossiping, husking corn, peeling potatoes.  I haven't peeled potatoes recently, but I did participate in two women's circles over the last few days.

The first one was when I visited a meeting of the San Jose chapter of eWomen Network.  This is a national organization that works both online and in person.  It's a woman's circle for the computer age.  And at the luncheon I attended, it worked like a well oiled machine.

The goal is what they call "accelerated networking"--which I figure is the business version of speed dating.  Each person is randomly assigned to 2 different small groups, which gather during the luncheon at designated places around the banquet room.  Inside each individual little circle, each person gets exactly one minute to share her story-- a 60-second sales pitch.  I hear everything from financial planners to contractors to massage therapists.   You can also ask for something you need---from new clients to public speaking engagements to a new roommate.  After 60 seconds, a bell rings and your time is up and the next person starts.  It's like clockwork.  No chitchat inside this little circle. You come prepared with a stack of business cards, and if someone is interested in your spiel, she hands you her card or takes one of yours--without stopping to interrupt the flow.  If you're not interested in each other, you don't waste a card.  Or time.  Very efficient.  Obviously the wave of the future.

In my two circles, I'm a bit of a square peg.  I'm a guest, not a member.  And I don't quite fit into this brave new world.  Especially since I have nothing to sell and nothing I can ask for-- in 60 seconds from a group of strangers.  Unless one of them has some chocolate in her purse.

24 hours later, I'm in another circle of women.  Also mostly stangers.  No one has business cards.  No one is buying or selling.  We get as much time as we need.  Although even in one minute, sometimes we are laughing or crying.

This is the beginning of the weekend retreat.  And the beginning of the healing process.  Like pioneers on the open prairie circling the wagons, we gather in a circle and make a safe space.  And the minute we are inside, everything outside disappears.  

This phenonenon always astonishes me.  That a group of complete strangers can come together and immediately let down your guard and trust every single woman in the circle.  Maybe it's because hearing another woman's story is being able to see through a window into her soul.  Inside the circle we are completely safe and secure to expose whatever is inside ourselves--gains and losses, dreams and nightmares, hopes and fears.   

This particular group is gathered due to breast cancer.  But in addition to cancer, inside the circle we share the same stories you would hear in any group of women.  Stories about our husbands.  Our children.  Our bodies.  Our divorces.  Our jobs.    

What brought us together is that we are all seeking the same thing:  healing.  But the source of our need for healing is not necessarily breasts.  Or cancer.  The common theme I hear is suffering.  And that is not what makes us breast cancer survivors.  That is what makes us human.