Save Us From Our Selfies

So we all (or a lot of us, anyway) seem to live and die by social media every day. Looked at your friends’ posts on Facebook to make sure you haven’t missed anything major (although most posts rarely rise to that level)? Check. Tweeted your 140 characters about the latest thing that has you engaged or enraged? Done. Posted a photo to Instagram or liked someone else’s? Most definitely. We’re with it, we’re on it, we’re trending.

But selfies have seemed to reach some kind of critical mass. And I don’t pretend to be innocent on this. I’ve taken my fair share of selfies and posted them, telling myself it’s because I want my far-flung friends and family to see where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing or had that ever-so-rare experience – a great hair day.

Just recently I counted nearly 50+ selfies on a social media site from someone I know, all taken within a several hour window. And Kim Kardashian has published a book called Selfies which is just – you got it – pictures of her. (I assume people will buy this. I don’t know why.) And it got me thinking. What happened to just enjoying the moment and not having to stop anywhere and everywhere to document it? Why can’t we just be?

And now we have a new weapon of mass destruction to assist us in this narcissistic path we pursue: the selfie stick. For $20 or so, you can buy this contraption to clip your phone on to so you can get a better perspective of yourself when you snap a selfie. Already these things have been banned on rides in Walt Disney World because the dopes using them think extending their phone on a selfie stick while hurtling through a ride is safe and that their need to document the experience is more important than the safety of those around them.

I love looking at people’s pictures, don’t get me wrong. But many of the best pictures I’ve seen and remember are the ones that exist only in my head, the snapshots my mind has taken and filed away under memorable moments that I can recall any time I want.

The look on my darling Dad’s face the first time my great kid was placed in his arms. My parents’ faces as they walked in on their surprise 50th anniversary party and saw a friend they hadn’t seen in 40 years, who had flown in from North Carolina just for the day to surprise them.

The memory of watching my Mom hold my Dad’s favorite baseball cap in plain sight so my son could know my Dad was with us as he walked down the aisle after graduating from high school, just a few short months after my Dad died. Waking up after surgery and seeing my Dad and my son looking down on me.

Turning around at my last high school reunion and seeing the face of my friend, a girl we had been trying to find for 40 years with no success, and bursting into tears of joy at the sight of her. Seeing the faces of my high school friends last summer when they made me insanely happy by coming to my surprise milestone birthday party. Watching my son get on a plane or in a car each time he heads back to school after a summer vacation or a Christmas holiday and feeling my heart break just a little.

None of these things are documented anywhere. Except they are. They’re imprinted on my brain and my heart, where I get to rummage through the shoebox of my memories any time I want and recall one of them at a moment’s notice.

Have we become such a self-absorbed and narcissistic culture that we have to stop – sometimes in the middle of the street – and snap a selfie to hold on to the memory? Is what we’re doing that important to anyone else besides us?

So yes, while I’ll still take an occasional selfie, I’m going to try to focus instead on snapping a virtual picture of a scene, a moment, a person, a place and keep it in my head. I wouldn’t trade those pictures for anything at all.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

My Mom, My Everything

So today is my mother’s birthday and when I ask her – as I do every year – what she wants, she always tells me the same thing. “I want you not to fight with your sisters”. If that was possible, I would have done it gladly years ago. (Just kidding. I love my sisters and we don’t fight. Too much).

Anyway, I thought long and hard this year about what I could do to really make her birthday happy, although this is a woman who has been happy virtually every day of my life. I can count on my hands the number of days when she’s experienced true unhappiness (or at least when I’ve seen her unhappy) and most of them had to do with the death of her brother and my darling Dad. She embraces life, even when it’s not great.

We’ve always had joy in our house because my parents entertained so much. There was always laughing and love, hugs and kisses, food on the table, church on Sundays and friends (both ours and theirs) coming and going. And my Mom and Dad made this happen, every day, every week, every year. We were loved beyond all words and we knew it. We were blessed. And my Mom was the driving force behind all of it.

Far too often we wait until it’s too late and never tell the people we love how much we love them. Or we never let others know the goodness of their heart, the generosity of their spirit, the kindness in their soul, the understanding and compassion. So if you’ll indulge today, I want to tell you about my mother and why she is such a special person.

Not only did my mother lose her own mother shortly after she and my Dad married, she had her own father and brother move in with her and my Dad (with a baby – that would be me – on the way) and both stayed with my parents, my grandfather until his death and my uncle until he married. Their doors were always open for anyone who needed a place to stay. And that continued right through high school and college when my Mom would awaken on a Sunday morning to find our friends (does this ring a bell, Jimmy Courage?) asleep on the couch, the recliner, the floor. Everyone was welcomed with no questions asked.

She’s the person who remembers everyone’s birthday (and if my second Mom/cousin Cooky reads this, she’ll back me up) and always always sends a birthday card. She literally sends out about 100 birthday cards a year. For the younger ones on the birthday list, she always includes a $5 bill so they can buy a little something. And it’s not just closest family; it’s her brother’s grandchildren because she wants to carry on his legacy. It’s Cooky’s grandchildren (all 7 of them). It’s the children of my Burke cousins. It’s what she does because – as she says – she can.

When she’s able to, she’ll tell me she’s putting “a little money” in my great kid’s bank account (and I know she does the same for my niece and nephew).  A few weeks ago when I was so under the weather I couldn’t work a full week, she let me know she’d put some money into my bank account so I wouldn’t find myself short on cash. She is generous to a fault, not only with her money but with her time and words.

My high school friends love her and insist I bring her to our occasional lunches. When any of them need prayers for themselves or a family member, they contact me and ask me to have my Mom pray for their intentions. She’s got a long list of people she prays for every day, including me. I know God hears her because I know some of the miracles my friends who’ve struggled have experienced. She’s got connections in heaven, if you ask me.

Many of you who may read this (and, if you do, my deepest thanks for reading my random thoughts) may be too young to remember the Vietnam War. But there was a unique program designed to help people remember the service members who were either prisoners of war or missing in action. You’d send in your $3.00 and get a bracelet with the name, rank and date of loss. And the organization that made these asked people to commit to never take them off until the prisoners of war were released or the remains of those missing in action were returned home. My Mom’s bracelet said Harley Hackett III.

Captain Hackett went missing in action on July 9, 1973 and his body was never recovered. And to this very day – 42 years later – my Mom still wears his bracelet because of the promise she made when she put it on. She’s never taken it off and I know she never will. That story should tell you everything you need to know about my Mom

She’s had her share of ups and downs, good times and bad, days when she and my Dad didn’t have 2 coins to rub together but always had love and faith and belief that God would get them through anything. And He did and He does.

The last few years have been tough for all of us with my Dad’s illness and death and my Mom having her own share of heath issues. But now she’s amazingly healthy, a marvel at keeping active both physically and mentally. A woman who likes a bad joke as much as the next person. A person who enjoys seeing a good movie and then talking about it, dissecting it later. A Mom who always lends a hand, who somehow know when one of us needs her and never judges, never criticizes, never blames. A mother – and a grandmother, an aunt, a cousin, a friend – who sees the best in everyone, who loves her children and her grandchildren more than anything and who is the reason I try every day to become the person she thinks I am.

So Happy Birthday, Mom. My words are my gift to you this year. You inspire me, you lift me up, you let me know how much I’m loved every day. I thank God He placed me in your care because He knew you were the perfect Mom for me. And you are and I love you for that and always will. And I’ll try not to fight with my sisters this year.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

I’m Going To Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter

So after my great kid headed back to school after his long winter’s nap (and I’m not kidding; he napped a lot when he was home. Seriously, a lot) I started the process of readjusting to life alone again here in my little cozy nest of a home. I’m been trying to downsize, inspired by the great Peter Walsh who has shared his ideas on how to declutter your house in 31 days. And in the process, I’ve been coming across old letters, cards, notes and reading each one before I make the decision of should it stay or should it go. The concept of having something tangible in your hands to look at, to hold, to carry around with you is very compelling and the decision on whether something is worth keeping is at times dificult.

And because we literally had to put pen to paper to write these notes and cards, it seems to me that we often put more effort into our thoughts and our wishes for the person on the receiving end. Because putting it down in writing and sending it off, unable to retrieve it from the intended recipient, seems to me to have required a certain level of care and thoughtfulness and consideration for the object of our affections.

So much of our communication these days is through social media. Other than my mother who – God bless her – never forgets anyone’s birthday and always sends a card (usually with $20 tucked inside so the person can “get a little something for themselves”), I actually – and I suspect I’m not the only one – get very little real mail any more. I get plenty of mail, don’t get me wrong. But it’s catalogues and flyers; bills and requests for donations; coupons galore and far too many magazines. (Note to self: download magazines on your Kindle and stop killing trees by getting paper copies.) So when I do get a note or a card, it’s a great thing. The anticipation of ripping open the envelope, taking out the card or note and enjoying the words someone wrote just for you is thrilling. It’s like getting a little present at the end of the day. And when someone tells you that they’ve kept a note you wrote them or a birthday card you sent them, there’s just no way to top that simple pleasure.

But we’re all so busy that we’ve conditioned ourselves to believe that a Happy Birthday shout-out on Facebook to one of our dearest friends is OK. That expressing condolences when someone says they’ve lost a loved one or are remembering someone close to them on a birthday or anniversary is acceptable. That congratulations on a baby or a wedding or an accomplishment is the same as the written word in a card or note. Deep down, we know – or should know – that it’s not.

In going through my cards and notes and letters, I found notes my Dad had written in his chicken scratch handwriting after I got divorced, urging me on, telling me I’d done the right thing, letting him know he and my Mom were always in my corner, encouraging me to believe that a better future was ahead for my great kid and me. And those notes now are all I have left of my Dad, gone now almost 4 years. How could I ever throw those away?

I found a Mother’s Day card that my great kid had colored and printed in his 5th grade boyish handwriting telling me that he would always love me no matter what and would always take care of me and thanking me for what I had done. And all I had done, truly, was give birth to him and try to live my life as my parents lived theirs, so that he could learn to become a good person by example, as I had (I hope) become a good person by watching and imitating and soaking up all my parents said and did and practiced and preached.

I discovered a poem that the love of my life had written for me, one I had memorized years before and which I carried around in my heart, but to see his words again on paper, to hold that paper in my hands knowing his hands had held it too, hands I’ll never hold again because he had died too young and too soon, means everything to me. It means I still have him here with me.

So maybe having a few shoe boxes full of old letters and cards and scraps of paper might take up a some valuable closet space but I can’t, I won’t let them go. These words from people I love made me and still make me the person I am today. How could I ever let them go?

Take time when you can and write someone you love a note of encouragement, a thank you for a kindness, a wish that they’ll feel better, a promise that you’re there for them if they need someone to listen. You’ll feel better doing it. And I promise you that they’ll never forget that you did it. Everyone wins.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Let It Go

So the past few years have not been my best, for all sorts of reasons. The weight of what I carried inside of me was a burden that I have been finding it more and more difficult to handle alone. I am not a person who is comfortable, typically, with sharing my struggles with someone else. Some of that may just be the way I’m programmed; some of it may be that I don’t want my burden to become a weight to someone else by virtue of sharing it with them.

I had become consumed with anger and sadness and a great sense of mistrust based on the actions of a few people. People I had believed in had betrayed me, some on a massive basis. People I had loved treated me unkindly because they have no edit button in their head. (Suggestion to anyone reading this: just because you think it doesn’t mean you have to say it). People I had trusted abused that trust. All of it left me feeling like a bird with a broken wing and I became a person who blamed myself for trusting people and believing they would change. I didn’t think I could trust anyone ever again. It made me sad to be this person, a person who looked back and thought of how optimistic and hopeful and joyous I had once been. My health suffered, my ability to reach out to people and socialize was compromised, my need to just stay home in my little nest where no one could hurt me was overwhelming.

But I reached a tipping point a year or so ago and the floodgates opened and I began to share some of the things I had been hiding. Hiding not because I was ashamed of any of it but because I wanted to avoid my notion that people would try to solve my dilemmas, some of which couldn’t be resolved by anyone but me. And, lo and behold, it helped. I shared – maybe I overshared – the things that were bothering me with a small group of people, some I had known all of my life and some I had only known a short time. But they were all people who I knew wouldn’t judge me or criticize me or blame me for the consequences of other people’s actions but would continue to love me and support me and believe in me.

So things got better, not right away and not quickly, but they did start to get better. But what I still carried around was the “why me?” persona I had adopted. I didn’t get – and maybe I never will – why some people did what they did. I don’t understand people being able to live with themselves after they’ve hurt someone so badly. I can’t comprehend why “I’m sorry” is not part of their thought process. (And when I mentioned this to someone, she suggested that the problem is theirs, not mine. So true but so hard to accept).

This year, as Christmas approached, I was in a better place but still not a great place. Having my great kid home helped me a lot and he and I started having some fairly deep conversations. Because he too had been where I’d been because of people being unkind to him, or cutting him out of their lives for stupid, silly reasons. His wise-beyond-his-years thoughts and words really propelled me forward. And maybe it made me open to what happened shortly after he arrived home.

Christmas Eve night, as I went to sleep, I was counting my blessings and knowing that I have been given so much. I said my prayers before I slept and, as I did and do every day, asked my beloved Dad and God to show me the way. And that night, they did.

I had a dream that night, one so specific and yet so vague (the way a dream is when you try to recall it moments after you wake up and realize it’s already gone). I cannot tell you much about the dream except that some of the people who had hurt me were there in some way in the dream. And they were there for a reason, I’m sure. To leave my dreams, to leave my thoughts, to leave my heart forever. Their power over me was gone.

I woke up Christmas Day feeling so much lighter in spirit and in my heart. I knew that my Dad and God had done this for me. They had shown me the way; they had given me back my trust in people. They had taken away my sadness. They had lifted up my spirit and made me believe again. And I know some of you may not think this is anything but a coincidence or wishful thinking on my part and I respect that. But I know what I know and this is what happened to me. Many of you know how – when I need my Dad’s presence – Baldheaded Woman somehow begins playing on the radio for me and I know he is the guiding force behind that. And as sure as I know anything, I know my darling Dad and my God were behind this. They gave me back a part of my life that was missing.

So I can let it go, all of the bad stuff, the unhappiness, the anger, the bitterness, the blaming. Instead I can thank God and my Dad for hearing me when I needed them and pointing me towards a brighter new year.

And that is my wish for you. Look forward instead of looking back. Spend time only with people who bring positive things into your life. Let joy and hope fill your heart. Reach out to others. Lend an ear or give a hug. Don’t judge others because they don’t look or sound or talk like you. Do good in this world. Because what goes around comes around.

Happy New Year and I thank you all who always take the time to read my ramblings. You lift me up every day.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

So What’s Wrong With Being Pollyanna?

So for those of us of a certain age, a favorite childhood movie was Pollyanna, starring the very gifted child actor Hayley Mills. For those of you unfamiliar with the theme of the movie, Pollyanna is an orphan who goes to live with her much older and very bitter Aunt Polly in a town that is mired in religious intolerance and acrimony. Pollyanna chooses to live her life (even when tragedy befalls her late in the movie) in a positive way, looking for the good in every person and every situation, not judging anyone, knowing everyone has their own story that has shaped and molded the way they act. And since it’s a Disney movie, it won’t surprise you to hear that it has as happy an ending as her circumstances would allow. In fact, Pollyanna became a defined word in the dictionary, usually meaning someone illogically optimistic, someone who believes there is good when no one else would ever draw that conclusion.

Recently I found myself on the outside looking in at a sad and vitriolic discussion about a hot button topic. There are always two sides to every story, I know, but sometimes there is a right and a wrong side, or a much more right side compared and contrasted with a barely understandable side to a topic. And heaven knows that I don’t pretend to always be right although I do aspire to being on the right side of the things that matter to me the most: love, trust, friendship, tolerance, kindness. But this event had none of these things as part of its dialogue and it made me angry and sad.

I was chatting with a friend about this and why people had to behave the way they do, not only in the limited scope of the situation at hand but in general. The bitterness, the anger, the generalizations, the bigotry, the intolerance, the hurtful words. What makes a person come to that point when you would hope they were raised to have an open mind and a loving heart and a generous spirit. And why does a person choose that path when I have chosen another. And my friend Eileen (the most kind-hearted and intelligent woman you could imagine) told me that she was raised to believe the world and the people in it were mostly good, with a few bad apples, and maybe that made her a Pollyanna.

And that really resonated with me. What’s so wrong with being Pollyanna? What’s so bad about wanting to believe the best in people? What’s wrong about trying to focus on the individual instead of stereotyping the group? Why is it easier to focus on the negative instead of embracing the positive? Why oh why do we perpetuate the divisiveness that has separated us instead of reaching across the divide and trying to see the world through someone else’s eyes?

We are a people blessed, a nation that has been given much and from which much is expected. We have heroes great and small, from my mother who gives her mailman a cold iced tea on a hot summer day, to the soldiers of all creeds and races who defend our freedom every day. From my friends, some of whom have lost spouses or children and some of whom have battled serious illnesses to the people who stand up to intolerance every day. From those who share what they have without recognition or need for validation to those who take a stand every day and fight the good fight.

We can all be someone’s hero if we choose to. We can all do what’s right, even when it’s hard and especially when we may be the only one doing right. We can all learn that tearing each other down, or tearing down others we don’t know because we have some preconceived notion in our head about them is neither productive or helpful or kind. Use that energy to do good in the world. Reach out across the bridge that separates us and learn about someone instead of dismissing them. Open your heart, open your mind.

And if that makes me a Pollyanna, so be it. There are a lot worse things to be than that.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

I’m Thankful Thanksgiving Is Over

So it’s a few days since Thanksgiving – a day designed to give thanks for our blessings – is over. My great kid has come and gone, a whirlwind trip which saw us try to cram too much talk into too little time but his return is on the horizon. We watched the parade on television, enjoying the spectacle of the Broadway shows and the earnest goodness of the high school marching bands, the quasi-celebrities on the corporate-sponsored floats, the balloons big and small. We spent the day with our huge extended family, laughing and reminiscing. Being grateful for all we have been given, both material and those things you can feel in your heart and believe with your soul. And now it’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving and I would typically possibly ever so slowly be thinking about maybe (enough equivocation there, ya think?) getting into the Christmas season.

But after what I’ve seen and heard this past weekend, I’m ready to check out of Christmas before it even begins. I’m not unrealistic. Not at all. I expect that come September, I’m going to see fully decorated Christmas trees and lit menorahs in all the big box stores. I know I’ll begin to be bombarded with all manners of television and radio ads promoting the next big toy or electronic item or thing I don’t know I need until they tell me. And I’m OK with that. I guess.

What I’m not OK with is the – in my humble opinion – the total ruination of Thanksgiving by the way the retail industry, following its motto of “enough is never enough”, has corrupted a day that is supposed to be about giving thanks. How many of us know what Thanksgiving is really about, as opposed to what it’s become? A day filled with football games and parades, too much food and wine, traffic jams and short tempers, people fighting over items they won’t remember buying a year from now.

George Washington proclaimed the first national day of Thanksgiving 225 years ago, designating it “as a day of public thanksgiving and prayer to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favours of Almighty God”. People were thankful for a good harvest, for a roof over their heads, for their freedom, for their right to worship their God without fear of retribution. And many of us still view Thanksgiving this way. But many others now view it as a free-for-all to get the best prices on crap you don’t need for people you don’t necessarily like with money you don’t have. Only in America.

To read stories over the past few years about people waiting outside stores for days, sometimes weeks to be first in line is disheartening. Because nothing says “I love you” than skipping a Thanksgiving feast with your family so you can warm your hands over a sterno that’s heating up your can of beans outside Best Buy on Thanksgiving Day to buy something that is not necessary. I repeat: not necessary at all.

People have actually gotten killed, trampled by the crowds forcing their way into stores. Fistfights and calls to police abound as bad behavior goes out the window and is replaced by the “me” mentality. Is it worth it to you? Is it worth setting that kind of example for your children? Is it really the way you should live your life?

Should companies force employees to work on a holiday to satisfy their bottom line? Companies insist that employees are asked to volunteer to work on Thanksgiving but the anecdotal evidence suggests otherwise. I happened to stay at a hotel on Thanksgiving night because we had traveled a long way from home. The hotel was across the street from a major shopping plaza and – when we checked in at about 8:00 pm – the parking lot was full and every store I could see had lines out the door.

So ask yourself this? What gifts did you get last holiday season? Can you even remember one of them? Can you remember what you bought for others? I have a very hazy idea but I couldn’t swear to anything. What I do remember though is the feeling I had when my son walked off the plane the day before Thanksgiving, after I hadn’t seen him in months. I remember watching the Yule Log the night before Christmas, remembering all the times I watched it with my Mom and my Dad when I grew up. I remember how the Thanksgiving and Christmas after my darling Dad died, my Burke cousins insisted we spend both holidays with them because they loved him as much as we did. I remember how – on New Year’s Eve – my son came home early from a party he was at to be with me at midnight, knowing how New Year’s Eve always makes me sad and how it made me burst into tears with gratitude at his enormous heart and compassionate soul. And I remember hoping, wishing, praying that this year would be better than the last and the one before that.

I don’t hold out much hope that retailers, now that they’ve had a taste of how they can lure suckers into their stores on holidays with smoke and mirrors and promises of discounts galore, will ever change their policy. It’s up to all of us to push back against this, to force retailers to change. I don’t really think Thanksgiving will ever be the way it was when I grew up. But I would be ever so thankful if it was.

Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Be Present

Sometimes life can be a roller coaster. We careen from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows, sometimes within the same day. We embrace optimism and then despair over something small. We see the good in people, the small moments that make us believe in the future and give us joy and then we sometimes turn on a dime, becoming annoyed when behind the wheel of a car, overreacting to a bad driver. Where is the middle and why aren’t we able to find it, despite having so many real (and virtual) friends available at the click of a keyboard to offer advice or suggestions?

We’re living at a time when we’re all more connected – at least digitally – than ever before, when we can express our thoughts and fears, our hopes and our pains, our triumphs and our minutiae to any and all who will read our tweets or follow our Facebook postings or look at our Instagram shots. But despite that connection, why are so many of us so isolated, so lonely, so accepting of another person’s company only through their words on your screen or their thoughts texted to your phone? Why can’t we find that comfortable middle ground?

For almost my entire life, I lived with other people. A happy family life growing up with two wonderful parents and two great sisters. I wasn’t interested in going to college far away so I chose a great local college and commuted back and forth, between home and the campus of this tiny school, every day for four years. I went from my parents’ home to living with my husband after we married, and then joyfully (after many years of heartbreaking results) welcoming my great kid.

And then my marriage fell apart and my great kid and I moved on to our cozy little place we’ve called home now for 15 years. We had a great life because not only do we love each other but we enjoy each others company. As film fanatics, we saw many movies together, traveled to the happiest place on earth, spent time with friends and family and enjoyed our time together.

But as much as I love where I live, it was not part of my great kid’s future and he decided to go to college nearly 2,500 miles away from home. So about a year ago, after much weeping and promising to talk every day, he flew the nest and headed to his new adventure. And that was the first day in my entire life that I had lived alone.

Being on my own was – and is – hard for me. It’s easy, so easy to stay here in my house and not venture out. To turn down invitations because it involves too much effort or I don’t feel like going there on my own. And it becomes an endless circle of should I stay or should I go?

Fortunately, I can stay connected with people I know and love (and some virtual friends I’ve never met in person) via social media and texts and e-mails and phone calls and that helps ease the loneliness some. And I don’t want to sound like I’m unhappy with being alone; it’s just that it’s taken some getting used to and I’m not sure I’m there yet.

So I’d never advocate abandoning this new era of connectivity we all share these days because it has brought me such joy in so many ways. To reconnect with girls I knew in high school and to become real friends with them, some of whom I never even exchanged words with during our four years together, is a blessing I cannot express enough. To be able to see my great kid through a video chat while he’s across the country at college is a gift that not only makes his absence easier to bear but reminds me that our parents didn’t have that luxury when we went away to school or moved with our spouse to another part of the country. I can see him even when he’s so very far away, being given the chance to say “good night” or comfort him when he’s having a bad time at school or share my day with him or tell him how proud I am of him.

But – and to me this is a very big “but” – our connectivity via social media sometimes makes us forget that nothing can replace a face-to-face lunch with a friend, or being able to hug someone you love when you’re sad, or looking into the eyes of someone you care about, or receiving a handwritten letter unexpectedly from someone in your past. After all, being with someone, truly being with someone means that all five of your senses – sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch – can be truly engaged. The experience of being there, being present, being in the moment is an opportunity we sometimes forget but it is one we should not forgo; we should be more greedy for it. Life is too short to spend it behind the screen of a computer, living in a digital cocoon that doesn’t require us to embrace the intimacy that can only come from spending time with a friend, a lover, a parent, a child. But doing so requires action, real action on our parts. Yes, we’re all tired after a long day at work or a stressful commute or the endless stack of laundry to fold when we come home. And sometimes we’re emotionally tired from struggling to care for a parent, or dealing with our own frailties, or figuring out how to make our paycheck last until the next one arrives, or watching the ever-increasingly bad news we’re bombarded with every day.

But what I’ve learned, what I’ve tried to practice – even when it’s tough to do so – is that getting out and being among the madding crowd, being part of the daily dialogue, even being part of the daily traffic flow, makes us more connected in a much more real way than being satisfied with the virtual world that our fingertips connect us to.

So be present. Be in the moment. Be here. Be now. Life is short. Go out and live it.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment