That Crazy Person

Ever wonder what's up with that crazy woman in the grocery store check-out line having a baby cow over the clerk rejecting her coupon? Or with that guy driving like a maniac on your way home yesterday, the one yelling and gesturing emphatically while honking madly at the other drivers? What is wrong with these people?

I can tell you because, today, I was one of them.

Though I am generally regarded as friendly and outgoing with other people, today I practically had a baby calf myself while at the hospital lab when the doctor's order for my routine blood test wasn't there. Why? I asked myself that very question when I got back to my car. 

Perhaps it is because I am living with ovarian cancer and am constantly bracing myself for the next battle in the war. Each trip to the hospital means a blood test that will determine whether and when I must begin another round of toxic chemotherapy, or a clinical trial of a new-yet-unapproved drug, or some other attempt to save my own life. Combine that with my unfortunate needle phobia, and it's a recipe for ugly. It takes awhile to get up my courage just to go to the lab in the first place, arms slathered with Lidocaine numbing cream all the while trying to arrive when the cream is at its peak effectiveness and before my favorite phlebotomist has gone to lunch or on a break. Today was the same, plus an additional time-sucking half hour search for a parking space. So, when I learned with only fifteen minutes left in the "perfect window" that the order was missing, I got a bit testy. I didn't want to leave and go home, just to return tomorrow or the next day, or whenever I got up the nerve to go again. I wanted - I needed - to have the test done today and then get the hell out of there.

Reflecting on today's events reminds me that sometimes our own internal anxiety gets the best of us, which inevitably features the worst in us. Missing lab orders are not the end of the world, that's for sure, but when there is a hiccup in my personal march to stay alive it can supersede my otherwise rationale mind. Same is true for the crazy guy in the car; there's no telling what problems, concerns, or other of life's travails he may be suffering. Mild annoyances can be a conduit to the unflattering side of what anxiety does to people. 

There is so much we don't know about others. Someone's abruptness or less-than-polite approach may simply reflect other things going on in their lives. Are they ill? Can they not pay their bills because of a missed child support payment? Have they lost someone dear? The next time I encounter a person with that wild-eyed look I hope I remember to cut him or her some slack. I've been there, too. Their overreaction is more likely spawned by some hidden burden rather than having anything to do with me. So instead of taking it as a personal affront, I hope I use that opportunity to practice kindness and pay forward the patience and understanding the hospital and lab personnel showed to me today.

Kindness. It's contagious.

Unload It

Pictured is a hurricane lantern sitting on top of a garbage bin. Why? Because I'm getting rid of it.

Finally.  

I rescued it years ago from my parents' home. This was among the 100,000 other items they saved over the course of their lives, including my favorite baby doll when I was two years old and innumerable bric-a-brac porcelain figurines with broken or missing hands. Why I latched onto something so insignificant as a hurricane lantern remains a mystery. I guess it is because I remember when it was put to its best use -- lighting our home when the hurricanes came. 

Now I'm unloading it.

I realized today something I've seemingly known all along; that things themselves have no value. Even sentimental objects eventually have no real meaning. It is the memories associated with those objects that last forever, not the objects themselves.

So do yourself (and your heirs) a favor -- unload all that stuff that is taking up too much space in your life and which, truth be told, you can easily live without. 

You will still have the memories. 

Goodbye Law

This plaque was a law school graduation gift. (It's a long story...)

Change is inevitable I guess. At least that's what I'm learning as the years tick past -- each one more quickly than the last. We grow up, the kids move on, our parents pass away, and we sometimes face health challenges. Travel gets harder and the family grows farther and farther apart. It's just life. It's the way it goes.

The thing that's surprising is how quickly, and sometimes unexpectedly, change happens. One minute you're knee-deep in your career then suddenly and without warning you're unemployed and changing jobs. Or you're sitting at a traffic light waiting to make a left-hand turn and then bam, you're waking up in a hospital. Change also happens surreptitiously. One minute you're up to your elbows in baby diapers and the next minute the kid is in college and you find yourself asking, "where did the time go?"

One thing is certain: changes will come.

It's been more than twenty-five years since I had the bright idea to go to law school. "It's just three years," I told myself. Yea, three on top of the four it had already taken to get a bachelor's degree. But then, who's counting.

All in all, it wasn't a bad idea. The law has been very good to me as a career, allowing me to take my childhood impertinence and turn it into something useful. For well over two decades I've been an advocate for justice -- government agencies, corporations, and individuals alike have all engaged me to represent them at one time or another. I've spent hours upon hours in conference rooms and courtrooms, arguing with opposing counsel and sometimes with my own clients. Most of it has been exciting and challenging and interesting and fun. But it has also been stressful. Very stressful. There are few professions like the legal profession, where a person is required to argue on an almost-daily basis. The hours are crushing and anxiety is a staple of each new day. Few other careers boast such a downside. Yet, despite its incongruities. it remains a venerable profession, beloved by the great majority of its members. Including me.

But now it's time to say goodbye -- earlier than I once anticipated, but sometimes life switches things up on you. Whether it's a company downsizing or a divorce or a cancer diagnosis, life can compel you to look closely at your life and make changes you would not have otherwise made, or indeed, considered. And though I am as resistant to change as the next person, I find that reaching the acceptance phase makes change much easier. 

There's a little saying that goes something like this: "I am a reed, I will bend with the wind."  When resistance is futile, just going with the flow helps. Listening to yourself, paying attention, watching doors open in another direction -- these are all ways of understanding your own "flow." They've certainly brought understanding to mine. That flow will take you to places more bright and beautiful and fulfilling than you ever imagined, if you'll just let it.

Thank you, law, for teaching me how to analyze and prioritize, how to speak out for others, and for giving me a lifetime's worth of self-confidence. Thank you for being consistent and ever-inspiring, and for creating the societal lines inside which we all must draw. But most importantly, thank you for changing and evolving and conforming to the reality that is all of our lives in our homes and our communities. Especially for that. Thank you for changing.

Change is good. For all of us.

Where There's Smoke . . .

Honestly, I want a glass of wine. Make that, need a glass of wine.

After several weeks out of the office posing as a newly-minted semi-retiree, I had to go back downtown the other day to take care of a few things. But it wasn't the usual commute. The ferry dock was being repaired so I drove to the city. Getting there was no big deal, but I began to notice something disconcerting upon arrival.

Smoke.

The smell of smoke.

Not real smoke, mind you, but the kind only a former smoker who has quit can smell. The kind you notice when you're standing in an elevator and a guy steps in next to you smelling like an ashtray. Your lip curls up at the corner, then you exhale through your nose and try to tolerate the unpleasant odor for the short ride to your destination.

"Disgusting," you think to yourself. "I can't believe I ever smoked."

It was like that, only something else. It was an unpleasant aura emanating from every person rushing down the sidewalk in the financial district. Strained, furrowed brows darted this way and that, as if their owners were being tracked by a hunter. The suits and briefcases and clickity-clack of high heels pulling wheeled litigation bags to and from the office buildings told the story of the world inside this bubble. At once I felt out of sorts; as if I didn't belong. As if I had never belonged.

Just an hour earlier I had stopped for coffee on the north side of the Golden Gate Bridge. There, people lounged with their newspapers, chatting about politics, a new yoga instructor, and the organic veggies at Whole Foods. The sun shone on the dogs lying lazily near their humans' feet. It was a world I had grown accustomed to in just the short time since beginning this new retirement experience. But now -- downtown -- I was confronted by that hazy, unnatural vibration that permeates every living being. My first instinct was to get away before "it" got on my clothes; before it melted through my skin to unleash that once familiar anxiety and stress that is part of any given day as a trial lawyer.

While I managed to get through an otherwise uneventful day, the experience was punctuated by a drive home that was more akin to a NASCAR event. Though I left early to avoid the traffic (I thought), the rush-hour commuters had long since beat me to it. Cars darted this way and that. Thirty-mile-per-hour signs were boldly disregarded at speeds exceeding sixty. Everyone, in every direction, was in a rush to get away from the rat race and back home to where they had started this morning. Tensions were high, patience was gone, and it was mano-a-mano all the way home. I was exhausted and relieved to finally reach the driveway, and the first thought that hit me the minute the key was in the door was, "I need a glass of wine!"

Just like the old days.

No wonder people are hospitalized left and right from heart attacks, anxiety, and other stress-induced illness. Has our collective human barometer broken down completely? Seems it has. Seems like nothing ever changes, no matter what good intentions we maintain about doing something different or adopting a different lifestyle. We stay stuck in the trap until something -- something -- pries us loose. Illness? A catastrophe? A unplanned and cataclysmic shift in our comfortable routine? That's usually what it takes to get our attention. Absent such an event, precious few of us take the time to consider a reset of priorities, or our relationship to the true meaning of life. We never seem to have the time. 

Maybe it's time to make time, and get out of the smoke-filled room.

It's not too late.

Mission Control

I spent the better part of one morning last week with a man my wife calls "The Body Whisperer," which I think is a nod to Robert Redford's film, The Horse Whisperer. 

Mr. Whisperer has an insane ability to diagnose and treat various ailments and injuries suffered by athletes, both professionals and novices alike. He is single-handedly turning my old ski accident injury into a thing of the past. The guy is unlike anyone I've ever met; it's as though he can see right through your skin and figure out what's not working, and why.

My blog a few weeks ago (Find it. Use it.) was about finding and using our natural gifts. I'm always interested in how people find theirs, and so I asked him how he ended up in the enviable position of earning a living by sharing his amazing gift with others. He responded, albeit a bit shyly.

"I have a mission statement," he said, which he started working on back in his twenties. 

"A personal mission statement?" I said. "That's so interesting. What is it?" I was more than familiar with the corporate version, which typically says something about providing good customer service and increasing revenues for shareholders. I figured his was something quite different.

In the interest of privacy I won't reveal his personal mission statement here, but it was so compelling that I wondered about my own. Or more accurately, my lack of one.

Over the years I've recited a mantra on an almost-daily basis that reminds me of my life's priorities, and which has -- over time -- become reality in every respect. It's been a veritable wish-list for living. But my friend's mission statement was something more. It was something he had spent time working on and thinking about and which had become the foundational underpinning for making important decisions in his life. A beacon, he called it. Whenever he found himself in a quandary, or wandering this way or that along life's path, he turned to his mission statement for guidance as a trusted and reliable reset button.

So I figured it was probably worth a minute or two out of a busy week to actually think about what a guiding light for life might look like. Mine probably goes something like this -- I will live a healthy and joy-filled existence in which the importance of positive connection with others remains paramount. Not perfect, but at least it's a start.

Now go ahead. You try.

Talking to Myself.

Do you do it? I do. 

Maybe too much.

Or maybe not enough.

Talking to myself has an odd way of setting things in order in my mind, or making sense of things that don’t make sense. Sometimes it’s as simple as reciting the things I need to do today, and sometimes it’s a rant against the most recent world news. 

“What has happened to the world? Have people completely lost their freakin’ minds?”

Come on. You know you’ve said it, too.

Sometimes its a fellow driver on the road to whom I direct my commentary, and sometimes it’s the dog after he’s peed on the floor — which really isn’t talking to myself, I guess, but neither of them seem to know or care about my diatribe (except maybe the dog, who hears only “blah blah blah, bad dog” and runs the other way).

Okay, we talk to ourselves sometimes. But why?

An Australian professor named Joseph Jordania reportedly suggests that our human ancestors, like other social animals, regularly vocalized to remain in contact with other members of the group. Silence and freezing-in-place signaled danger, so singing and humming to oneself within earshot of others was a notably good thing.

Some say that this evolutionary history suggests that prolonged silence may make us feel uneasy or fearful. According to this Jordania fellow, talking to oneself is merely one of the ways to fill in prolonged gaps of uncomfortable silence. It can also be accomplished by leaving the television or radio on all the time. Know anyone who does that? Hhmmmm...  I guess that’s one way to look at it -- we make noise to keep ourselves calm and fend off fear.

Another view is that talking to ourselves is a way of clearing our mind and focusing on the things that are significant in our world. Kids do this all the time when they talk through the steps of any given task; just watch them playing alone sometime. As adults, self-talk can help us clarify our thinking and work through big decisions. And I’ll confess that I have used loads of self-talk to maintain a positive, healthy attitude toward living with a cancer diagnosis. Not only do I rarely talk with myself about having cancer, I actually talk myself onto another topic when thoughts of "what if" threaten to make their way from the back of my mind to my frontal lobe. I actually use it to manage my thinking in order to stay focused on the present without drifting into the past or worrying about the future.

I found several articles on the topic, including one by Linda Sapadin. She describes four types of self-talk that are designed to make you feel better, and smarter. (Can’t hurt to check it out, right?).

The great news is that it’s easy to talk to oneself these days. Doing it in the car is great because everyone around you just thinks you're on your cell phone. Talking while walking down the street is also okay, so long as you are wearing an earbud or have your palm (with phone) placed firmly against the side of your head. And don’t worry, no one’s really listening to anything you say anyway.

Or are they?

“And that’s another thing, I get so sick and tired of hearing everyone on their cell phones these days…”

I just said that out loud to myself.

Find it. Use it.

In the last week I have had the good fortune to see the latest theatrical production of Wicked, a musician by the name of Loreena McKennitt, and watch the Golden State Warriors play in the NBA. What, you may ask, do these three things have in common?  

Talent.

Loads and loads of talent.

As I sat mesmerized by McKennitt's cellist, Caroline Lavelle, I fantasized about whether it was too late for me to learn to play the cello. All I need, apparently, is long blonde hair, a velvet dress, and an ear for Celtic music. Oh, and gobs of musical talent.

My mind drifted to what I might have become if I had been born with such a gift -- one that allowed me to make mesmerizing music, or thrill audiences with the dazzling vocal displays of the Wicked cast. What if? Would I have known? Would I have been encouraged at a young age, or would I have happened upon my talent as a young adult? Would I have found and honed and shared my gift with others, or would I have ignored it in favor of an easier road that made more money and required less blood, sweat, and tears.

Then I thought more about the gifts I do have, and what I have done with them. 

My gift is words. I am a writer. Though it took a cancer diagnosis to get me to publish my first book, looking back I realize I've been writing for entertainment for almost forty years. One might argue that I made a career out of writing, if one counts all the legal briefs in my career as a lawyer. But now, in my late fifties, I am finally able to follow my passion for writing and devote more time to entertaining and inspiring others with combinations of words that make people laugh and cry and think about their own lives. Sitting in the music hall, I decided right then and there that I would use my words to remind others to nurture their own gifts.

Take the time to dig deep and explore and uncover the talent that is within you -- whether it is making music or art or food or gardening or dancing or throwing a ball through a hoop. Figure out what it is. Pursue it. Enjoy it. Exploit it to your greatest benefit and let your soul sing with the doing of it. 

This is your only life. Don't let it get away without doing what you love. 

Find your gift.

The Silver Lady

I wonder if she recognizes me as I do her, because I see her almost every day while walking to the office and miss her when she's not there. Sitting on the ground at the edge of the sidewalk surrounded by minimal possessions, with her hair piled atop her head in a lavender mass of unintentional dreadlocks, her face is covered with some kind of paste; like the whiteface clowns wear, only silver. Today I notice a lighter version of the silver, this time sprayed all over her head, shoulders, and jacket sleeves as well. 

The silver lady, I call her. 

I wonder what she thinks sitting there silvery on the sidewalk, watching me pass with a quick step, briefcase slung over my shoulder, and rushing with the others at that early morning hour.  Does she wish to change places? Does she wonder what I do, or even care? Or is she perfectly happy sitting on the sidewalk sipping her paper cup of coffee in her glorious silvery shimmer, watching the world go by?

Who of the mass of passers-by would trade places with her?

I wonder.

One Gray Hair

The young woman stepped into the elevator and turned her back on me, facing the door. She immediately joined the three other thirty-somethings in looking down at the palm of her hand. I stood quietly in the back, holding my briefcase and purse and waiting to reach the ground floor where we would all run toward our respective rides home.

It was then that I noticed it -- the one gray hair sprouting from the back of her head.

I was tempted to tap her on the shoulder to tell her that it had already started; that she was already burying herself in too much work, evidenced by her leaving at seven o’clock at night only to rush back the next day and do it all again.

I wanted to tell her there was life outside this building, the life to which she was now running in glad escape, and that she should pay more attention to that life before that one gray hair turned into so many more.

I wanted to tell her about life, and what it means, and how her focus should be on holding close those she cherishes, not on her books and papers and computer monitors and phone calls and meetings and tasks and her multitude of obligations. I wanted to tell her to reprioritize and spend more time doing things that bring her joy. I wanted to tell her all the ways she could keep those gray hairs from multiplying from the stress and anxiety she was bringing on herself before the doors slid open and the elevator emptied.

I wanted to tell her, but I knew she would find out in her own way and in her own time. As we all do.

Aged to Perfection (Almost)

Recently I read a very kind review of my new book, Not All Bad Comes to Harm You. The reader, complimentary of my work, gave me a five-star review for which I was thrilled and deeply grateful. But you know how someone can say a thousand nice things about you, but the one thing you perceive as less-than-flattering is all you can remember weeks later? Well, my reviewer used a turn of phrase that stuck with me; she referred to me as a "middle-aged woman."

What?! When did that happen?

Yep. I'm fifty-six now. But for some odd reason I just never saw myself as "middle-aged." In my mind I'm somewhere in my late thirties, only smarter. They say (who are "they," anyway?) that we all have a mental age to which we relate more than our physical age. Mine's thirty-something. I've never questioned it nor wavered from it in spite of the ticking clock. I think, feel, and act thirty-something most of the time. I'm neither proud of nor embarrassed by this. It just is. We all do it.

But truth be told, I've apparently been "middle-aged" for awhile. According to Social Security Administration statistics, the average American woman checks out from Mother Earth at around eighty-six years old. This means that I've been "middle-aged" for more than a decade already, I just never thought much about it.

Until now.

For days and days I dwelled on this new moniker, and not in a good way. The mind is an all-powerful thing, and before I knew it I had started self-identifying as "middle-aged," my thirty-something gal long gone. I began feeling older, slower, less fun, less adventuresome, less attractive, and with more aches and pains. I began to wonder what people saw when they looked at me -- an old lady with wrinkles and two chins -- rather than my thirty-something-year-old self. The self-deprecation wasn't pretty; no more so than wearing gold lamé shorts “at my age.” 

Thankfully, I managed to get a grip. While finishing off a workout at the gym I began musing about when being "middle-aged" became a bad thing? “Wait just a minute!” I thought. "I may be 'middle-aged,' but I am smarter, more confident, and more focused on the things worth focusing on than ever before." 

For example, I take care of my body now more than ever because I understand the importance of doing so. Yes, my lifetime focus on fitness got me the bragging rights of arriving at "middle-age" wearing the same size jeans I wore in college. But more importantly, I now know what a huge payoff fitness is in the battle against chronic illness. Being “middle-aged" sometimes brings health challenges along with it, and I have learned to never take my health for granted; something my thirty-something-year-old did without thinking. 

"Middle-age" also means I’ve also grown wiser and stronger; not just physically, but mentally and spiritually as well. I see the cycle of life more clearly, anticipating both its joys and travails. I know enough to appreciate the bliss in each moment and to hold sorrow in its place, because both are fleeting. There is an ebb and flow to all things; something it takes decades to truly understand.

Accumulating years allows us to grow and learn and evolve to the point where we are no longer searching and grasping for this or that but are comfortable with ourselves and our choices. And we know how to make better choices than ever have before.

Though I'm admittedly slow on the uptake with regard to matters of aging, being "middle-aged" is quite obviously a state to embrace, not rebuff. Okay, I get it. I’m in. 

But you still might catch me in those gold lamé shorts now and then.

Whale

I saw something today that I have never seen before. Out just after sunrise on an outrigger canoe off the coast of Maui, a magnificent whale suddenly made its presence known just twenty feet away from the bow of our boat and heading our way. Startled, and overjoyed, we raised our paddles into the boat and held our breath. Sure enough, the initial sighting was followed by another, accompanied by a tremendous spouting spray and a slow motion, graceful cresting of the surface as she heaved her enormous tail skyward. There aren't really words in our language to describe something so utterly mesmerizing and powerful. It was just one of those moments never to be repeated -- a canoe, the Pacific, a magnificent whale swimming just yards away with the morning rays of sun glinting off her back. 

I took a picture with my mind.

Thinking about this later, it dawned on me just how many pictures each of us take with our minds of moments that are ours alone -- moments when we experience great beauty or profound understanding that are part of our singular human experience. These moments cannot be shared or described in sufficient detail for others who were not there when it happened. 

These moments are gifts; treasures in the toolbox of our life that we take out as needed to reflect on and savor and cherish. They are precious jewels solely within our knowledge and personal existence. 

As the year draws to a close I am reminded yet again of the treasures all around us, if we will just take the time to experience them. They are each and every one unforgettable, and our minds have catalogued them all. 

This world we live in is filled with amazement. Live it. Enjoy it. Savor every moment of it.

Welcome, 2016.  Welcome.

Dear Facebook "Friends"

I was troubled recently by something I encountered on Facebook. That can be said by a lot of us, I suppose. But this was different. And weird.

A notice popped upon my Facebook page that it was my friend’s birthday. “Wish Rick a Happy Birthday!”, it read. Well I would have, except Rick died months ago.

My curiosity got the best of me so I found myself clicking on Rick’s page just to find out how it could be that a deceased person could still have a Facebook page. I was astonished by what I saw: more than forty-three “Friends” wishing Rick a “very happy birthday!”, or asking what he has been up to lately.

More than forty.

After poking around a bit further I saw that Rick had accumulated over 900 Facebook “Friends.” Well, here’s the thing — I think that when you die your real friends probably know that you’re dead. All the others? They’re just players in the orchestra of your life. They come and go, or pass through once and disappear. They are not friends, not in the truest sense of the word. At most they are mere acquaintances, or something far less.

So I guess with all the other changes in the world that technology has brought to bear, I just wanted to go on the record as saying that calling someone a “Friend” on Facebook doesn’t make them such. Not unless, that is, the generations after mine have decided on a whole new meaning of the word. If that’s the case, then I am sad to think they have never experienced true friendship. Otherwise, they would know that to call someone a “Friend” actually means something. True friends are there through thick and thin, for better or worse. They leave their mark on your life, and you on theirs. They love and care for you, for some time, or for all time. You can count on them. Maybe it's Facebook’s fault; this bogarting of the word “Friend” as its own.

I resent that more than just a little. 

So here's the deal: if you're going to die, please post it on your timeline so that the rest of us won't embarrass ourselves by wishing you a post-humous "happy birthday. "

This Again.

Yep. Every few months its back for more good times at the lab (#needlephobiasucks). As I wrote in the chapter titled "Fear Factor" (in Not All Bad Comes to Harm You), waiting for the other shoe to drop is an interesting way to live; it never lets me forget that being alive is at a premium these days or that I am still enjoying time in the bonus round.

In many ways I am lucky to have such a periodic reminder, which keeps my focus on the present. It helps me not waste precious time dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. If you're not so "lucky," just try starting each day with this: Today is here. Today I'm alive. Today I will live with joy.  

Grateful

On this Thanksgiving Day I awoke in my cozy bed, with my beautiful wife and two adorable, red, teacup poodles piled in beside me. The espresso maker seeks a single touch to yield creamy goodness in a cup. There is turkey with trimmings languishing in the refrigerator, made with love by others' hands this year since work interfered with any plan to host a holiday feast. The chilly air holds up a crystal blue sky while the sun casts its amber glow across the hillside; the copper roofs across the bay glint in the warming rays.

I am home.

I have a home.

"Grateful" doesn't begin to cover it.

Turn It Off​

 While traveling on business I found myself, once again, in a hotel gym. It's what I do on the road -- keeps me from being bored out of my mind and, presumably, it's keeping me alive and healthy as well. All good, I say. All good.

But today, while lying on the rubber mat in the middle of the floor and trying desperately to finish those ab crunches on my "to do" list, my gaze inadvertently fell upon the ubiquitous television on the wall. You know the one, it's in every hotel gym and fitness center -- usually found mounted in fifteen different places along the perimeter or jammed in your face while you slog away on the treadmill. I usually drape a towel over those, having never understood how it's helpful to concentrate on something other than your own body while you're trying to make it strong and healthy. But hey, that's just me.

Not surprisingly, what I saw today was more of the same from yesterday and the day before. More terrorist this and terrorist that, only now laced with chemical scares and failed suicide bombers and videos of blood spilled all over the luxury carpet of a hotel far away; a hotel not unlike the one in which I found myself this morning. The tragedy, the chaos, the sheer unrecognizable humanity that once was. It was beyond depressing. And no matter where I turned, those images -- or their reflection in the surrounding mirrors -- kept cramming themselves down my throat, threatening to choke me with their sorrow.

I closed my eyes. I wanted to shout at the poor, unsuspecting trainer wandering about the room to "just turn it off!" as he, too, seemed beaten by the din.

But I didn't. No one did. Instead, we all went about our business trying to ignore the replays of the screaming and crying and dying. Like a festering wound that never heals, the tragic scenes were replayed over and over and over again. It's no wonder that at some point we all become anesthetized to it. It's soul crushing.

But I'd rather not have my soul crushed today.

Today I'd rather live. Today I'd rather be grateful for the joy in my life and send the light of that joy across the world. It is enough to know of the horror without melting into it. It is enough.

Just turn it off.

Just Like That

And just like that, his carefully laid plan for the day was upended. And so was his cup of coffee.

Covering my ears, I stopped for the siren-blaring ambulance to pass through the intersection on my way to work this morning, thinking nothing of its destination. It wasn't until I approached my office building that I noticed the silently flashing lights and the uniform-clad paramedics crowded around a half-naked man lying on the sidewalk just outside the front door. There were far too many of them to actually see much of what was going on, but it looked serious and the ambulance attendants were preparing the stretcher to take him away. A bare glimpse through the crouched shoulders hovering over the man revealed a face I didn't recognize. A spilled cup of coffee lay on the ground two feet away.

Passersby craned their necks for a closer look; the same ones that cause traffic jams on the freeway even when the accident is on the opposite side. Yea, those guys. I walked past, trying not to intrude on the otherwise very-little-and-quickly-evaporating privacy this poor man had while lying exposed there on the cold ground.

"Just like that," I thought. That man could die today.

I wondered if a heart attack had stricken him as he tried to push through the revolving doors into today's madness and chaos. Was he stressed over some meeting? Some client? Some court order that had already ruined his day?

I wondered whether he would survive his morning wake-up call and, if so, would it change his life. And how?

I wondered yet again why it takes wake-up calls like this for us to regroup, step back, and reevaluate the priorities in our lives. Why? Are we that stubborn? When will we ever learn that we cannot thrive on stress; that it is killing us? I wondered what he would do if he survived -- if he would change anything at all, or if he would rush to get back on the very same merry-go-round from which he had fallen.

I didn't wonder if the machine that grinds us up day after day cares when it spits us out on the sidewalk. That, I already knew.

Someone was cleaning up the spilled coffee as the elevator doors opened and I stepped inside. The man was gone and the hustle bustle continued across the spot where he lay moments earlier, as if he had never been there.

Just like that.

The Last October

Fall. I don't know what it is, but those autumnal decorations bug me every year. Maybe it's just me, but the minute the scarecrow comes out of someone's closet and makes its way onto a fence, a carport, or a front stoop, I start feeling like the ceiling is dropping and the lid on the box is about to close.

I'll admit it: I like summer. A lot. The warm sun, the ocean, the flip flops and shorts; these bring smiles to my world. I literally dread the day the ice skating rink gets installed in downtown San Francisco each year, a day that inevitably follows the Labor Day Christmas decorations already on the shelves in every store. Commerce blooms too early on its annual steroid high. The days shorten, the shadows lengthen, and I miss summer already.

But this year, just after scoffing at the scarecrow in the neighbor's yard and shaking my head, I thought, "What if this were your last October?"

What if.

What if this were the last time the scarecrow's button-eyed gaze followed me each time I passed by? 

What if this were the last crisp October scattering leaves on the ground? 

What if the cobwebs and ghouls and goblins and horns-a-plenty were never to be seen again -- ever? 

And then, right then, it changed. The pumpkins at the market looked friendlier. I fondled the winter squashes one by one, feeling their varying textures and weight and size and not caring who noticed. I gave the scarecrow's nose a gentle tweak the next time I passed by, and smiled.

I think he smiled back.

Friends

Of all the gifts for which I am grateful, one of the most precious is the gift of friends, several of whom have been in my life for 30 years or more. My best friend from third grade kept in touch for over 40 years until she passed away. True friends were right there when I needed them most after my cancer diagnosis -- whether by my side during chemo or at the other end of the telephone line cheering me on from afar.  They are, every one, bright shiny treasures in my life's jewel box. 

Over the years I've learned that some friends come into our lives for something less than all time -- a poem exists describing them as friends for a "reason or a season." The undeniable truth of that makes me sad, and acceptance of it is difficult because of the importance I place on friendship. But even as I have grown to understand that not every friend can be a lifetime one, I value their friendship nonetheless for what it was while it lasted. I am ever grateful for it, because I learn something from them all -- about myself, about others, and about what it is to connect with another human being on this earth. No friendship -- however brief -- is wasted.

Seeing is Believing

Sometimes it takes looking at something twice to see what's really there. Know what I mean? Yesterday I went for a peaceful stroll through an old English tea garden. It was early and the dew was quite literally still on the roses, as the old song goes. I tried to temper my need to photograph every beautiful thing in sight with my parallel desire to be present in the actual moment so as not to miss anything. But today I missed something; something that I only saw quite a bit later when looking at the photographs. A picture I had taken of a rose revealed in startling resolution the droplets of dew that I was unable to see with the naked eye. Or maybe I hadn't looked closely enough even as I framed it in the viewfinder. It reminded me again how many things we miss if we don't take the time -- really take the time -- to see them. Looking vs. seeing. This goes for so many things, really. You could even say the same about listening. The art of listening is quite different from the function of hearing. They both require slowing down and paying attention (she said to herself again; a constant reminder). Yep. Got it.

Stretch It Out

No, this isn't a post about exercise. Or yoga (which may or may not be exercise, depending on how you're doing it). 

It's about time. You know, that thing we never have enough of.

I'm in the vacation vortex this week, running around like a headless chicken trying to make sure that I have luggage locks and passport and shampoo and clothes and the last memo at the office is done and my out-of-office email is set and my voicemail says I've fled the country so please don't expect me to call you back. Oh, and I've got to get the Euros and contact lens solution. It's a veritable festival of "to dos," which I love because I love lists. And making lists. But it's exhausting. Or maybe it's just my approach to it (more likely).

Sometime during the running around I realized that I was having that feeling we all have when bound for paradise: "Just as soon as we're wheels up I can relax!" But then what happens?  What happens is the same thing that happens on every vacation.  One minute I'm "wheels up" and outbound for adventure, and almost exactly five minutes later I'm back at home, sitting at my desk writing memos again. Where did the time go? My vacation was over in the blink of an eye. It's never long enough. Ever.

Then it occurred to me: That's exactly like life, isn't it?  We run and chase and list-make and accomplish tasks and hurry up to retire and then, exactly five minutes after we retire -- not to put too fine a point on it -- we're dead. Yep. There's just no time, or not nearly enough of it.

So I took a deep breath and reminded myself that the running around chaotic madness -- just like with life -- is all part of the journey. If I rush through today anticipating tomorrow or the day after that, then I'm missing today. And I won't ever get today back. And as soon as I dismiss today in favor of tomorrow, I'm just wishing my life away, which is going to end soon enough anyway.

Slow down. Embrace the journey -- the entire journey; chaos or not. Life is more than just about "getting there," wherever "there" is. It's about being here.

Okay, now back to your chaos.