wisdom

January 27, 2014

Living in a Disposable World

Goats_kissing

Look carefully at the above photo. How does it relate to the way that so many things in our world have become disposable? I’ll tell you my personal answer at the end. First, though, I’ll give you a few examples of how much has become less permanent in a country that remains affluent compared to most of the world.

Let’s start with employment. In the early days of the USA, large numbers of people worked for themselves. As the industrial revolution came and cities grew, most cottage industries died and many individuals found that they could no longer compete with the larger, machine driven industrialists who could make the same goods more quickly and cheaply. So, the formerly independent man or artisan who worked for himself (with perhaps some family assistance) now had little choice but to find a job working for one of those entities. A phrase was born to describe this: he had become “a wage slave,” an idea that became increasingly popular in the nineteenth century.

For much of the last century, a good worker in that position might expect a long period of employment with one company. Today, on the other hand, that man is likely to work for several different companies over his lifetime, perhaps by his decision, perhaps not. Those that are not given the choice, now find that their skills are no longer needed or that they are more costly to employ because there is a cheaper labor force overseas or maybe even that robots are available to replace them. All of these folks have become disposable.

Now think of the various gadgets and machines you own. Smart phones that were said to have all the latest advantages just yesterday are considered obsolete due to improvements of design and technical capacity in the new and upgraded model that seems to have emerged in almost no time. Cars, too, fit this paradigm.  Clothes, although still often mended as they commonly were in the past, seem increasingly to be discarded for reasons of outdated fashion and limited storage in most of our residences, assuming you have the money and time to buy the “new” and dump the “old.” Even a bed was expected to last for most of a lifetime in my parents’ lower middle class home, with the possible exception of replacing the mattress when necessary.

Before the invention of the safety razor by Gillette in 1901, men who wanted a shave had to rely on straight razors, which required the use of a strop and a hone to keep them sharp. Now razor blades are commonly discarded after the blade becomes dull. And in my baby boomer life in a public elementary school, everyone was expected to write with a fountain pen, even though disposable pens soon took over. Styrofoam and bubble wrap are also useful 20th century inventions, which we get rid of almost as soon as we get them.

Those climbing the corporate ladder today get bigger houses with more amenities, selling off the old comfortable ones, often at the expense of disrupting their children’s lives; almost as if trading one style of life to be replaced by another. The same forces even operate on the cities or countries in which we reside, so that the need to find a job or advance one’s career causes moves from place to place, often by thousands of miles; sometimes more than once in a working life. Today one lives in Boston, in a couple of years in Chicago, and eventually maybe Hong Kong.

Even those of us who might wish to dispose of fewer things and make do with those with which we are comfortable are forced to follow the herd, if for no other reason than the fact that the replacement parts needed to fix our old appliances are no longer made or too expensive to install, not to mention those technological advances that our work might require of us, which make the scrap heap (or landfill) the new home of the old devices.

Friends, too, seem more interchangeable. How long does it take to make a really good friendship? If school is an example, it takes a bit of continuous time together and shared experience, not to mention the opportunity to live close enough to interact outside of school with some regularity. But the new mobile man or woman might not stay long enough in one place to create durable and lasting relationships that survive the residential movement for either themselves or their children.

To the good, the divorce rate hasn’t recently increased, although it appears that for many, marriage has been replaced by something that is perhaps more temporary: cohabitation.  A Pew Research Center study indicated that 72% of adult Americans were married in 1960 compared to 51% in 2010. There are doubtless many factors that explain this, but we are left with the bottom line that the anticipation of one and only one partner for life isn’t what it was in “the good old days.”

Witness the following commentary. It can be found in the book, Sketches From a Life, published by Pantheon:

I cannot help but regret that I did not live fifty or a hundred years sooner. Life is too full in these times to be comprehensible. We know too many cities to be able to grow into any of them, and our arrivals and departures are no longer matters for emotional debauches — they are too common. Similarly, we have too many friends to have any friendships, too many books to know any of them well; and the quality of our impressions gives way to the quantity, so that life begins to seem like a movie, with hundreds of kaleidoscopic scenes flashing on and off our field of perception — gone before we have time to consider them.

“Gone before we have time to consider them.” These words were written by George Kennan, a Pulitzer Prize winning author, diplomat, and scholar. Yesterday, you ask? No. They were written over 86 years ago in his journal, on December 20, 1927 when he was 23.

Which brings to mind a long time BBC radio program called Desert Island Discs, about which I’ve written before, as I have about Kennan. The idea here is for the moderator to interview some famous person (not just musicians) and ask him which recordings are his favorites. And, if he were marooned on a desert island, which of these would he take along. In a way, I suppose, the question is really about those tunes you could live without and others which you consider indispensable.

That is the real issue here, isn’t it? The tendency to treat so many things as if they are so important to us that we sometimes can’t wait to acquire them, but things that people used to hold on to and now will more readily replace unless living in the middle of nowhere, out of the very long reach of Amazon and companies like it.

If you choose to see the this “getting and spending” phenomenon in person, go out before sunrise to see long lines of people who wish to be among the first to buy a new geeky gadget — who queue up well before the store opens. Admittedly, sometimes we are required to dispose of things for something newer and “better,” but often we aren’t and virtually never are such purchases of the latest device required for our work on the first day that they are available for sale.

What exactly is going on here? Are we in danger of making the wrong choices because we hold incorrect beliefs about what will make us happy?  There is actually a good deal of research on this, which briefly summarized concludes that we are not very good at knowing in advance what things or activities will provide happiness — give some lasting satisfaction. In fact, psychologists Daniel Gilbert and Charles Wilson have coined a phrase for this: “miswanting” or wanting things that won’t provide the emotional benefit we are hoping for. There are doubtless more reasons than those I’ve listed for living in a disposable world, but the behavioral result is the same: out with the old and in with the new.

One could go in many directions with this idea, from the effects of globalization that have created jobs in one part of the world at the expense of another part, to the idea of what makes for a satisfying life, to the research that indicates that we often feel better giving something than getting something: Happiness and Giving to Others.

I can’t help but notice, however, that disposing itself has become a major preoccupation and job source. The proof is to be found in the increasing size of garbage cans in posh suburbs containing many things that used to serve us well for years and now go to the recycler or into the diminishing landfill space — the underground version of what we used to call a garbage dump. Or your can take a ride north on the Metra Milwaukee District North Line Train from downtown Chicago and pass a gigantic lot filled with discarded cars as far as the eye can see. Well, at least that gives the lot operators a way to make a living.

I know I’ve focused on the dark side of this. So, to balance things a little, it is worth mentioning that the same technological capacity that fuels our interest in what is fashionable and new, must be said to have produced some pretty wonderful things: cars, medical discoveries that improve the quality and length of our lives; central heating, air conditioning, and indoor plumbing; and air travel, just to name a few. Technology, it appears, is a sword that cuts two ways, especially if you are among the people who believe that man’s use of fossil-fueled energy to do all these wonderful things also means that we are treating planet Earth as if it too were disposable.

So what then is disposable to you? Put another way, what do you consider so precious in the world of people and things that you would take them along if you were a castaway and could manage only a little cargo?

Here is a hint to my way of thinking. The answer is to be found in the top photo I mentioned earlier, so you might scroll up to the picture — the one of goats on a hillside — and wonder what that is doing in an essay called Living in a Disposable World. Well, the photographer calls the photo Goats Kissing. Coupled with the hillside and the gorgeous blue-clouded sky, I find it all quite beautiful.

The photo is recent, but the scene would have been visible at virtually any point in human history to the average person who lived near a hill and a shepherd, or perhaps just naturally occurring in nature. No, I probably wouldn’t think to take goats to the desert island. But if there is beauty and love there, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad at all. I guess what I’m saying is, be careful what you ask for and what you choose to leave behind when you reach the desert island. Some of those new things that won’t be on offer at any store just might have the most value.

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The Goats Kissing photo comes from Wikimedia.org, furnished by Fir0002/Flagstaffotos.

December 30, 2013

New Year’s Thoughts on the Price of Friendship: Secrets You Must Keep Forever

Mlle_Irene_Cahen_d'Anvers

When a friend tells you something in confidence you are always treading on thin ice — whether you know it or not. If the relationship is close, he needn’t even tell you to “please keep this a secret.” You just know it to be the honorable thing to do. But sometimes you find something out you not only wish you didn’t know, but also wish you could talk about because the information is so troubling to you — to the esteem in which you hold your friend.

Here is just such a story.

Let’s call her Eleanor.* I’d known her for many years going back to grad school and she was only a bit older than I. Never sex partners, but two people who shared many interests, shared a profession, and liked each other enormously. Indeed, Eleanor was known and admired by many people. Her patients and hospital staff who saw her in action almost uniformly thought of her as a kind and talented person. You don’t meet many people as good.

I knew Eleanor’s husband, though not nearly so long nor so well as my friend. His business involved international travel and he was perhaps five years older than she, about 40, when the incident in question occurred. My contacts with him were infrequent, but always pleasant. And Eleanor and I usually met in the hospital cafeteria (with his knowledge) early in the morning or sometimes for lunch elsewhere, at the point that we both practiced in nearby offices in the Oak Brook area. I don’t remember how it came up, but one day Eleanor told me a story that I wished I’d never heard.

It seems that she and her one and only husband had a period of separation that lasted perhaps eight months some years before. She still loved him during this period, she said, but the incompatibility of their work schedule and differences over having children were complicating things. They both wanted kids, but realized someone’s career was going to have to be sacrificed, at least for a significant time, and no one was volunteering for the job.

Now I should also tell you that both Eleanor and her husband were uncommonly attractive and vivacious. Eleanor was then in her mid-30s, as pretty as a Renoir painting, and many men found her desirable. So, perhaps not surprisingly, she had an affair that began during the separation. But that wasn’t the thing that troubled me. There was more.

During the separation, even while they received marital counseling, the affair continued, but Eleanor’s husband didn’t know. In fact, they did resolve their differences about careers and children, and about a year after the separation ended Eleanor had a baby. But, she told me that she couldn’t be precisely sure that it was her husband’s child and that the affair continued even for some time after the birth of her first child, about five years from the time it began. She never tried to explain why she continued it and when I asked, she said she really didn’t know why. It was a tale she’d never told anyone else and I was the sole holder of the secret.

I was troubled. I knew Eleanor to have turned down the advances of numerous men, powerful and handsome; bright and charismatic. She was thought by virtually everyone as a person of almost god-like integrity. But there it was, a story that couldn’t help but cause me to be uncomfortable around her husband and to keep my lips sealed on the countless occasions when people would almost fall to their knees in praise of her moral perfection and overall goodness. And although I continued to admire her, I must admit that I did think of her a bit differently from then on. Eleanor lived about another 20 years, and although I certainly tried (successfully I think) to keep it from disturbing our relationship, I’m still puzzled by her actions even now, nearly 10 years after her death.

I have long since given up trying to figure out why Eleanor continued the affair after her reconciliation with her husband. If I found out, it would almost certainly be the usual reasons one hears for such things. You can imagine them as well as I. But there are at least two questions I do continue to ask myself from time to time:

  • Why did she tell me?
  • What are the costs of friendship?

Well, I think most of us want some sort of relief when we admit to ourselves that we did something we shouldn’t have. I can only guess, but perhaps Eleanor saw me as some kind of confessor (in the Catholic Church sense, though I’m not Catholic and neither was she). To put it differently, perhaps she just didn’t want to live with her secret alone and needed someone else to hear it and not judge her badly or abandon her out of moral disapproval. And if that is so, then I’m pleased that I didn’t disappoint her and hope I gave her some solace just by accepting what I was told and maintaining the kind of relationship we’d always had. Maybe that is all she needed.

But confidants must keep the confidences with which they have been entrusted. And because all this troubled me, I was stuck with it. It is a little like a child’s game of tag when your friend touches you and you’re “it.” Only in those childhood games, whomever is “it” then runs to transfer the bad thing on to someone else by tagging that person. No, in this game, I was “it” for as long as we lived.

Even that’s not exactly correct. Because I still can’t talk about it with anyone who knew Eleanor even outside of her family (who now live in England): the countless patients and professionals and friends who admired her, the very people who might (because they knew her too) be most helpful to me in dealing with my questions about our now deceased friend.

Why not talk? Because to do that, I would be robbing them of the image that I once had of her and that they might still carry. I would be transferring (perhaps) my disappointment and puzzlement to them, damaging a precious memory of who she was. Of course I can’t be sure, but neither do I think it fair to take the risk, even if the harm to them might be non-existent or very small. No, I’m still “it,” and I’m probably going to be so for the rest of my days.

But then I say to myself, isn’t that what friends are for? Eleanor was a wonderful friend and a terrific person who did much good in the world and who I was so very lucky to know. She was sometimes my confidant too, always giving excellent advice and much-needed laughter, even if I never burdened her with any similar secret of my own, or had anything similar to divulge.

Friendship, like most things of value in life, has its costs. Doing the right thing by keeping her secret will not go down in history as a great moment, nor should it. It surely didn’t require me to throw my body over a live grenade to save my platoon, something I seriously doubt that I could ever do.

Many of you have done just what I did; and I’ll bet you didn’t get any parade in your honor or trophy to put on your wall. But you did suffer a bit  — just a little bit. Thus your reward, if you feel you received any, was completely internal. It had to do with being the kind of person you wished to be, the kind of person you aspired to be: an honorable woman or man.

I believe that we aren’t reminded nearly often enough that you only find out who you are when your actions cost you something. It can be money, reputation, or even your life; or something as small as holding your tongue and living with the unsettled feeling inside of you that can come from knowing something you wish you’d never heard.

By the way, happy new year, dear reader. May 2014 bring you all the best. And Eleanor, for what it is worth: I still love you, old friend.

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I have changed “Eleanor’s” name as well as very many details of her life to make it impossible that she be identified. As they say on TV, the character I’ve created to stand for her resembles no one living or dead, at least as far as I can tell. The dilemma I’ve described, however, did involve a real person. The 1880 Renoir painting was uploaded to Wikipedia Commons by User: Hinonbey. It is called Mlle. Irene Cahen d’Anvers.

December 20, 2013

“You Look Marvelous!” Worry About Looking Good and Worry About Feeling Good

Knock on Any Door Poster[7]

We pass invisible markers on the walk along the shifting sands of life. The signposts signify three stages:

  • 1. The total unself-consciousness of a little baby, who only knows that he feels good or bad, but has virtually no concern about the impact that his appearance makes on others.
  • 2. The period where appearance and impression matter. Comparisons are all around. Are you as pretty as she is? Does your hair look right? Do you have enough muscles? When are your boobs going to show up? Are you tall enough, handsome enough, thin enough — just simply “becoming” enough to beat out the competition; for the people you’d like to think well of you, that is?
  • 3. The third stage. It isn’t that you don’t care at all about how you look as you get past mid-life, but how you feel becomes much more important. If the pants are comfortable, who cares if they aren’t fashionable? Why try a new hair style when the one you’ve been using since 1974 seems so much a part of you? When did it become hard to get a restful night’s sleep? When did the aches and pains begin? And then there are the dreaded medications that make one symptom feel better and give you three side-effects that require their own medical solutions. Your doctor visits become more frequent and your conversations change from “How about those Cubs?” to “What did your doctor say?” And the doctor isn’t talking about your appearance, he is talking about how you feel.

None of this is good news. You are paying for your diminished vanity with augmented, expanded, supersized preoccupations of a different kind. As the famous and elderly pianist Menachem Pressler once said from the stage of the Ravinia Festival:

I have a friend who says that if you wake up in the morning and your over 80 and you’re not in pain — you’re dead!

There’s got to be a bright side to this, right?

Well, for one thing, less vanity isn’t so bad. As long as you still take a regular shower and put on deodorant and wear clean clothes, there is no possibility that you will be arrested by the “Vanity Police” for offending the sensibilities of those who live to be seen. They spend their lives trying to look like models in Vogue or GQ or Elle. These same people waste their life savings on hair stylists and new suits and the best looking shoes. They are the kind of folks who buy new glasses with every passing season because fashions have changed even if their eye prescription hasn’t.

There is freedom in liking yourself for who you are on the inside rather than who you please by your outsides. A little more confidence and a little less insecurity go a long way to a happier life. If the crowd’s applause means less to you, you’ve figured out something pretty important about contentment.

Ah, but the downside. I will use myself as an example. I am reportedly in very good health for a man of 125. Sorry, I couldn’t resist that. I mean, for a man my age who falls into the category of the “young old” or just a little bit beyond. I’m doing just fine. Who thinks up these categories anyway? Are there job listings in the newspaper and on Monster or other Internet sites for people who make up names like “Generation Y” or “Baby Boomers” or “Millennials?” Then, of course, there are the “old-old,” the “preposterously-old,” the “disgustingly-old” and the “better off dead.” At least, I think so.

When he was 88, my dad said he wanted to live to be 100. Of course, many years before, he said that if he could get to 70 he would have had no cause for complaint on the time that had been allotted to him. I do not know when he started to push the goal posts back, but I do know that a week after he made his new target public he stroked-out and never regained consciousness. It was the kind of event that my good friend Dan Morrison likes to call a “clean get-away.” No muss, no fuss, no lingering and best of all, no great pain. The kind of death that most of us are hoping for.

Ursula Andress and John Derek

Ursula Andress and John Derek

Feeling good yet? I know that it is unseemly to talk about these things. They are the kind of subjects that seem morbid and don’t exactly lift the mood. And yet there is at least one advantage to feeling somewhat less good as we age: it makes the ending a little more attractive. No, I’m not talking suicide here. What I’m saying is that if you are in the prime of life at age 92, feeling just as fine and fit as you did 70 years before, the idea of your demise will be much more horrifying than if various body parts are starting to fall off and you’re wondering if maybe living forever is not exactly desirable. You begin to think that perhaps John Derek was right when he said “Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse” in the 1949 movie Knock on Any Door. And remember, John Derek knew a bit about what it meant to be good-looking. This handsome actor/director married Ursula Andress, Linda Evans, and Bo Derek in succession. If there had been a Presidential Cabinet post for the evaluation of pulchritude, he would have gotten the job.

Bo Derek in the 1979 movie 10

Bo Derek in the 1979 movie 10

Here’s the bottom line: We want to live forever but we don’t want to get old. A contradiction, for sure. Best to accept the nature of things, concentrate on what you still can do rather than what you no longer can do, and make the “clean get-away” my friend Dan describes. In the meantime, do some good for young people, live “in the moment,” and enjoy the sunshine. I’ve heard it’s a lot darker in the Underworld — the afterlife described by the ancient  Greeks.

Have a nice day. Really.

December 13, 2013

To Ink or Not to Ink? The Tattoo Question

image

When I was a kid (I think that was about 300 years ago), the only people who had tattoos were found at amusement park side-shows, on the docks occupied by Marines and sailors, and in a few other places you were discouraged by your parents from approaching. Tattoos were rarely associated with either high-class or high art.

Things have changed.

First, lots of people have them, young and old. Second, there is (thankfully) less prejudice against those who are inked. Third, the art of tattooing appears to have improved, and some of the images are pretty darn impressive, original and beautiful. And you just read that from someone who loves Rembrandt and Renoir.

But, there is still the question: should you or shouldn’t you? I’m going to address the pros and cons here from the perspective of someone who has a lovely cousin who is heavily into getting them, many patients of mine who had them, and many people of my vintage who have a kind of instinctive and negative reaction to the idea of getting inked.

Here is what one lady has to say:

I didn’t start getting tattooed until I was in my forties and they still look awesome to me. If you google old people with tattoos, you will see that what I’ve just said is true of all of them. People just say they will look bad because they like to criticize tattooed people.

As far as work is concerned, it has never been a problem for me. I wear long sleeves and let’s face it, I’m not really a professional of any kind (although this woman does have a college degree). G.S. I think a lot of the people in my son’s generation are more concerned with that. My lifestyle is different now, so I really don’t have to care about employers. I would never take a job where they were uptight, but I don’t really need a job. (Perhaps those who aspire to professional positions do need to consider this, however unfair the discrimination might be). G.S.

To understand why I get tattooed, you’d have to know who I am. I was a hippie in the ’60s and ’70s and my friends were mostly musicians, artists, fashion designers, and actors. I have always been part of the counterculture. I married into the music business. As our kids grew up, we had to settle down quite a bit and give them a more mainstream lifestyle. But, as I’m sure you know, you can’t deny who you are forever without costing yourself a lot.

When our children were in their teens, I had a number of moments that I might call epiphanies. I realized that I didn’t have to be the perfect PTA mom anymore. Tattoos were getting popular and I thought they looked really interesting, so for my daughter’s 19th birthday we decided to get tattooed together. I will never forget that night.

First, I have to tell you that just about all tattoo artists are actually fine artists or musicians — real professionals. So, anyway my daughter and I went to a shop and while we were getting tattooed we were talking to the guys there. I soon realized that I was having a great time, more fun than I ever had with the PTA ladies and the church people! I also recognized that there is an amazing counterculture that is built around body art.

That experience started me looking at tattoos and talking to a variety of tattooed people. I saw some amazing art and I decided to get more. At first, I always got them where they couldn’t be seen. For years I thought about getting a “sleeve,” which is what an arm fully-covered with tattoos is called. I found an artist whose work I really admired. Finally, I decided to go ahead. Now, it took a really long time to get my arm done — over 30 hours. And it really hurt. So, when other tattooed people see me, they have a lot of respect for not only the art, but for anyone who has spent that much time in pain getting tattooed.

I was not, however, prepared for the amount of attention I started getting. I live in the suburbs and the suburbs aren’t very forgiving toward alternative people. And, I’m not gonna deny it, tattoos are popular with some lower class elements of society, like people in prison. So, although it has gotten to be more acceptable in the years since I first started, most mainstream people still see the body art subculture as a negative aspect of society.

I have received some really rude comments from stupid people. I live in the Bible-Belt. The crucial thing for me is, I used to keep who I really am to myself. Now I can’t. I am such an “alternative” person in a lot of ways. I am drawn to the edgy side of life. I am kind of unusual even within the body art culture because of my age and because you don’t see that many tattooed women. But it has helped me in that I can now express myself.

My tattoos are really important to me personally. They have a lot of meaning to me individually. They were designed for me and only me. I have one that is all about my dad (who died when I was very young). Of course, there are a few small pieces I would do differently now. But I’m not tired of them.

On the negative side, there are times when I wish I didn’t have so much of my body covered by tattoos; like when I go to the doctor. Or when everyone is staring at me.

But the whole experience has helped me to see who I am. It has been part of the process of finding myself, something that some of us in any generation have a tough time doing. Especially for me, born into an almost immigrant family with very conservative values, my uniqueness was rarely valued. But, like I said, who you really are comes out whether you like it or not.

Datoga_Women_Tattoo-8

Beauty, as the old saying goes, is in the eye of the beholder. It is a position that I have been a bit slow to come to since I listen to Beethoven and Brahms and Bach and tend (still) to think that little else offers anything like their art. But, the friend I just quoted enlightened me and humbled me, helping me realize that I’m in no position to judge in that way; that no one is. Taste is not as simple as right and wrong.

Yes, some of the tattooed are doubtless trying to get noticed. Surely, some are trying to stick a figurative thumb in your eye and show contempt for a world that, after all, is often contemptible. And, I suspect, that at least a few of those into body art simply want to fit in with whatever crowd they wish to belong. But is that any different from buying a Gucci handbag or driving a Lexus or wearing a Brooks Brothers suit?

I learned something from this thoughtful lady, as a therapist must if he or she is to be any good at all. We are often taught by our patients, friends, and acquaintances. The world is quite a school, but, just like school, you must pay attention. What did I learn? To look for the personal meaning in body art and be less ready to jump to judgment, something that seems to make us feel superior, but does much needless harm.

In the 1950s it was unimaginable to almost anyone in the USA that there might ever be a black President. Homosexuality wasn’t disclosed and was almost universally and publicly mocked. The acceptable world was mostly white bread and mayonnaise, which left lots of people out. Things change. It is your body, after all, and the art you put on it harms no one. While I’m not likely to try it myself, I’m more open and accepting of it than I’ve ever been before.

In 2000, in a Vice Presidential Debate, Dick Cheney, a man with a gay daughter named Mary, said:

I think we ought to do everything we can to tolerate and accommodate whatever kind of relationships people want to enter into. We live in a free society and freedom means freedom for everyone.

Perhaps there should be a book, something like a high school year book, that we update from time to time. I guess Facebook is like that. But one that requires us to say a few words in summation of our life. And if I could write that summation for the lady who is the subject of this blog, it would go something like this:

I was lost and now I am found. I did no major harm and, in fact, raised two fine children and am helping raise one of my grandchildren. I met and married the man I love and decorated a body that he loves with beauty as I see it. I had a heck of a good time doing it too, and met a lot of neat people along the way. I don’t preach, but if you watch me and have a problem with tattoos, you still might learn something from my example: you might discover just a little about why some people like me decorate our bodies in the way we do and ask yourself why that bothers you.

It is a philosophy and description of a life — dare I say, something that might eventually serve as an epitaph and bring a smile, at least to me. Not many of us do better.

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The top photo of a son and his mother was taken by Jeff Stelle and Kat Moya in Columbus, Ohio. They are the same mother and son mentioned in the post. The second image is the Traditional Tattoo of the Datoga People, Tanzania by Kathy Gerber. It is sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

November 28, 2013

Why Endless Sadness Usually Has An End

Rings_in_blue

When you are heartbroken, as most of us have been, it feels as though you will never recover. The loss of a parent or friend or lover can feel irreplaceable; indeed, is irreplaceable. The end of a job can be humiliating and frightening. The emotional pain feels that it will go on into infinity. It is hard to remember ever feeling better, and hard to imagine that the pain will ever stop.

But usually it does. Not in a moment and certainly, not soon enough. But things change and one’s mood usually lifts. Life goes on. Other events and people come to occupy the empty space inside of us. Not always, but for most of us, most of the time.

Sadness is especially hard in the dark months and sometimes the result of them for those with Seasonal Affective Disorder. The world breathes the gleeful air of the holidays while we reach for the last oxygen tank in the store only to see someone else get there first. It is hard to sustain hope when we seem invisible to the world around us. And yet, hope is still there if we have enough time and courage.

I am no Pollyanna in saying this. I have had my own sadness and loss. I have lost both parents and good friends, two of the latter in the last year. I have been betrayed by someone who stole $80,000 from me and my business partners. A college romance once left me bereft. I have treated many people devastated by needless cruelty, black depression, and the blunt force of ill-fate.

Mostly we recover. After all, we are the offspring of a genetic line of our predecessors who survived their own set of calamities, overcame hardship, and produced offspring who eventually led to our own emergence from the womb. We are not, or at least most of us are not, the children of people with little resilience. We come by our survival and recovery quite naturally, even if it remains hard-won.

Still don’t believe me? Then I have an exercise for you. Make a list of all the bad things that have ever happened to you. Try to remember how you felt when you experienced financial loss, betrayal, cruelty, severe accident or injury, the death of someone close to you, and getting dumped by a person you loved. Do not include any event that happened as recently as the last year or so.

Now, as you think back, did these things finish you off? Do you feel as terrible as you did in the first throes of your calamity? Did you kill yourself (obviously not)? Aren’t things at least a little better and, just possibly, much better? Perhaps you even learned something from the experience. Perhaps you even became more understanding, wiser, found a better job, or met someone else to salve your wounded heart. Maybe you discovered that you had more strength and resilience than you imagined.

I am not making light of your suffering. Nor am I suggesting that everyone recovers as I’ve described. And yet, most of us do, most of the time, even without therapy.

Yes, there are scars. But most scars slowly fade with time.

On the girl’s brown legs there were many small white scars. I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and the moons on your dress? I thought that would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because, take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived. (Chris Cleave, from Little Bee)

As Lord Byron wrote in Prometheus Unbound:

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates…

Perhaps you know the Sufi tale of a great king who asked his wisest advisors to fashion a ring that would make him happier when he was sad and, simultaneously remind him that even good fortune is only temporary. After much consideration these wise men asked an artisan to forge a ring for the regent. What was inscribed on it was very simple:

This too shall pass.

—

The above image is called Rings in Blue by Giulia Ciappa and is sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

November 16, 2013

Dealing with Online Criticism of that “Bald, Ugly, Old” Man: Me

cartoon_of_a_bold_man

You probably haven’t read anything quite like this before.

I received a comment to my blog post entitled Beautiful and Smart, But Unlucky in Love: The Reasons Why from someone named Brenda. Here is the comment in full:

You seem to really dwell on the part where women get older and lose their looks. I could even sense some anger or revenge in your words. I then realized that the bald ugly old picture of a man at the top of the article was a picture of you. Then it all made sense. I would never take any advise [advice] or criticism from an disgustingly ugly human being like yourself who claims to be a professional.

Anyway, spelling problems and missing commas aside, pretty strong words. As you might have noticed on the page that contains this post, I have had over 500,000 views of my blog, but never anything like this in response to it. Not even close. So you might wonder, how does one deal with criticism such as this?

First, although I have Brenda’s full name and email address, I have done her the favor of not posting her comment and making her a target of others. My guess is that she might possibly not be a happy soul. Anyway, most of us have enough crap in our lives without starting an email war.

I’m able to adopt this stance, in part, because I don’t take what she said too personally. Let’s look at her attack. She said that I am “bald ugly old” and that I am “a man.” It seems to me that she is right on at least three out of four! I am clearly bald and have even written a humorous blog post about that condition: Bald is Beautiful: Reflections on Hairlessness. I am also undeniably old and I am a man. On the question of ugly, I do not believe that I am Brad Pitt, but I’ll let you, dear reader, determine if I am ugly for a man of my antique age.

Not Gerald M. Stein

Not Gerald M. Stein

One of the things about beauty, in men or women, is that age tends not to improve outward physical things. Think about Robert Redford. He is now long past his heart-throb years — a man who once made women swoon. But I digress. So, yes, it is true I am not a stud-muffin. But, neither am I particularly vain, so Brenda’s remaining point — that I am ugly — isn’t a big concern either way.

Oh, but she added I am a “disgustingly ugly human being.” Has Brenda been talking with my neighbors? Seriously, her words here are so “over the line” that I think she discredits herself and reduces the strength of her entire diatribe against me.

In short, my response to this person is that it is difficult for me to take what she is saying to heart. Yes, it is intended to cause personal injury, but she doesn’t know me and she seems to have a “bee in her bonnet” for reasons I can’t possibly know, since I don’t know her either. Were someone to take issue with my posts in a more reasonable, less ad hominem fashion, then I would have to give their concerns more thought. And, if someone close to me whom I respected had criticisms, then I would definitely consider them seriously, at least to some degree.

Another helpful way to respond to Brenda is to take a rather “Zen” approach to her, using an insight from Buddhist teachings (although I’m not Buddhist). That is, to look at what I might learn from her or to find some way in which she has actually done me a service. For example, if you ever find yourself stuck in a slow-moving line of traffic, you might realize its slowness actually gives you a chance to practice being patient. Looking for “the good” tends to make you feel better than sitting and fuming.

Just so, it is pretty easy to frame what Brenda has written as something useful to me. No, I’m not at the cosmetic surgeon’s office as I write this, now that I am aware of Brenda’s delicately delivered assessment of my appearance. But, she has done me, and perhaps you, one favor.

She gave me the idea for this blog post.

—

The top image as called a Cartoon of a Man with No Hair and No Real Face by Catboi. The image of Brad Pitt is by Chris_Natt. Both are sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

November 10, 2013

It’s Not Going to Happen to Me

Smug_santa_(3105864835)

It’s not going to happen to me.

“Why?”

Well, because I’m young. Sure I smoke, but so did my grandfather and he lived to be 97. Sure I eat a lot and I’m overweight, but so does my mom, and she can still do cartwheels. Besides, I’m a good person — bad things don’t happen to really good people. And, I have a strong relationship to God. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen. He’s on my side.

OK, I don’t know if it is a He or She, but I’m goddamn sure about God being on my side. I’m a spiritual guy. No, not the kind that has to go to church all the time, but God knows my heart is in the right place. I even gave 50 cents to a homeless guy a couple of years ago. Besides, I’ve been lucky all my life. And I’m careful, I have very good judgment. I look both ways before I cross the street. I plan in advance. Not to  mention, I’m really smart. I always got good grades in school. And before anything bad happens, I’ll see it coming and get out-of-the-way.

OK, sometimes I lie to the boss, sometimes I do a side job for cash so I can avoid paying taxes, but who doesn’t do that? The government would waste it anyway. I’m clever. I’ll never get caught.

Sure, there are some things I haven’t taken care of yet, some stuff I need to start, some projects I need to finish. But, crap, I’ve got time, plenty of time. There’s always tomorrow or next week. What’s the rush?

If I really wanted to stop smoking I could stop, but I enjoy it. And even if I do trip myself up somehow or some way, there will always be other chances. What’s more, I’ve got people looking out for me. If I were in trouble, they’d warn me and I’d change course.

The bad things that have happened to me have been someone else’s fault. I’ve recovered. See! I’m as good as new!

What’d you say? You said I drive too fast? Heck, I’ve got terrific reflexes, great hand-eye coordination. I’ve never had an accident, not even a traffic violation. I know what I’m doing.

Yeah, I drink, sometimes too much, but I never drive when I’m tipsy. How do I know? Well, I can just tell. I know myself. I don’t make dumb choices. OK, sometimes I have unprotected sex with people I have just met, but I don’t have sex with those kinds of people who would have AIDS or herpes or something. I guess I wasn’t always faithful to my last girlfriend either, but, I mean, who is? Jeez, I’m a man, I have needs, I have urges. I just do what other men do. What’s wrong with that?

I’m smart. I’m good. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be OK.

It’s not going to happen to me.

—

What you’ve just read is an imaginary conversation, not intended to resemble the words or attitudes of anyone living or dead, and certainly not the gentleman pictured. The top image is called Smug Santa, taken in 2008 at the New York Santacon by istolethetv and uploaded to Wikimedia Commons by Princess Merida.

November 2, 2013

Getting Over a Breakup: The Role of Love, Hate, and Time

512px-Castle_on_a_hill_(7964914374)

Most of us believe that hate is the opposite of love. Is it really? Both are intense emotions. If love captured you before a breakup, hate indicates a continuing strong attachment to that person even after. Put differently, if you are still angry, you are not “over” him or her. You have not let go. You have not moved on.

To continue feeling either love or hate means that the “relationship” is quite alive, even if it is quite different from what it once was. Perhaps you haven’t seen the person or spoken to him in years. He matters to you, even if it isn’t in a good way. He is living inside of you, playing on your emotions, influencing how you think and what you do; an imaginary companion who might not “know” you exist, but who shadows your existence.

As Edgar Rice Burroughs said:

I loved her. I still love her, though I curse her in my sleep, so nearly one are love and hate, the two most powerful and devastating emotions that control man, nations, life.

If you are really “over” someone else, you are (more or less) indifferent. You simply don’t care any more. You don’t spend any significant amount of time thinking about him or her, recalling either the memories of aching beauty or breaking heart-strings. And when something does remind you of the person, at most you might feel a bit wistful, but certainly not depressed or resentful. No, that individual now matters very little.

How do you get there, get over that lost love? Getting angry is a part of the process, just as allowing yourself the sadness of his loss. Talking to friends, or perhaps a therapist is useful, too. They need only listen to you and provide support, not judgment or advice. Don’t expect to heal quickly, but avoid holding on too long, hoping for love’s return. Don’t make comparisons to what others have gone through. One size doesn’t fit all.

Throwing out photos, old letters, and deleting old voice-mail and electronic messages can help. Don’t lacerate yourself by re-reading the same letters and greeting cards forever. Hold a mock-funeral service if you need to.

A quick return to dating usually doesn’t improve things, since some of your lingering emotions can cause you to become involved with your new acquaintance too deeply, too soon, on the rebound. Don’t fool yourself into thinking that you will begin to date but won’t permit yourself to get too close. Before you know it you will be back in a new and probably ill-conceived romance.

Don’t resort to alcohol or other temporary fixes that, in the end, can only make it worse. Don’t distract yourself too much, but do try to be active and get on with life.

Beware of bathing in your sadness. The shower of tears is too painful to endure longer than necessary. Remember that others have suffered in just this way. Do, eventually, get off the cross. We need the wood. It gives us something to build with.

You may have to reevaluate your former love. If you still believe that he was a paragon of virtue and perfection, you’re inclined to think of yourself as unworthy of his affections. If, however, you can see him realistically, you are more likely to recognize that perhaps his loss of you was greater than yours of him, even if he isn’t aware of it. Get a ladder and pull the S.O.B. off the pedestal (in your imagination only)!

Don’t expect vindication, one of the rarest commodities in the world. Waiting for your ex to apologize for not realizing your value is like waiting for next Christmas when you are 10-years-old and the calendar reads December 26th.  It almost never happens and when it does, it is much too late. Moreover, a search for the right words or actions to persuade him to change his mind is a fool’s errand. But then, we are all fools in love.

Although time moves slowly, let time be your friend. You need the tears, so fighting them and controlling them can sometimes be counterproductive, slow recovery down. Most of us survive and learn from these losses. Figure out why you chose this person and take care not to make the same mistake again, especially if you are inclined to put all your relationship eggs in one basket, discovering only after the breakup that you have few friendships to provide you with emotional support.

A breakup is like a mini-death. Treat it that way. Don’t isolate yourself. Remember a time when you felt better and believe that, however impossible it seems now, you will eventually feel better again.

As Oscar Wilde said, since “No man is rich enough to buy back his past,” there is only one direction left to go. Onward.

—

The top image is called Castle on a Hill by Jimmy McIntyre, uploaded to Wikimedia Commons by russavia.

October 21, 2013

Are Villains Due Respect When They Die?

Evil_red.svg

The old saying goes, “There is no rest for the wicked.” I’m not so sure about that, but I do know one thing: there is sometimes no resting place for the wicked. Two examples: one from a great Greek playwright, the other from an aborted burial in Rome last week.

The imaginary funeral took place in ancient Thebes, the work of Sophocles. His almost 2500-year-old play Antigone focuses on a sister’s effort to bury her brother, foreshadowing the funeral drama that just played out in The Eternal City, as Rome is known. The recently frustrated burial rites were those of a 100-year-old Nazi named Erich Priebke, the murderer of 335 Roman civilians as pay-back for a partisan attack near the end of World War II.

Almost no one wanted those funerals to happen, an eternal dilemma for the defeated bad guys of history. Both of these men were considered enemies of the state at the time of their deaths. Antigone’s brother Polynices had led a rebellion against the Theban leader, who also happened to be his brother Eteocles. Although the latter’s side was the winner, both brothers died in the conflict. Eteocles was honored as a fallen hero, Polynices left unburied in disgrace, fair game for dogs and vultures.

Then there is S.S. Captain Priebke. In 1944 the fascists who still occupied Rome were losing their grip. An S.S. police battalion of ethnically German Northern Italians aligned with the Nazis was attacked by 16 members of the Italian “Patriotic Action Group.” A bomb was placed in a garbage cart along their marching route. Twenty-eight members of the regiment died immediately in the explosion and ensuing gunfire, along with two civilians, one of whom was an 11-year-old boy. All of the partisans escaped. The date was March 23, 1944.

Antigone in Front of the Dead Polyneices by Nikiphoros Lytras

Antigone in Front of the Dead Polynices by Nikiphoros Lytras

The S.S. commander determined that the deaths in the ranks of the military column called for reprisal at a ratio of 10 Italians for every regiment member who died. Hitler reportedly wished this to be completed within 24 hours, by which time there were 33 dead. The Italian victims included some people already in Nazi custody, 57 Jews, as well as additional civilians needed to create the “correct” ratio. A total of 335 were ultimately killed individually by pistol shot in the back of the head as they kneeled with their hands tied behind their backs, their bodies disposed of in a group (without proper burial rites) until they were exhumed over one year later. All of this occurred in the Ardeatine Caves outside of Rome. The two S.S. officers who carried out the massacre were Erich Priebke and Karl Hass, who were eventually arrested.

In 1946 Priebke escaped from a British prison camp in Northern Italy and made his way back to Rome, where he was supplied with false identity papers by Bishop Alois Hudal at the Vatican. He then fled to Argentina, living there freely for 50 years until extradited to Italy in 1995 and ultimately convicted as a war criminal. At the time of his death on October 11, this very old man was residing in Rome, serving his time under house arrest. But now, it seemed, no one wanted any part of his remains. The Vatican (Priebke was Catholic) refused to permit a funeral in any Roman Catholic Church. Argentina, where he wished to be buried beside his wife, refused that request, as well. Only the Society of St. Pius X, a reactionary Catholic splinter group that has been associated with Holocaust denial, attempted a funeral before protesters intervened. For the record, Priebke never admitted guilt or responsibility for the murders, nor did he ever apologize.

If you are a reader of the Greek dramas of antiquity and can set aside the Nazi connection, all of this might sound familiar. So should the ensuing dispute between those who sought burial and those who wished to prevent it. In Rome, it was the opposition to the funeral that carried the most weight, which included the city government, the Roman Jewish community, and interested parties like the Vatican. In Sophocles’s play, the state was represented by Creon, an ally of Eteocles, who forbade burial of Polynices on punishment of death. Only Polynices’s sister Antigone protested and decided to take matters into her own hands, by burying her brother so that he might go the Greek version of the afterlife, known as the Underworld. In so doing, she felt herself to be honoring the gods as well as her brother, and showing respect to his body lest it be savaged by birds and wild animals. Priebke’s defenders, virtually all on the extreme political right, sound a bit less noble than Antigone, at least by news reports.

Erich Priebke in 1996Erich Priebke in 1996

It was doubtless to avoid just such problems with the body of an enemy that the USA decided to dispatch Osama Bin Laden to the depths of the ocean. But remember that some believe that respect should be shown to a corpse no matter who is the evil-doer and no matter how much evil was done. As my Catholic friend Joe puts it, “The person is still a human being and therefore worthy of respect. If there is to be justice, it will now come in the afterlife, not rendered by man but by God.”

Others fear that the dead Hitlers of the world, if properly buried, will become tourist attractions if not pilgrimage sites, especially for those who share the deceased’s point of view; in effect, their final resting place morphing into a religious shrine for some sort of misguided, quasi-religious veneration. But again, my friend Joe had an interesting take. His fear is that someone will find Captain Priebke’s cemetery headstone (at this writing a secret burial is planned) and desecrate it. I should emphasize, Joe is no Nazi, but simply thinks that if we consider ourselves civilized, then that civility should extend even to the very worst of us.

It is also worth remembering that history is written by the victors, and that the identity of the good guys and the bad guys is very much determined by who writes that history. Priebke argued in court that the partisans who took on the SS battalion were terrorists and therefore it was they who should be blamed for all of the consequences that followed, including the retribution by the Nazis. Think of the posthumous honor that would have come the way of the World Trade Center bombers, were their supporters to have achieved an overthrow of the U.S. government.

Still another point of view has to do with the fact that we are talking about dead villains, not living ones. Presumably, they are not harmed by the lack of a proper burial (although Antigone would argue otherwise, because no afterlife would then be possible). By the same token, the one who has passed away doesn’t benefit from getting an appropriate disposal of his mortal remains, unless it is thought necessary according to the individual’s religion.

Obviously, those who definitely do care about the carcass are the people left behind: the loved ones of the deceased (if there are any), friends, perhaps some of his co-religionists, and people who are sympathetic politically (including the Society of St. Pius X). Most of us know what it is like to lose someone we care about, to go to funerals, to engage in grieving, and various acts of remembrance, including visiting grave sites. On the other hand, we also know that some deaths seem more than usually deserved. That category would certainly include child abusers and rapists, as well as people like Mr. Priebke.

Priebke made his own desires clear: he wanted to be buried in Argentina, his adoptive homeland, next to his wife. How much should that matter? Indeed, how many of us even know whether those we care about do themselves care what happens to their bodies after they die? If they haven’t purchased cemetery plots or informed us of what to do after they’ve departed, we can only guess. Some might expect us to regularly visit their gravesite. Others might think that to be a waste of time. But most of us, who, after all, will eventually join the ranks of the bygone, probably hope that an occasional kind thought by someone left behind would be nice.

But here, in Captain Erich Priebke, we have a man who never acknowledged wrongdoing, never repented, never tried to comfort the relatives of those he afflicted, and apparently never felt guilt or shame. And, never gave his victims a proper burial. Were you or I living in Rome, what might we have done, or wished to see others do concerning the disposition of his body? I imagine that the answer to that question says more about us than it says about Mr. Priebke, who was, at the time of his death, the oldest convicted war criminal in the world.

—

The top image, Evil Red, was sourced from Wikimedia Commons, as was the painting by Lytras. Some of the background material on Erich Priebke was sourced from Wikipedia.org/

October 6, 2013

What the Camera Tells Us About Ourselves

Boulevard_du_Temple_by_Daguerre

If you look closely at the famous image above, you will see the first photograph of people — a historic event. It dates from 1838 and apparently shows one man having his shoes shined by another man. There were doubtless other things going on in the streets and on the sidewalk — moving carriages, animals, strolling couples and the like — but the technology of early photography permitted the camera to capture only those things that were relatively stationary for about 10 minutes or more.

With this photo, a new history begins that has social as well as technical implications: our concern over how we look to the camera’s eye. In other words, one more thing to manage and one more reason to be self-conscious. Such is the price of progress! A new and very personal preoccupation had been created by the genius of human invention — an unintended consequence of a set of scientific advances, one I’d like to say a few words about, as it relates to everyday life and the need to change your life, too.

Of course, mirrors existed thousands of years before photography was invented, but allowed mostly for private consideration of one’s appearance. Cameras made the private public and gave new perspective to how one looked, since a mirror only told you about the image you could see looking directly back at you, not from behind or in profile. For a long while, photos were largely posed and often took the place of painted portraits that a family of means might hang proudly at home.

Posing gave the subject some control over the picture. He could dress up, choose the background, and count on the photographer to use only the best of his work; that is, to create a finished product that made the subject look good.

As photography expanded to non-professionals, snap shots were, by definition, relatively spontaneous, with no guarantee to flatter those captured while walking, talking, eating, and the entire range of activities that others might observe “in (unstaged) life.” The internet brought us to our current situation vis-a-vis our photographed appearance. Pretty much anything is now fair game, including pictures that are embarrassing. Indeed, one suspects that unattractive images are more likely to be posted than those that make us look desirable, at least when others are doing the downloads. Appalling has trumped appealing.

A Korean Puppy and a Fifth Air Force Aerial Camera, 1951. Sourced from the US Department of Defense/Wikimedia Commons

A Korean Puppy and a Fifth Air Force Aerial Camera, 1951. Sourced from the US Department of Defense/Wikimedia Commons

We now live in an age of the big “reveal” or, to use English properly, “revelation.” We are revealed in more ways than we can manage, with the internet playing its part. No longer can a permanent view of us at our best be guaranteed. The result is either to accept that we will sometimes look like crap to those who chance upon our picture, or to make sure that only our most trusted camera-ready friends see us as we really are, without carefully arranged hair, makeup, a good shave, and the happy face that we show to everyone else.

Daily life has changed with the ubiquity and portability of the camera/phone. Not only can those who are not present use the dark magic of the lens to see our shouts and frowns and scowls, but we see them too. We see, if we are open to it, all the things that make us look good and bad, not just in terms of physical beauty, but decency, as well.

The camera has become a kind of moral score keeper. Potentially, at least, we observe even those qualities that we wish we could block from self-awareness: expressions of unkindness, indifference, and contempt.

Before a time when the photographer forced his images upon us, we only knew what others risked telling us about ourselves. And, of course, in polite society, this still doesn’t happen with regularity, unless you are a public figure. Our friends don’t want to hurt our feelings, so, whatever they say usually is spoken tactfully. And, our enemies can be dismissed, at least most of the time, because they are, after all, our enemies.

The unposed photo has removed the friend and the enemy from the conversation, equally. We now are face-to-face with ourselves more often than ever before, and in a way that only the camera makes possible. We have a more “god’s eye view,” a little harder to deny, a bit more insistent on truth. As the poet Rilke observed in writing about the Archaic Torso of Apollo,

…for here there is no place

that does not see you. You must change your life.

The photograph now sends us a message. Be the best you can be, not just in appearance. Shrink your vanity and become comfortable with yourself, so that you care less about the opinion of others. Be as good in the shadows as you are on stage. Control your anger. Show kindness. Whether privately or publicly, don’t do those things that would shame you in a crowd. Indeed, you must change your life. So must we all.

—

The top image is Boulevard du Temple by Louis Daguerre, 1838. It is sourced from Wikimedia Commons.