Supporting Soldiers

No man is entitled to the blessings of freedom unless he be vigilant in its preservation - General Douglas MacArthur

When I first met the man who would become my husband, he was a student at United States Military Academy at West Point. I didn't know much about the military. All of my impressions of Army life came second hand. I read the "Red Badge of Courage" in Junior High School, and knew the Army ranks, just as random facts. I had no idea that the military would play a defining role in my life as an adult. I remember watching "The Sands of Iwo Jima", "The Alamo" and "The Great Escape" with my father, curled up on the couch. Growing up, soldiers felt brave, strong, intelligent...and far away. Little did I know that one week after my 21st birthday, I'd be married to an Army Ranger Lieutenant and living in another country. Thus, my education in military life began.

My first impression of Army life was overwhelming. I learned that there were acronyms for everything from housing to my own status as an Army wife. I discovered that there were specific ways of doing everything, and took classes in the appropriate protocol. Despite the amount of information thrown at me, I also came to see the Army as an extended family. When the soldiers were out in the field, as they often were, we spouses clung together. We were there for one another. We nursed each other through trauma, through ordeals and through fear.We had the support of our entire community, and, during Desert Storm, we became an oasis of security when our cars were searched, when protests were marched in nearby German towns and husbands would leave without the ability to call home on satellite phones or Skype. We knew we had an effective support system in place.

When I first heard the story about the three Navy Seals being prosecuted for allegedly abusing an Iraqi prisoner and then covering up the offense, I was disgusted. Having read almost everything I can about this case, I can only come away shaking my head at the injustice being done to these three men: Petty Officer Second Class Matthew McCabe, Petty Officer 1st class Julio Huertas and Petty Officer 2nd class Jonathan Keefe. Petty Officer McCabe is charged with punching a terrorist in the midsection. The other two SEALS are charged with aiding and lying. Have the circumstances regarding this terrorist been released? Do we know what this terrorist may have said or done to military forces in the past? Have we been informed of his record? Were these highly trained men just acting like schoolyard bullies, out to beat up whomever they could find?

Hardly. We know a great deal about this terrorist. "The supposed victim, Ahmed Hashim Abed, was the mastermind behind killing, burning and mutilating four American contractors in Fallujah, Iraq, in March 2004. His followers hung the desiccated corpses high on a box-girder bridge over the Euphrates River. Mr. Abed was run down by the SEALs on a covert mission in September 2009." The fact that he was captured by the SEALS at all is an exceptional accomplishment. This criminal had been evading US Forces for at least five years. For five years, he'd been working to murder and slaughter civilians and military personnel. For five years, families mourned their loved ones without justice in sight. These SEALS are heroes, who captured a sociopath. Did they show anger? Absolutely. But, was it out of control and tortuous? Absolutely not.

Many people do not understand what it is that SEALS do in the Navy. SEALS "are employed in direct action and special reconnaissance operations. SEALs are also capable of undertaking unconventional warfare, foreign internal defense, hostage rescue, counter-terrorism, and other missions." As an Army Ranger's wife, I know quite a bit about the intense training a Ranger undergoes before graduation. Less than half of all Ranger trainees make it to that ceremony.The Naval SEAL program is 5 times longer, and with an even lower, more competitive and tougher graduation profile. Navy SEALS are among the most disciplined, the most courageous and the most Spartan of all soldiers in any branch of the US military. They do not become SEALS lightly and they are not bestowed with the title easily. It's a hard won honor...and with that distinction comes the knowledge that upon graduation, he may well be on his way to a mission from which he will not return. For those who do come back from missions successful, there is always the understanding that there will be another "mission impossible" to carry out...during which they may lose their own lives, or watch their teammates suffer. SEALS believe in Honor above all, and one of their closest credos is to never leave a man behind. SEALS will risk danger to themselves to retrieve and rescue a fallen comrade.

So, where is the support for the Petty Officers McCabe, Huertas and Keefe? Where are the branches of government to stand up for them? The military, particularly during time of war, is meant to pull together and create a cohesive team. But, when our own government is prosecuting heroes for during their jobs, when brave men save the lives of others for capturing a known terrorist, how we can trust that they will take care of any soldier? The ramifications of this prosecution can be taken outside the military, as well. Who can say that a District Attorney won't file charges against a police officer for taking out a bank robber? Or an overzealous government to prosecute Special Forces operatives for going after Pirates in the Mediterranean? What about firefighters who aren't able to save every single person from a burning apartment building? Will they be tried for negligence? The fact remains that brave men and women put their lives at risk every single day to keep us, the civilian population, safe. If these heroes are second guessing their actions every moment, in fear of prosecution, will any of us be truly secure?

It's all very well and good to bake cookies to send to the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan for Christmas. It is thoughtful to create care packages to mail overseas. It's positive to hold potluck suppers to benefit those wounded in action and through their rehabilitation. It's important to support those spouses left behind when a soldier or sailor deploys. But, unless we can create an atmosphere in which soldiers are allowed to do their jobs, and can risk their lives without worrying about prosecution for every action, we are not supporting our troops. The current political climate of 'trying to be understanding to terrorists' is an abomination. Our soldiers can't risk their lives while politicians see opportunity to throw a monkey wrench into the war's progress. War is ugly. War isn't cheap, in money or lives. War isn't the desired state of world affairs. But, like it or not, we are in the midst of a two front war, and if those who wish us harm see that our brave troops can be sent to prison for doing their jobs, it will only increase the terrorist violence....knowing that retaliation will bring impunity to those who commit the crimes, and jail for the soldiers fighting.

As far as the punch in the stomach goes, it was a regrettable action. But, ask yourself this question: what would have happened if Petty Officer McCabe had been captured by Ahmed Hashim Abed? Would Ahmed Hashim Abed get in trouble for one belt to the midsection by his superiors? He would have been applauded by them for publicly executing Petty Officer McCabe, and allowing McCabe's relatives to watch the public horror on television.

I respectfully suggest that the prosecutors attend an NHL game at some point. They clearly need a lesson in what one punch means.

In the meantime, I also suggest joining our team on Facebook, to help support these three brave SEALS:

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=201355981560&ref=mf

In Defense of Libraries

A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where a man's mind can get both provocation and privacy. ~Edward P. Morgan

I once read that Laura Bush, wife of former President George W. Bush, describes herself as a "Reader", above all other labels she could possess. I found myself smiling at that description. Of the many "hats" I wear, as a daughter, a wife, a mother, a friend, a teacher, a writer, a volunteer, a foil, an animal lover, a Yogini or a klutz, "Reader" is the most accurate definition of what makes me, me. I am never without a book. I carry one with me at all times. If you ask any of my close friends or family, they will say I'm happiest, curled up, cup of tea by my side, reading. It's an image that encompasses the way I feel about myself; learning, peaceful, traveling in spirit and engrossed. I read to my babies from birth, and some of my favorite memories of the early years of motherhood, are those curled up with two toddlers, snuggled in close, rapt attention at what would happen next in the Narnia series.

Because my love of reading has been such a critical part of my life, libraries have naturally been my sanctuary. I learned to read long before I began Kindergarten. My mother taught me when I showed an interest around age 3. My Kindergarten teacher, a sadist of a woman who should not have been allowed to talk to children, let alone teach them, shrieked at my mother that I "wasn't ready to read before Kindergarten". My mother calmly informed "Mrs. Amie" that, had I not been ready, I wouldn't be reading. So, when the other children were learning their alphabet, I was 'banished' to the library, where I couldn't corrupt the innocent non-readers. As time went on, and I changed both states of residence and schools multiple times, I made friends with every librarian. My librarians were not the ridiculously stereotyped 'shushing' old spinsters, but loving, gentle book admirers who welcomed me into their sisterhood without question. Librarians would pull books for me, give me a hug, or a piece of peppermint, when I was being bullied. They would eagerly discuss the books I loved with me, and share insights of their own. Often several would gather with me, and allow me into their inner sanctum, behind the desk, where we could discuss biographies, novels and classics. These women gave me a sense of community when I felt little elsewhere in my life. I found myself rushing through my lessons in class, so that I could be excused to go to the library. It became my safe haven, my other home and my catechism of true learning. I only needed to step inside a library, smell the aroma of books, pens and antiseptic cleaner, and I could know I was home. Throughout 12 years of traditional school and 4 years of college, I knew that, even if I was the 'new kid' in school, the library would be the one place I could feel peacefully welcome. The first place I visited, once my new husband and I moved to Army posts in the States, and abroad, was the library on post. Every library contained hundreds, even thousands, of new friends....the books. I might have been thousands of miles from home, from each library welcomed me in like a devotee on a pilgrimage.

Not long ago, on my way back from Massachusetts, a radio news program pronounced that "libraries are dead". The story went on to discuss the fact that, in light of book sellers like Amazon, Borders and Barnes & Noble, library use was at an all time low and could cease to exist in 20 years. I was both shocked and horrified. On the one hand, these stores, both online and brick and mortar, do make shopping for purchased books much easier. Yet, for a voracious reader like myself, the idea of buying every single book I read was staggering. How could I possibly afford to pay for three or four books a week? Not to mention, where would I put all of these books that I might read once, but not again? I'd be bankrupt and drowning in both debt and hardbacks!

My personal book journey begins at my local library. I find a book I'd like to read. This is an almost alchemical process. I peruse, I wander, I pick up, I research. If our library does not have the Holy Grail of the Moment, they are able to order it for me through inter-library loan. This exceptional program allows me to receive almost any book imaginable, that's available in any Maine library, at no cost to me. When I receive a phone call that my ordered book is in...which I receive almost weekly...it's Christmas morning. It is walking down the stairs to see a shiny new bike under the tree. It's a wedding day, feeling like a bride in her beautiful gown for the first time. It's the excitement of discovering a kindred soul in a person you have not yet met. Finding a new book in this way is falling head over heels in love again...and again...and again.

But my library is more than just a place to procure books to 'feed my habit'; it's an important part of my community. I have met some of my closest friends at the library. We met with our very young children at story hour. We became bonded conspirators over keeping little ones in place, as we helped them glue together projects for "Dr. Seuss" week or learning to dance the Hora at the library's Hanukkah celebration. We sat and talked about grown up things beyond laundry, pediatricians and coupons. We were able to share ideas that didn't involve Sesame Street. At that time, the library became our haven, during the long, cold Maine winters, where our children could safely play and read, and we could be surrounded by intellectual thought. Now that my children are older, my library is still essential to my well being; I help out where I can, and I am thrilled to discuss books with staff and patrons alike.

A library is more than bricks and mortar. As Aristotle wrote, "The whole is more than the sum of its parts". The books are essential, but it's the people who make a library a sanctum. Kindles and bookstores are wonderful. They provide a way to own the books we have come to love, and wish to add to our collection. But a library is the collection and the wealth of knowledge that every single patron adds to. A library is a school, a hospital, a harbor and a neighborhood. Reading can happen in other places, but a library brings health to that pursuit.

To those who insist that "libraries are dead", I ask them to visit any one, during a Thursday morning story hour, and rethink their position.

The Seven Deadly Sins

"Sin is not hurtful because it is forbidden, but it is forbidden because it is hurtful." --Benjamin Franklin

Wrath. Sloth. Greed. Lust. Gluttony. Pride. Envy. The Seven Deadly Sins are those traits that each human being, no matter how upright, must still fight against. The Catholic Church, as the only church of its time, began circulating these flaws as early as the 11th century. By the 14th century, they'd become a popular topic of artists, the most common theme for homilies, and the subject of endless debate over which of the sins was the worst. For a Catholic, to die with one of these sins un-confessed would be fatal to one's soul, hence the moniker. Dante Alighieri's "Divine Comedy", an allegorical journey through Purgatory, Hell, and finally Paradise, gave a lasting impression to the way these vices were viewed by the public...even by those, centuries later, who had never read Dante's work. Each vice had its own particular form of punishment in Dante's imagination, and in his own way, he created the expression to come of "Let the punishment fit the crime."

Although I don't share Dante's vision of Hell or Purgatory, I do believe that we create a mess for ourselves, in the lives we're living right now, by allowing these sins---or poor behavior patterns---into our lives and into our hearts. When we behave badly, the one person we hurt the most is ourselves. Regardless of the larger spiritual ramifications, if we are jealous, hateful, quick to anger or terribly lazy, the real loser in the situation is not the person we're feeling negatively about; the real loser is our self. We damage our hearts, our minds, our thoughts, our spirits, our bodies and our life choices when we allow ourselves to be dragged through the muck of disgusting behavior...by our own selfish impulses. It's very difficult not to pin blame on our shortcomings onto someone else. This is how the term "scapegoat" first came to be: in the ancient cultures in Mesopotamia, the priests sacrificed a sheep, or goat, every year to contain symbolically the sins of all the people. By sacrificing this goat, the 'sinners' were able to shift all of their blame onto another source, and feel forgiven at the end of its life. But, did they really "feel better" by doing so?

While I'd be hard pressed to understand the logic and reason of our ancestors from many centuries ago, I can attest to the fact that I feel lousy about myself when I'm in the wrong. There are times, no matter how much I would like to place the wrong doing onto another person, I have to take responsibility for my own part in misbehavior. For example, the two sins I struggle most with are Pride and Wrath. Most people think I'm a nice person. I don't carry a switchblade. I am pro-gun-control. I volunteer for several worthwhile charities. I'm kind to animals. I've tried to be a positive influence in my family, and in my community. I say "yes" more than I say "no". I am polite, friendly, outgoing and helpful. And yet, deep within me lies a well of rage that I constantly have to keep in check. I don't think I'm unusual in this way. I'm not about to hurt another soul, and even take spiders outside, rather than hurt them. Yet, when my pride is attacked, I become a Lioness on the hunt in the African bush. I take slights to my character, to my family and to my friends personally. I may not be lazy by nature, and I may have good control over my gastronomic desires, but I can hold a grudge longer than a Las Vegas poker player can keep a straight face when holding four aces. And yet, at the end of the day, do I feel any more satisfied with myself by thinking up methods of revenge worthy of The Count of Monte Christo?

Of course, the answer is no. I can keep myself up for nights on end replaying nasty comments said to me, snarky rumors spread by people I trusted and ways in which my children had been treated unfairly. I can hit my mental rewind button so many times that I have memorized the conversational details. Unfortunately, with every retelling I find myself exaggerating the wrongs done until a gesture of utter stupidity becomes a call for a duel of honor. The problem? The person who created this inner drama knows nothing of the effect she's had on me, and I, myself, am torn up by feelings of vengeance, dread and immobility. The sin may have started by the rude remark. But, I took it to the next level by refusing to acknowledge my own part in its inception and then releasing it. Which sin is bigger? The instigating one, or the retaliation...even if the retaliation is only in my anger? The answer, of course, is neither. Both are wrong. But, I only have the ability to control my own behavior and my own reactions. Life doesn't give us an abacus on which we add the wrongs done to us, and then subtract our own faults. Our character is made up of who we are *in spite of* the behavior of others.

In my Yoga classes, I try to stress balance over all the other skills I teach. I am completely honest with my students. I am not a perfect Yogini, nor am I a perfect human being. But, in working on balance in all areas of our lives, we can try to illuminate the path so we can see where we're going astray. When I'm practicing a balance pose, such as Pose of the Dancer, I can't look all over the room. I can't gaze at my reflection in the mirror, checking my posture. I can't keep track of what's going on outside the studio. I need to find an immovable gazing point at which to look firmly. I need to keep my eyes on that mark and not allow them to drift. If my gaze falters, I will not be able to hold the pose at all. It's the same way in life: if I allow my thoughts to drift over to my distractions of pride begetting wrath, I will not be able to remain calm, kind or focused in any other area.

The Seven Deadly Sins are a provocative and fascinating subject. Most of us have one or two real problem areas that we can focus our energies in solving.We need to examine these in our lives, not just for our spiritual souls, not just for the comfort of those around us, but the way we intend to live our lives into the future. Interestingly, there is another list that has never gained the fame and familiarity as the Seven Deadly Sins: these are the Seven Virtues. There were first publicized at the same time as their negative counterparts. They are Patience, Diligence, Generosity, Purity, Temperance, Humility and Kindness.

Perhaps by keeping our eyes firmly focused on these Seven Virtues, we can keep our gaze from shifting to their shadow side....and we can save ourselves a great deal of emotional devastation by doing so. We can never fully purge our weaknesses out of our lives. But, with time, patience and commitment, we can fix our eyes on the positive path. In doing so, we'll also be a whole lot happier.

And, I will finally be able to sleep without thinking of new ways to leave poop bombs on doorsteps.

The Birthday Diairies

Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened. ~Jennifer Yane

December 4, 1965

What happened to me today? I was not supposed to arrive until after New Year's. But, all of a sudden, I was terrified I'd be late. I think I surprised my mom. No one really understood that being late was just not in my genetic code. Even at -1 day old, I have Allegrophobia. It's awful. I tried checking my watch a dozen times, only to discover that fetus' aren't given timepieces or day planners at conception. What was God thinking? I needed to know what time it was and what was on my calendar. I'll have to make a note to correct that during my lifetime. Even a fetus has places to go and people to meet. Lesson learned today? Better be early than late.

December 4, 1975

Double digits! The joy! The magic! The exceptional, numerological secrets that would be unfolded to me now that I have two numbers in my age, just like grown ups! I woke up, banged on my parents' door, shouting with glee at finally being 10. Ten! I sat and waited for the powers that would surely arrive any second to descend upon me. They never showed up. But, my mother did take my two close friends and me to Radio City Music Hall, to see the Rockettes Christmas show, and then, by my choice, we went to the Auto Pub after for a late lunch. The Auto Pub is certainly the most amazing restaurant in New York. There are antique cars in which you eat! They have taken out the bench seats and steering wheels to create booths. I'm sure it will be there forever. Maybe the runic forces of double digits didn't illuminate my day, but it was still awfully exciting. Lesson learned today? Appreciate things that are special to you at that very moment. Life does change around you.

December 4, 1981

I am sitting at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Santa Barbara, California. I'm home from prep school in New England and desperate to get my driver's license. I'm younger than everyone in my class, and feel like the only person without the badge of honor: a license. I want to drive more than anything. I can picture myself sailing down the Pacific Coast Highway, along the romantic curving roads in Newport, RI and navigating Boston's alphabetized cross street system. There is a woman to the left of me, smelling heavily of whiskey, cigarettes and cat urine, telling me to stay away from drugs, as the wafts of her alcoholic laden breath punctuate each syllable. I assure her that I will remain drug free. On my right side, is an old man, speaking with an undefinable European accent asking if I know his grand-nephew, who lives in Maryland. I try to explain, as patiently as I can, that Providence and Baltimore aren't near each other, but the gentleman continues rambling on about his nephew's stellar achievements and defining features. When at last my number is called, and I take both my written, and driving, tests, I feel as if I've been sprung from prison....my commuted sentence phoned in by the governor as a last minute reprieve. Lesson learned today? The DMV doesn't get any easier with age.

December 4,1983

I'm 18 today. So, why do I still feel like a kid? I half expected my appearance to change, my mind to be overflowing with maturity and perfection. Instead, I feel incredibly lonely. My then-boyfriend never called, and I was all by myself, waiting for the phone for much of the day. My new college friends didn't know it was my birthday. I felt bereft and forgotten. I sank into mutinous self-pity until I decided to take the T into Boston and walk around, looking at the Christmas decorations on Newbury Street and in Faneuil Hall. A light snow began to fall, and street performers put on stunning shows with little more than cardboard, paint tins and turned over garbage cans. I had a fabulous time, in spite of my internal drama, treating myself to a piece of cake and a coffee at Serendipity, just up the cobblestone alley from the performers. A dear older homeless man, with two precious dogs, waited by the subway entrance. I gave him the last of my spending money, and he said, "God Bless You". No one knew I had turned 18 that day. No one around me would have cared had they known. But, I knew. Lesson learned that day? Sometimes it's not what others do for you, but what you make of life yourself.

December 4, 1990

I can't believe I'm 25 today, and have been living in Europe for almost four years. I love it here beyond words. I love the beauty of West Germany,where my new husband and I live. I love the friends we've made. I love the two dogs we've adopted. I love our rented farmhouse. I love the holiday spirit that permeates the German country. It isn't the same as the plastic Santa's and gaudy tinsel at home. It's more elegantly and deeply felt. The Kristkindlmarkt's joy infuses my spirit. As much as I adore my husband of four years, I have come to learn that he's not a holiday enthusiast, as I am. He's a wonderful, intelligent and hard working Officer, but he's forgotten my birthday every year we've known each other, so I can't imagine that this year will be much different. I've prepared myself, and am planning to get together with some girlfriends the next day. When Jeff suggests that we go to dinner at the Texas style, German BBQ restaurant, I'm thrilled. I thought this was a grand gesture! As we walked into "die Gasthaus", our entire circle of friends met us there for a surprise party. Jeff had even bought a Baskin & Robbins ice cream cake, from our Army post, and we had the fun of sharing it with our German hosts, who'd never had one. Lesson learned today? People can surprise you.

December 4, 1994

Shhh...I'm holding my new daughter in my arms. She was born six days ago, and she's sound asleep. She has tiny perfect fingers and toes, and the most adorable dimples, set deeply in her cheeks. Her hair is downy soft and dark brown and when she opens her eyes, they look like tiny black coal lit fires. She makes eye contact with me and seems to already know me...as much as she already seems to know all the wisdom of the ages. She turns to coo at her two year old brother and then cuddles back into me. This beautiful newborn will take a moment, pausing from nursing, to gaze up at the ceiling and smile. I'm convinced she sees angels. As I lay her down in her bassinet, late at night, I glance at the calendar and realize that, in my "baby honeymoon", I've forgotten my birthday. But, I could care less. I'm in love. Lesson learned today? Some things are far more important than a day on a schedule.

December 4, 2003

I'm sitting my oncologist's office at the Women's Center at Maine Medical Center in Portland. My husband and I are holding onto one another's hands like two survivors on a lifeboat. We have seen the ship go down. We have watched people around us slide under the waves. We have been through 3 of my surgeries, 2 hospitalizations in between because of complications, and batteries of tests. A national magazine told our story. My heart is pounding in my chest. I see spots before my eyes. I want the newest round of exam results right away. I don't want them....I don't want to know what they say. Sitting endlessly in the waiting around, surrounded by women who are suffering, I feel suffocated, claustrophobic. I want to leave, and just forget any further knowledge of my ridiculously unexpected condition. My husband keeps me tethered to my seat, so that I don't float away, like an errant birthday balloon. When my name is called by the nurse, I feel like a deer, caught in the headlights of an oncoming Mack truck. My feet are stuck to the industrial carpet, with Oak tree roots reaching into the foundation below me. I have no memory of walking into my physician's office....only hearing the words, "You're clear...this time, you're clear. There is further sign of cancer." I asked her repeat the results a second, and then, a third time. She hugs me...and I know fully well that I'm one of her successes in a field that offers few. Lesson learned today? Miracles do happen.

December 4, 2009

"The rest is still unwritten"...and I like it that way. I've embraced surprises, the unknown, the unfolding of unexpected events. I've learned to navigate without a roadmap, to try restaurants for which I have no reviews, and to explore new places and make friends with new people. Lesson to be learned today? L'Chaim...to life.

A Full House Beats a Pair

There is an insightful Yiddish fable about a man whose family is honestly driving him crazy. His sons are running wild, breaking every object in their path. His daughters are yelling, whining and arguing. His wife is constantly nagging him about the state of their finances, the state of their farm, and even about their unruly children. Seeking advice from his Rabbi, the beleaguered farmer is shocked to discover that, during his weekly visits begging for help, the Rabbi first suggests bringing the cow into the house, followed by the horses, the chickens, the ducks and rest of the barn's menagerie. Every week another group of animals adds to the cacophony of the already burdened man's fragile nerves. Week after week, his tolerance becomes stretched even further beyond what he believed were his limits. Finally, after months of this jarring racket, the Rabbi tells the overwrought, agitated fellow to bring the cows, the chickens, the horses, the geese, the ducks, the goats and the rest of the animals back to the barn. It's then that the miracle of the fable occurs: the farmer, no longer finding his anxiety overwhelmed by his family alone, thanks the Rabbi for fixing the "problem".

In Margot Zemach's children's book, "It Could Always Be Worse", she explores this same folk tale in an entertaining and age appropriate manner. It's a delightful book...and is special

to me because it was one I read to my own children when they were younger. Although I'd grown up knowing this story, being able to share the ideas from the book gave me a jumping off point to begin discussion about problems and how they're solved. The question my son and daughter asked, as do most of us, is "Why doesn't the farmer see that nothing has really changed?". The answer, of course, is that one's perspective changes, based upon the situation at that very moment. When we're stressed or tired or nervous we have a hard time making choices. We also have a hard time separating real problems from those we imagine. Small matters can become looming mountains to us. Crowds seem unbearable. We seek solitude. We hoard our quiet moments and lose the ability to function in a group. When we change our perspective, the same issues that caused us despair become trivial.

My house felt a bit like that of the farmer this past week. During an average week, my home consists of my 17 year old son (who is rarely home, due to his hockey travel schedule), my husband, our two enormous dogs and our one dramatic bunny. We lead busy lives. Our work, school and volunteer commitments are exceptionally time consuming. There are far more projects and chores at home than we have time for. The bills mount, the obligations loom and the stress builds. Over Thanksgiving week, my daughter arrived home from her prep school in

Massachusetts. It was magical to see her. Her friends also arrived to welcome her home. My peppy mother came to spend the holiday week with us from Arizona. Her best friend also came for tea. My husband's parents drove here from New Hampshire. They're great fun and always have a lot to offer, both to conversation and to household projects. My son's hockey team won a major victory and his pals came for a sleepover to celebrate. It was marvelous to have everyone at the house, but I have to admit, it all felt more than a little bit out of my control. There were people everywhere! At one point we had 13 people sleeping here. The noise level, the chaos, the wild feeling of groups doing their own activities in various parts of my home all at once was a little staggering. There were moments I felt as if I was a German Shepherd, trying to keep my flock on track, as well as entertained. There were moments in which I experienced a sense of running around in circles, accomplishing little but exhausting myself. I admit that there were instances during the week in which I felt completely incompetent as a hostess.

Yet, now that the guests have returned to their homes, and my precious girl is back at her school, the house feels far too quiet. There is no one to sit and coffee with. There isn't someone's 'little job' to oversee. There isn't a soul to joke with, argue with or talk with. There is no one to aggravate me or make me laugh until I cry. The silence is deafening. As much as my son's hockey teammates resemble the horses in the farmer's fable, coming into the house and stamping their hooves, I miss their presence. As much as my mom undoes everything I've done and redoes it her way, like a Mother Hen, I find that I'm now second guessing my own methods of housekeeping. While my daughter rolls her eyes at me and has to redress me, duck clucking as my outfits don't pass her fashion muster, I find myself stymied for what to wear today. My house may have felt like a barn this past week, but now it feels like a museum. There aren't four televisions blaring with four different shows competing with one another for aural superiority. There aren't hordes to feed. There is no one saying "Maaaaa....." in an exasperated voice...and with multiple generations using the same intonation. There is no foot stamping, door slamming or conflicting opinions. There is no raucous laughter and loud joke telling. The house is just the way it was just over a week ago....and yet it feels far more indistinct.

I have learned how much I appreciate both clamor and hush. I have discovered that I crave times of extroversion and times of inner contemplation. I have learned that I can love someone more than anything and be completely annoyed by them. I have found that, despite my shepherding tendencies towards control and direction, I'm able to let go and allow evenings to unfold on their own. I have observed that I can be a mother, a daughter, a hostess, a mere participant, a cook, an eater, a pesky badger and the harassed all at the same moment.

And, there is only three and a half weeks until Christmas.

A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort.

~Herm Albright

Thankfulness

If you concentrate on finding whatever is good in every situation, you will discover that your life will suddenly be filled with gratitude, a feeling that nurtures the soul. -- Rabbi Harold Kushner

Just as millions of other Americans are doing this week, my family is preparing for Thanksgiving. We're cleaning the house from top to bottom, scrubbing every surface that doesn't move (and a few that want to run away when they see the dog shampoo). I'm creating a master plan for who will sleep where, as our relatives come join us for the holiday. I'm planning the cooking time sheet to remind myself which dish needs to go into the oven when. I'm pulling out and ironing my holidays linens. I'm making last minute trips to the store so that I don't run out of milk, coffee and laundry detergent. I'm focusing on pick up schedules at the train, bus and airport. My mother and I will have our family tradition of watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade as we cook together. My husband will share the tradition of home projects with his parents, feeling grateful for their help. We'll feast too much, we'll watch some football, we'll enjoy my mother-in-law's extraordinary pies and we'll count our blessings.

This year, however, I'd like to try an exercise that's a little different, and quite a bit contrary to our usual recounting of the events and people we appreciate. I would like to attempt thankfulness towards the challenges in my life. The Buddha says, "Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful". In 1 Thessalonians, St. Paul wrote, "Always be joyful. Never stop praying. Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus." It's easy to be thankful for our health when it's good. It's a snap to be thankful to friends and family when relationships aren't strained. It's not a stretch to be grateful for our lives when one joyful coincidence follows another. We can smile, we can sing and we can praise the heavens for the bounty in our lives when our thriving plenitude overflows. But, what happens when we face a serious illness? When we find ourselves deeply hurt by someone we care for? When our finances will never cover our bills? It is at these times of "want" that we learn to appreciate the plenty.

Therefore, I'd like to count my trials as my blessings this year. I would venture forth to say that it is from these times of inadequacy that I have learned where my fortune truly lies:

• I am thankful for the seriousness illnesses I have had, and the continued screenings and tests I must endure to make certain they have not returned. Being hospitalized, and especially being in intensive care, has left me with a profound sense of appreciation for my very existence. Every deep breath I take, every morning I wake up not attached to monitors and every moment I'm not in pain is a gift. I'm thankful for the amazing men and women who have cared for me, while I was unwell, and especially thankful for those who saved my life. The air smells crisper, the sunrises look more dramatic and the feeling of sleeping in my own bed is more delicious.
• I am thankful for the people who have hurt me terribly. There is nothing like the pain of rejection, betrayal and disloyalty. Those feelings cut to the bone and are more arduous wounds to heal than those created by a doctor's scalpel. They left me with gaping trauma and humiliation at being so trusting of those who meant me harm. Still, as I began to heal from these internal injuries I also realized how exceptionally precious those steadfast people in my life truly are. Although my skeptical inner voice would whisper in my ear, "Don't allow this person to see the real you....she won't like you and she will use yournature to harm you....", I discovered that in being sensibly optimistic, I would have the chance to make a new friend, appreciate a family member more deeply and open myself up to new possibilities for caring. The somber wounds of deceit won't go away, but they can be cauterized. They also serve as a reminder to love those who are true all the more profoundly.
• I am thankful for days in which everything seems to go wrong: the car won't start, the dog throws up on the one good rug, the washing machine 'walks' across the floor as it spews soapy water and the backyard fence falls over in a slow drift proving Newton's theory. I am thankful when our finances are in the red, rather than in the black. I am thankful when my two children get into a scrape. I am thankful when the roof over my head needs reshingling. I am thankful when the coffee pot overflows grounds, just like lava from Mt. Vesuvius. I am thankful when my jeans don't fit and that I'm sure that the scale must be broken. I am thankful when I'm hopelessly stuck in rush hour traffic, or that my airline flight has been delayed for the fourth time. I am thankful when my driveway becomes so icy that it's more like a skating rink built into a hillside than a road way. I am thankful for bad hair days. I am thankful for the swelteringly sickly hot days of summer. I am thankful for stuffy noses, bruised elbows and mosquito bites. I am thankful for dropping a Waterford crystal glass. I am thankful when I feel disgustingly short tempered. I am thankful when I burn dinner beyond recognition, and we have to have cereal for supper. I am thankful for every library book I've lost, for every bill I've misplaced and for each appointment I'd forgotten completely.

Why in the world would I be thankful for these events? Why would I feel grateful at having my feelings, my time, my life and my sense of self turn into a cyclone of emotional discontent? I am thankful because at these very moments, I have the special, exceptional and delightful opportunity to experience grace. We don't discover blessing, clemency or compassion when life is going well. We can't buy it, we can't trade for it and we can't steal it. We can only open our hearts to benevolence in times of need. I have learned far more during the darkest chapters of my life, and even during the moderately cranky moments, than I have when life seemed effortless and easy. It's when we are broken, distraught and inept that we have the unlikely shining goal of opportunity: the chance to find that magic crystal, from video game graphics, that will lead us to a greater understanding of life's meaning, to a more profound situation from life's tiny blessings and to an enhanced vision of where our life priorities should lie. These dreadful times of misfortune are when we learn true appreciation.

So, when you 'gather together' this Thanksgiving, and each friend or family member is telling what she is thankful for, remember that not all blessings come during the easy times. More often, the greatest lessons we can learn, and that can teach us to be the exceptional people we were designed to be, come wrapped the gift basket of calamity.

The Power of Kindness and Dreamcatchers

No kind action ever stops with itself. One kind action leads to another. Good example is followed. A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees. The greatest work that kindness does to others is that itakes them kind themselves.

~ Amelia Earhart

Many years ago, I had an experience that would have a profound impact on my life. At that time, I was mothering my two very young children, and had only minimal time to myself. Parenting two toddlers can be overwhelming and stressful. I felt the need to be perfect; to have an immaculate home, clean and well behaved babies and elegant meals on the table every night. Because my husband and I made the choice that I should stop working outside the home, and focus on our children and house, I didn't believe that I had a "right" to outside interests. I felt that being a homemaker was my job and I needed do to it with excellence. I may have stressed myself out with my unrealistically high standards, but I did feel pride in my life. I believe that I had a good shot at success, until two major losses threw my world off its axis. The loss of my father, and of my 3rd baby a week later, were more than I could handle. I didn't know where my touchstone was. I couldn't seem to find 'center' again. I had no idea how to even begin approaching getting back there.

When these losses happened, I was somewhat shocked by the responses of a few people. While many were truly sympathetic, and others embarrassingly unsure of what to say, there were a few that were profoundly derogatory to me. One woman, whom I had considered a close friend, told me just days after my miscarriage to just 'stop being a baby and get over it'. She went on to recount her own losses, how much deeper they were than my own, and she was fine. Fine! Her comments, and others like them, said to me, "You are a loser. You have no ability to be a great person. If you can't, then you have no place in this world." Despite all the loving generosity I was shown by others, the effect of this false friend's words to me was staggering. I sunk deeper into my own despair and wondered if I really did not have what it took to be a strong woman, a decent wife and a good mother. I doubted my own beliefs inalmost everything, I doubted my intelligence, I doubted my faith, I doubted my ability to find joy again.

One place I used love to go, in the depths of winter, was a garden center's greenhouse. While the rest of the nursery lay dormant, under a blanket of thick white snow, the greenhouse beckoned, like a siren of Spring. There were tropical plants in full bloom, several water features that bubbled enthusiastically and even birds who flew about singing and delighted to have found an oasis from Maine's harshest days. I had struck up a pleasant acquaintance relationship with the greenhouse's caretaker, and we'd often chat, as we shared a cup of tea (provided by her little electric teapot) together. I never troubled her with anything heavy, with my horror at

my own inability to feel peace of mind. But, I did soak in her positive nature and her beautiful way with words. She often wore a lovely dream-catcher necklace that held small totem animals dangling from it. I had admired the way it reflected the light, and the intricacy of the design. Each part of the necklace seemed to have a significance I could only hope to guess at, and yet the piece of art it created was profound and moving, even without knowing what each item represented.

One day, I shyly offered my compliments about the necklace. I told this lovely gardener how beautiful I believed it was, my cheeks burning red from fear that I'd be rebuffed in my meek attempt to praise. What I was offering was not just my admiration for the lovely piece of jewelry, but also for this woman's unfailing, and unrequired, kindness to me. I was prepared to be rebuffed and sent on my way, as she tended to her other customers, all of whom were paying for plants, rather than just soaking in the womb-like warmth of the greenhouse. Instead, she smiled, took off the necklace and put it around my neck. I tried to protest, offering my hands up in submission to her overly generous act. But, she kissed me on the cheek and said, "You need it right now." I accepted with a sense of deep importance at the unprecedented beneficence.

I began to feel better. I started returning phone calls from well meaning friends. I started taking yoga classes. I began to eat right, exercise more and the power of feeling as if my center was returning, palpably weighing me back into balance. When I went to the garden center a month after the gift was bestowed upon me, the woman was gone. Her successor was a harsh older man who had little patience, and less understanding, for people wanting to picnic in the greenhouse without purchasing anything. I felt shock that "Eve" had been voluntarily left the garden. I also found that my beloved sanctuary was now off limits and tended to by a grumpy curmudgeon. Still, I wore the necklace almost every day for several years. I felt myself touching it often, absentmindedly and with a sense of grace. I wore it to church, I wore to yoga, I wore to the grocery store, to meetings and to the library. It was simply a part of who I was. I read about dream catchers, learning that they began as an Objibway Native American tradition, as a symbol of protection from harm. I enjoyed learning about the tiny totem animals on mine: the badger for healing, the bear for self-preservation, the eagle for divine spirit, the wolf for loyalty and the owl for insight.

Walking around the charming Old Port section of Portland, Maine one day, I looked down and noticed that my necklace was gone. In a panic, I raced around the cobblestone streets and historic brick buildings, retracing my steps. I went into every shop, recrossed every intersection and thoroughly searched the restaurant in which I'd enjoyed lunch, much to the dismay of the family currently eating at the same table. I was mortified at my own irresponsibility and felt as if I'd lost myself all over again. Despite a Herculean recovery effort, I had to admit defeat and returned home feeling very low. Still, my yoga classes were going very well, I was involved in several exciting parenting groups and had a busy, full and productive life. My slip was more into disappointment, and while still keenly aware of the loss of my necklace, I knew that life would not end because of the misfortune over its disappearance.

When I walked into "The Green Store", a healthy living center, in Belfast, Maine, a few weeks later, I couldn't believe my eyes; there behind the counter was the Gardener. I wasn't even sure she would recognize me....but she warmly greeted me and gave me a rich hug like a long lost sister. I stammered how much her necklace had meant to me, what a turning point it had been in my life and how wretched I felt when it was lost only recently. She smiled and told me, with wisdom in shining in her eyes, "You didn't need it any longer. Someone else will find it. She will pick it up and put it on, and it will make the same difference to her. It was time for you to let it go. Just do something kind to someone else someday, okay?" I walked out of the store, flushed, dazed and dizzied...having forgotten to buy anything on my shopping list. As I drove home, contemplating the Gardener's words, I wondered how I could accomplish her mission to me.

I discovered that kindness isn't hard to practice. We only need to smile at people who are having a bad day. We can hold doors for people whose arms are filled to overflowing. We can let someone go ahead of us in line. We can offer to watch a friend's child. We can bite our tongues when we want to bark out a snarky retort. We can compliment, when we feel like criticizing. We can try to work into understanding, when we feel antagonism. We can let old grudges go, when we secretly like the festering hostility within us. We can forgive, when we want to hold onto bitterness. The amazing thing is, when we begin to actively practice kindness, it's fascinating how the reactions to us can change. Although being kind doesn't mean being a doormat, repeatedly allowing ourselves to be in where we'll be treated horrendously, it can mean making a graceful exit from these situations. Additionally, kindness is easier than negativity. I have discovered that, on days in which I actively intent to be kind, my energy level is far greater. Kindness can provide a boost in energy, as well as in one's mental state.

I never did learn the name of the Gardener. I never saw her again after her final piece of wisdom to me. In some ways, I wonder if this episode in my life is a dream....a faraway fantasy of my own creation to get me through an insurmountable period of grief. Yet, I have photos of myself wearing the dream-catcher, so I have a proof that it did exist in reality, and not just in my imagination. I only wonder who is wearing it right now, and the impact it has had.