Yesterday, I heard a news report that said hanging out with people that cause you stress can shorten life by nine months. Thinking it over, though, I concluded that most of the time, I cause my own stress, and I might be the someone who is being an ass.

Disagreements are a normal interaction between living beings, including all humans. All people find themselves in conflict with others sometimes, even the best of friends, most amorous lovers, closest families, and the most cordial of business associates. Science knows that the most definitive test of something being alive is irritability. But conflict needn’t be devastating; good outcomes depend upon everyone feeling as if they have been heard. This is particularly important when you’re trying to focus on a dream, a goal, or a business.

Conflict is usually defined as a disagreement in which at least one party perceives a threat to his or her well-being, their needs, or their interests. When conflict arises, if we feel threatened, it’s tough to remain peaceful and open to new ideas. And contrary to my title, the person you’re in conflict with isn’t necessarily an ass; however, it’s easier to frame it that way sometimes.

With a little practice, you can teach yourself to set aside the fight-or-flight instinct and enjoy the opportunity to embrace positive change.

These tips, though not easy, often work for me to keep an open mind when trying to resolve sensitive issues. Full disclosure: it takes total discipline to remain centered, and I can’t always do it. Ask my kids. Ask my husband. Oh hell, ask anyone who has known me for more than a month.

When conflict arises, I can (often) keep my cool

1. When conflict arises, I try to get control of my feelings before I engage in discussion. I know I can’t hear anyone—or even sort out what I really think—if my ears are flaming red and steam is coming out from under my collar.

2. I take a moment to gather my thoughts. A few Yoga breaths or some slow belly breathing help me calm down and center the feelings I have around the issue.

3. I remind myself to choose my battles carefully. I don’t need to argue about everything that’s ever happened between me and the other person; that only clouds the present moment. Instead, I try to decide what truly matters to me and make it a point to understand how the other person sees things.

4. I practice reflective listening. When the other person speaks, I stay quiet, clear out impulsive replies, and really take in what’s being said without judging. Then I repeat it in my own words, starting with, “I think you said…” and finishing with, “Did I hear that correctly?” I have, over many years, gotten pretty proficient with this one.

5. I count two beats before responding. That brief pause gives me time to absorb what I’ve heard and helps me avoid those automatic, defensive reactions that can shut down real conversation.

6. I do my best to stay centered on facts and authentic feelings, filtering out any comments meant to provoke me. I focus on what actually matters.

7. I push myself to reach for the other person’s perspective. For a moment, I consciously block my own inner dialogue and look forward to hearing a fresh angle or new understanding.

8. I remind myself that all ideas have merit. I don’t have to agree with everything, but if I don’t truly listen, I miss opportunities to grow and learn. Whether I’m talking with a partner or navigating a staff discussion, I make space for everyone to express what’s on their minds. Everyone deserves to be heard.

9. I let go of the notion that my point of view is the only right one. When I stay open to other ways of thinking, I often discover insights that surprise and excite me. Read this one again—it’s critical.

10. I welcome diversity and remind myself not to fear conflict. Some of the most meaningful progress in my own life—and in the world—has come from moments of disagreement and honest engagement.

Are you a bad person if you disagree?

For normal, healthy people, fighting isn’t fun and isn’t necessary. Disagreeing and arguing are completely normal. We engage in conflict so that we can establish boundaries, rules, and customs.

If you welcome an exchange of ideas without feeling threatened and respect the diversity that makes us all valuable contributors, your open-minded attitude may help you learn new things and sometimes bring others around to your way of thinking. I’m not a bad person, you’re not a bad person, and neither is the ass you’re conflicting with. It’s pretty simple; we’re just human, and getting riled is normal as long as we aren’t going for all-out war.

I know you’re not an ass, or you wouldn’t be reading my stuff. If you’d like to help keep the lights on, hop over to my tip jar and accept my thanks.

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The wisdom and insights that live in The Prophet go beyond any specific culture, religion, geography, or time period. Gibran Kahlil GIbran’s work touches on universally relatable fundamental human experiences and emotions—he speaks to me, and he speaks to you regardless of your personal beliefs.

This little book, easy to read easy to hold, has resonated with readers around the world since its publication on September 23, 1923. For a century, its profound teachings and beautiful prose have stood the test of time, attracting readers from multiple generations and cultures. While most books’ sales diminish over time, it has gained an ever-increasing global readership and has been translated into about 100 languages. It has never been advertised or marketed; The Prophet’s popularity is fueled by word-of-mouth recommendations, its beautiful message, and its inclusion in various educational curricula and self-help reading lists. It surprised me to find that this Lebanese-born poet, who emigrated to Boston as a child, has been called the third most-read poet—behind Shakespeare and Laozi.

We’re talking about one of the best-selling books of all time; Swann Galleries estimates sales worldwide of more than 100 million copies. The book has never been out of print.

Why people call The Prophet a prized possession

Someone, I don’t remember who, gave me my copy in 1965, the opening of a decade of political, military, social, and economic turmoil that shook the world to its roots and resulted in wide sweeping alterations to our culture.

I was always in love with words. I swooned over song lyrics like, “As I watch the drops of rain weave their weary paths and die, I know that I am like the rain, there but for the grace of you go I.”

So I found Gibran’s writing style poetic and eloquent, creating a captivating and magical read. Then 15 years old, I constantly scanned my experiences for meaning and direction, and this little book’s chapters on everything I knew I had to face as an adult resonated like the deepest tones of a gong.

Though I probably couldn’t have articulated my feelings, I found solace, inspiration, and a sense of what purpose looks like. And I wasn’t alone. By the time I was at the University of Illinois, the book was an emblem in my circle. The Prophet is not a lengthy or complex work, so it feels accessible. People drop into its pages for a quick read and revisit its wisdom easily.

We were truly immersed in the counterculture, turning our backs on just about everything that reeked (to us) of the stale establishment. We stopped going to church, and many of us looked into Wicca, Buddhism, and other Eastern philosophies. (Cue Ravi Shankar). When we found Kahlil’s church-free, inclusive spiritualism, free of thou-shalt-nots and judgment, we were right there with him.

Interestingly, if you look into periods of dissatisfaction and discontent since the 1920s, there’s a marked uptick in the book’s popularity every time. It’s not hard to intuit that we’re due for another bout of robust sales of The Prophet any day now.

A look at the magical and lyrical content

The storyline opens with a wise man, Al-Mustafa, about to depart his home of 12 years for his (imaginary) city of origin, Orphalese. Al-Mustafa, not unlike Siddhartha Gautama, is bent on building a better society in which people can lead a truthful life. A crowd gathers as he approaches a ship, and Almitra, a seeress, employs him to answer the ultimate questions of life. For me, the ship was a metaphor for death, and Al-Mustafa was leaving a legacy for his followers.

The last line is this: “A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me.”

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We can find five major universal truths in the story. I’ll give you a brief look at them.

*Humans always seek wisdom. We have always learned about life through teachers and preachers. The people in the book know that, and so they ask him to share his truths so they can live better lives and pass the wisdom on. It’s interesting to me that experts think Gibran drew inspiration from Blake, Whitman, and Nietzsche.

There is high value in life and in love. But we’re continuously puzzled by both. Al-Mustafa recommends we follow love, though it may be painful. We learn that true love and life are not only about pleasure; pain makes the pleasure more significant, and love requires balance.

The glorification of all humans. The Prophet shines a beautiful light on self-preservation, immortality, and the god-self present in every person. Al-Mustafa’s lessons don’t neglect social justice and the nature of crime and punishment

Joy and sorrow—Gibran realizes that joy is inseparable from sorrow. He shows over and over how each heightens or diminishes the balance of the other.

The importance of freedom—Probably my favorite theme is liberation from the chains of social norms. He tells us individuals and nations all seek freedom. We’ll sacrifice anything for more of it. Just as the reader is pulled into complete agreement with that idea, Gibran reminds us that freedom may actually create its own prison.

Links to sample passages (public domain)—skip down to “The Prophet Revisited” if you are short of time

• The Coming of the Ship—And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

• On Love - But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

• On Marriage -Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God. But let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

• On Children — Your children are not your children they are the sons and daughters of life’s yearning for itself. And though they are with you they do not belong to you.

• On Giving — You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

• On Eating and Drinking—Would that you could live on the fragrance of the earth, and like an air plant, be sustained by the light. But since you must kill to eat, and rob the newly born of its mother’s milk to quench your thirst, let it then be an act of worship.

• On Work —It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy

• On Joy and Sorrow — Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

• On Buying and Selling— It is in exchanging the gifts of the earth that you shall find abundance and be satisfied. Yet unless the exchange be in love and kindly justice, it will but lead some to greed and others to hunger.

• On Crime and Punishment — And you who would understand justice, how shall you unless you look upon all deeds in the fullness of light?

• On Freedom— And thus your freedom, when it loses its fetters, becomes itself the fetter of a greater freedom.

• On Self-Knowledge --The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.

• On Teaching --No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge.

• On-Time — And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.

• On Good and Evil --You are good in countless ways, and you are not evil when you are not good, you are only loitering and sluggard.

• On Beauty --Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

• On Death --If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

The Prophet revisited

My relationship with The Prophet began in the ‘60s when we felt judged, repressed, tried, and convicted of something, but we didn’t know what. Our heroes and myths shifted from parental traditions to things we could feel we owned. We dressed funny. We did things to our hair, our language, and our music. We endured murdered heroes, Viet Nam, the Civil Rights Movement, women’s struggles, and political strife that culminated in the 1968 Democratic Convention. Steve Jobs’s fascination with Buddhism came of the period.

I travelled all over the world with Al-Mustafa in my suitcase, and when I got pregnant the first time, his words about children put tears in my eyes. I didn’t want anyone to read Bible verses at my wedding. When my kids were baptized, Kahlil made more sense to me than the Catholic baptism ceremony did.

I still love the way I feel when I read that book. Once, I took a calligraphy pen and copied the entire text into a scrapbook, then illustrated it with pictures cut from magazines and greeting cards. The project took six months because there was no artificial intelligence, and computers were the size of living rooms.

These days, you can find podcasts, posters, books, derivative books, essays, shirts, films, and a cartoon feature. Gibran’s book is in the public domain, so it can be used, quoted, adapted, or rewritten without permission. In our world of unrest, strife, and discord, who knows where and how this lyrical work will find new fans? If you haven’t read it, put aside your daily routine, sit quietly in a place you love, and treat yourself to a slow, gentle, thorough reading. Let the words sink in and resonate. If you’ve read it, do it again.

Sources

Arab World English Journal

The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

The Wanderer by Kahlil Gibran

I remember precisely what I was doing when I heard the news about Kent State. And when Janis died, I was driving to Southern Illinois for a concert (maybe Santana?) and a sit-in.

Here’s what I want to know: do you remember where you were the first time you heard Tapestry?

I was sprawled across a beanbag chair—harvest gold, naturally—in my college roommate’s new apartment, eating cold SpaghettiOs from a can and pretending I was not thinking about a certain someone who had not called me back. I drew a five-foot-high candle on the walls of that place, with smoke tendrils that curled and curved all the way around the dining room. She did not get her security deposit back.

Anyway, Carole King came on the turntable, and I didn’t move for the rest of the side. By the time It’s Too Late finished, I had composed myself, finished the Os, started on a jar of beets, and decided I was absolutely fine now.

(I was not fine. But the music helped.)

That was 1971. And the early ‘70s—roughly 1970 to 1975, if we’re being generous with the bookends—produced what I believe is the most extraordinary cluster of albums in the history of recorded music. I’m not being sentimental. Well. I’m being a little sentimental. But I’m also right.

You want to argue that point? What do you think the comments section is for?

Here are ten of those albums why they mattered then and still do.

Tapestry — Carole King (1971)

Let’s start here, because everything should start here. Carole King spent years writing hits for other people—Will You Love Me Tomorrow, Up on the Roof—and then she sat down and wrote an avalanche of hits for herself.

The result was an album that sold 25 million copies and permanently changed what a woman singer-songwriter could be and could say out loud. Remember?

It was intimate in a way that felt almost intrusive. Like overhearing your most centered friend admit she was quietly falling apart. I played my copy until the grooves practically flattened. It taught me, at twenty-something, that you could be honest about heartbreak and still express true self-respect. That was a lesson I needed more than once.

What was I doing while it played? Crying. Cleaning my apartment. Crying while cleaning my apartment. Writing letters I wouldn’t send. Planning to burn my bra. You know how it was.

What’s Going On — Marvin Gaye (1971)

Motown did not want to release this record. They thought it was too political, too jazzy, too strange. Marvin Gaye released it anyway, and it became one of the most important albums ever made—a meditation on Vietnam, addiction, environmental destruction, and spiritual longing, wrapped in the most gorgeous, layered, heartbreaking sound I had heard up to that point in my life.

It is still astonishing. Put it on today, and you will feel it in your chest within thirty seconds. I promise.

What was I doing while it played? Some days, marching. Some days trying to explain to my parents why I was marching. (That particular conversation never went especially well. Lord, my repressed father hated the 70s.) Some nights, I just sat quietly in the dark with it on, because some music you simply do not talk over.

Led Zeppelin IV — Led Zeppelin (1971)

No title. No track listing on the outer sleeve. Four mysterious symbols. And inside: Black Dog, Rock and Roll, The Battle of Evermore, and Stairway to Heaven—which played on every FM rock station approximately every forty-five minutes for the next decade, and none of us objected.

(It remains a magnificent song, despite everything that has since happened to it.)

I remember the first time I heard Black Dog come out of a decent set of speakers at full volume. I stood still for a moment, recalibrated my entire understanding of what a rock band could do, and then got on with my evening. There was a lot of evening to get on with in those days. …that cloud of smoke…

What was I doing while it played? Driving too fast. Air guitaring when I thought no one was looking. (Someone was usually looking. I did not care.)

Exile on Main St. — The Rolling Stones (1972)

A double album recorded in a rented villa in the south of France while everyone involved was, let’s say, extremely committed to the rock and roll lifestyle. It sounds like it was recorded in a basement at 3 a.m. That is precisely why it’s perfect—muddy, sprawling, joyful, falling apart in all the right ways.

I have a theory that Exile is the album you appreciate most in your thirties, once you’ve lived enough to understand that beautiful things are often slightly chaotic and held together with duct tape. At twenty-two, I thought it was a mess. At thirty-two I understood it was a masterpiece. I’ve been right about it ever since. Wait, you’re not arguing again, are you?

What was I doing while it played? At a party. Always at a party. Or a club or concert (my first was Herman’s Hermits when I was, I dunno, 13?) Or wishing I was at a party.

Harvest — Neil Young (1972)

The most successful album Neil Young ever made, which seemed to embarrass him somewhat—he promptly pivoted to making a series of deliberately uncommercial records that confused everyone. (Classic Neil.) But Harvest is beautiful: lonely and warm at the same time, like a campfire in a field in November. Heart of Gold went to number one and deserved every week it spent there.

I played this one alone, mostly. There’s something about Neil Young’s voice—that particular fragile quality—that makes company feel like an intrusion. Know this, I was playing that album yesterday, and I still love his craggy, poignant voice.

What was I doing while it played? Reading. Thinking deep thoughts. Trying to seem deeper than I was. (Successfully, some of the time.) Getting stoned. Yeah, sue me.

Innervisions — Stevie Wonder (1973)

When Stevie Wonder turned 21, he renegotiated his Motown contract and took complete creative control. Then he made five consecutive masterpiece albums. Innervisions was the third—Living for the City, Higher Ground (love that SONG!), Too High—and it is a work of such confident, joyful, furious genius that it still makes me slightly regretful about everything I probably should have accomplished.

(I mean that in the most affectionate way possible.)

The first time I heard Living for the City I cranked the volume in my apartment and danced around my kitchen, naked. My downstairs neighbor knocked on the ceiling with what I assumed was a broom handle. I turned it down approximately three percent. Eff u, neighbor.

What was I doing while it played? Always dancing. There was no other appropriate response.

Court and Spark — Joni Mitchell (1974)

Joni Mitchell made experimental records. She made more critically praised records. But Court and Spark is the one where everything came together: the jazz influences, the autobiographical lyrics, the strange open guitar tunings, the voice that could do things no other voice could do. The sound feels like Los Angeles in the early ‘70s—if Los Angeles was freedom and impending heartbreak and jasmine.

(It kind of was, actually.)

I have never fully recovered from The Last Time I Saw Richard. If you know, you know.

What was I doing while it played? Falling in love. Falling out of love. Writing in my journal about both. Sometimes all in the same week. I was nothing if not efficient.

The Dark Side of the Moon — Pink Floyd (1973)

This album stayed on the Billboard charts for 937 weeks. Nine hundred and thirty-seven. It deals with time, mortality, mental illness, and the particular madness of modern life, and it does so with such precision and atmosphere that it functions as a complete theatrical experience unto itself. Yeah, okay, that’s a little over the top.

The first time I heard it all the way through—really sat down and listened, beginning to end—I was quiet afterward for a solid minute. Which, for me, in my mid-twenties, was somewhat unprecedented. Still is.

What was I doing while it played? Staring at the ceiling. Contemplating the universe and my navel. Eating whatever snacks were available. (I will neither confirm nor deny the precise circumstances under which some of us first encountered this album. Suffice it to say the ceiling was very interesting.)

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road — Elton John (1973)

Elton John in 1973 was a phenomenon—releasing multiple albums a year and somehow landing at least three permanent residents of your brain on every single one. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road was a double album, a whole gorgeous extravagant world, and it contained Candle in the Wind and Bennie and the Jets and the title track and Saturday Night’s Alright (for Fighting) and it is almost unfair that one record is allowed to do all of that.

(Bernie Taupin wrote those lyrics, by the way. I have been wanting to hand that man a flower for fifty years, and I’m doing it now.)

I sang along to every word of this album, constantly, at full volume, without apology. I stand by this.

What was I doing while it played? Everything. Getting dressed. Driving. Pretending I wasn’t singing along. (I was always singing along.)

Who’s Next — The Who (1971)

I’d be doing a disservice to the decade—and to my own memories—if I left out the album that begins with the sound of Roger Daltrey zipping up his fly and Pete Townshend hitting one of the most iconic opening chords in rock history. Baba O’Riley. The synthesizer rising like something being built from the ground up, and then the guitars come in, and then that voice.

I saw The Who perform twice in the early ‘70s. Both times I left partially deaf and entirely exhilarated, which I maintain is the correct way to experience them. Behind Blue Eyes, Bargain, Won’t Get Fooled Again—this album is a complete education in what rock and roll can do when it decides to be serious about itself.

What was I doing while it played? Standing up. You could not sit down for this record. Still can’t.

What it all adds up to

Here’s what strikes me, looking back at this list from the comfortable vantage point of seventy-six years and several superb decades: that music wasn’t background. It was the texture and soundtrack of life itself.

We didn’t stream it. We didn’t skip tracks. We put a diamond down on vinyl and we listened—because albums cost money we often didn’t have and because the album was a thing, a complete thing, with intention and sequence and weight.

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I knew every word of every song on records I loved, and I have never forgotten those lyrics. I handed them to people I was falling for like I was handing them something essential about myself.

(Because I was.)

I haven’t included Janis Joplin, because it’s still too sad for me—she was my soulmate in spirit if not in person. Every time I played PIece of My Heart, my BFF jumped up on the coffee table, grabbed a candleholder for a mic and did Janis better than Janis did.

I still have most of those albums—not the vinyl, long gone through various moves and lend-and-never-returns. Don’t get me started about the asshat who borrowed Alice’s Restaurant and then moved away…

…but I have the memories of them, which turn out to be almost the same thing.

Put on What’s Going On sometime. Put on Court and Spark. Put on Baba O’Riley and try, I dare you, not to feel something shift in your personal essence.

We were young and searching and absolutely certain we understood everything. The music knew better, and it told us so, and we loved it for that.

I still do.

Did I ever tell you about the weekend I came home from Northern Illinois University, dressed in buckskin, fringe, and beads from head to toe, and my dad offered me $50 (FIFTY BUCKS!) to burn the clothes? I sneered “no” with total reverence for the counterculture. But that’s another story.

Inkspired is where I come to talk about the things that stick—the music, the moments, the lessons that took decades to fully land. If this sent you down a rabbit hole of old records, I’ll count that as time well spent. If you want to learn how to write about the soundtrack of your life, drop in at Pen2Profit on Substack.

Thirty years ago this week, I quit smoking. Or, more accurately, smoking and I had a long, messy breakup—it cried smoke rings; I cried real tears. But we finally parted ways for good, and I celebrate that anniversary now like some folks celebrate weddings because, in its own way, it was one: a lifelong commitment to staying alive.

It. Was. Not. Easy. Therefore, knowing the pain and frustration, I feel compelled to be your cheerleader if you or a sig other are struggling with tobacco issues. You can quit—but you gotta have the backbone of a tyrannosaurus and the patience of a 100-year-old nun.

Back then, I calculated that my “forever plan” (you know, the one where I’d live forever fueled by caffeine, cigarettes, and cheeseburgers) was not going as planned. It’s funny how mortality becomes more visible once you start coughing like a ‘78 Chevy trying to start on a January morning. I decided if I wanted to see my grandchildren—or at least still recognize them without wheezing—I’d better pick a new hobby.

So, I quit. Cold turkey, no applause, no confetti. Just me and my mantra: “Smoking is not an option.” Those five words were taped to my mirror, fridge, steering wheel, and possibly the cat. I did cheat slightly. For a while, I smoked peppermint sticks because they tasted similar to menthol when you suck air through them. Talking on the phone or writing at my desk were HUGE triggers for me, so I needed a crutch.

Full disclosure: for those first few days, my body felt like it was staging a revolution. Headaches, jitters, and the sensation that time had slowed to the speed of melting ice. But every day without smoke was one inch closer to freedom. And freedom tastes better when you’ve earned it.

Weeks passed. I started counting the money I wasn’t burning—literally. I put it in a jar. There’s something poetic about watching your willpower stack up in twenties. At a point, that jar covered a semester of my kid’s college tuition. It still makes me proud, even now.

Footnote: I actually did a long-term calculation based on the cost of cigarettes back then, which was way, way less than now. I discovered I could almost have bought a house with the money I spent on ciggies over the years. Back then, the cost was under a buck for a pack and wayyyy less than a quarter of a million for a house.

The smells changed, too. My home stopped smelling like an old bar carpet. My hair stopped smelling like defeat. Food—real food—tasted vibrant again. I discovered that lettuce actually has flavor and that coffee doesn’t need a side of ash to be satisfying.

Now, thirty years later

I’m still here: alive, mostly upright, a little creaky, but breathing deep. If you’ve tried to quit a dozen times and think it’s just not for you, let me tell you something hard-won: you haven’t failed, you’ve been rehearsing. Every attempt teaches your brain a new way to imagine life without smoke. One day, it’ll stick. Maybe that day is soon.

When you get there, you’ll notice some new stuff. Mornings feel less like you’re dragging a chain behind you. The cough quiets. Your reflection looks a little more alive. You don’t stink. You become—slowly, stubbornly—someone your past self wished they’d met sooner.

Thirty years later, I still whisper that old mantra when life tempts me toward bad habits: “Smoking is not an option.” It’s more than a rule. It’s a reminder that change, even after decades of trying, is always possible. May you be successful.

Ya know, if you love great writing and you always thought you could produce same, hop over to Pen2Profit and see how I can power you up.

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may I be well — may I be happy — may I be satisfied with my life

In the darkest depths of the Covid pandemic, when I was right on the verge of lining up all stupid people and slapping them mercilessly, it occurred to me that I might want to think more positively. (Ya think?)

Out of nowhere, without warning, down swooped a Buddhist nun who told me to cut the crap and look through a better lens. It didn’t happen overnight—my transformation was long and annoyingly frustrating, but here’s what I finally came to terms with.

Most often, when I am intolerant or judgmental of others, it’s because I am not pleased with something going on in my head. I may be angry that I lost my patience with a family member. Perhaps I wasn’t quite honest with myself about something I needed or about how I felt about something.

Because I’m a flawed human, I stuff these negative feelings deep down and then manifest them in my interactions with the rest of the world. That doesn’t move me forward and doesn’t make me feel satisfied with my progress.

But the nun showed me a secret that I took to right off. It helps me regroup and rethink. She taught me to be kind to all sentient beings—but to put myself at the very top of that list.

Let me share how I do that.

The classic loving kindness meditation and mantra

Loving kindness meditation (sometimes called metta meditation) is a great way to cultivate our desire and ability to be, well, nice. It involves mentally sending goodwill, kindness, and warmth towards others in the entire universe. Sounds daunting, but it’s actually simple.

The idea is to act like a gentle friend to yourself, no matter what kind of energy is coursing through you or what sort of experience you are having in the present.

In a nutshell, loving kindness describes an unconditional and open love fueled by your personal and intentional wish for yourself and all others to be well.

When I’m out of sorts, I try to quiet myself for a few moments. I set a timer for as little as five minutes and take a few slow, deep breaths (yes, the mindfulness stuff always starts out with breathing). And then I talk to myself, making sure no one can hear me and jump to conclusions about my cognitive health.

The bones of my loving kindness meditation

Eyes closed, I focus on myself as the only sentient being there is. I envision my whole body, relaxing muscles as I mentally go from head to toe. Like a virtual PET scan, maybe.

I say out loud, “May I be well. May I be peaceful. May I be happy with my life.”

After all, with those three ideas in place, how can I be ornery? I might add a few more, like, “May I be healthy. May I be satisfied. May I appreciate my life.”

I think for a moment about what those mantras mean. Then I expand my scope, visualizing my whole family, thinking exclusively of them—maybe picturing each face.

While I have that image, I say, “May they be well. May they be peaceful. May they be happy with their lives.”

And I expand, visualizing a panorama of my neighborhood and beginning to include my neighbors, known and unknown, in my manifestation of good feelings. I concentrate on experiencing a sincere and authentic wish for them.

From there, I expand my vision to my town, then my state, my country, other countries, the world, and the universe. It may sound a little unrealistic, but when I keep my focus and feel the pleasure of loving kindness, it seems real and worthwhile. Try it.

The whole thing can be performed in five minutes. Or you can get into it and sit for a longer time, manifesting a strong desire for happiness to all sentient beings everywhere, no matter how big or small. It feels wonderful. You can do it as often as you like.

Mumbo jumbo, New Age fad, or real science?

The benefit of surrounding yourself with peaceful, positive energy is 100% backed by science. Yes, there’s a lovely spiritual component. Sure, you might feel a little odd at first. But the science can’t be denied. And the bottom line may be that you’ll live longer.

I read a surprising piece in Psychology Today that offers insight into the science.

For one thing, it said practicing loving kindness replaces negative emotions with positive emotions.

In a landmark study, Barbara Frederickson and her colleagues found that practicing seven weeks of loving-kindness meditation increased love, joy, contentment, gratitude, pride, hope, interest, amusement, and awe. These positive emotions then produced increases in a wide range of personal resources (e.g., increased mindfulness, purpose in life, social support, decreased illness symptoms), which, in turn, predicted increased life satisfaction and reduced depressive symptoms.

There’s even some evidence that such a practice can help with issues like PTSD, chronic pain, migraines, various illnesses, and even schizophrenia disorders. No, it’s not a cure, but it may make a positive difference.

If that doesn’t inspire you, think about slowing down aging. Lots of people endure Botox needle injections, but what if you could age more gracefully by virtue of your own mind control?

Loving kindness-type thinking has been shown to noticeably slow the age-related decrease in length of human telomeres. Huh?

Telomeres are slivers of chromosomes that seem to correlate with the effects of aging. Scientists have noted that women who practice a habit of loving kindness meditations have longer telomeres.

Tons of benefits and a little extra beauty in life

Loving kindness meditation can be done silently, of course. You can manifest those intentions in an abstract way without using words at all. But the mantras and verses I’ve come across are soothing and lovely. Here are a couple of examples.

May all beings, near and far, be happy and contented. May all beings, near and far, be healthy and whole to whatever degree possible. May all beings, near and far, experience ease of well-being. May all beings, near and far, be safe, protected, and free from inner and outer harm.

Remember to focus on yourself first. If you are not well, if you don’t practice self-care, you can’t care for others.

May I be at ease in my body, feeling the ground beneath my seat and feet. May I be attentive and gentle toward my own discomfort and suffering. May I be attentive and grateful for my own joy and well-being. May I move towards others freely and with openness. May I receive others with sympathy and understanding.

And I always end with this thought: “May everything I do, think, and say today be done not only for my benefit but also for the benefit of all sentient beings everywhere.”

None of us is perfect, and we won’t always succeed in performing only good acts. But acting as if we can and want to do so could go a long way toward making life more satisfying. May you be well.

My grandmother was a beautiful woman. She was, from my vantage point, always old—but in that old-fashioned way that grandmas don’t do anymore. Her silver hair was never dyed. Her little wire-rimmed glasses were real gold; she had had them forever. I have them now. She wouldn’t be caught dead in anything but corset, cotton bloomers, stockings, black oxfords, and a dress with obligatory tiny flowers sprigged over it.

Trousers? Never happened. And she would never have gone out without a little veiled hat.

As a child, I spent much of my time with her. My home life was loud and rocky with five siblings and parents who struggled with everything. Kind of chaotic dysfunction.

Grandma taught me good cooking—cooking for taste, not necessarily for culinary trends. She made me into a needlewoman, showing me how to use threads or yarn the way an artist uses pigments.

I loved her unreservedly, and she me. I believe I could have asked for the moon, and she’d have tried to satisfy my desire. If I kicked up a heck of a rumpus, she’d laugh and rumpus with me.

She handed out hugs like candy on Halloween and never, ever, made me feel like I didn’t matter. She had 29 grandchildren. I always knew I was her supreme favorite, and so did each of the other 28. (I only have 15.)

She lived to 95 (my goal is 104). One day, when I asked her why she always had her little well-worn prayer book in her pocket, she turned the volume of her hearing aid back up to hear me and thought for a few minutes. (I hear her voice as I write this—a little crackly with age, soft and slow—mindful.)

“Sweetie, life’s tough. We can complain and moan about what the Good Lord hands us, but I decided a long time ago calm works better. My book helps me feel close to Him, but even better, when I sink into it and turn off my ear, I can really be all by myself. It does for my mind what sleeping does for my body. Kind of heals and clears out the mess. Then I just go about my business and don’t bother about all the garbage.” I have her book now, too.

It occurs to me that she knew all about mindfulness, though she had never heard the term, I am sure.

I never heard Grandmother raise her voice. She never needed a pill, a shrink, or a cocktail.

“Well, maybe a little drop of blackberry brandy, Sweetie.”

She didn’t diet. She didn’t work out. She didn’t have a job. She drank lots of coffee and was known to eat angel food cake for breakfast.

Memories of her—violet scent, soft voice, slow deliberate steps, busy hands, nurturing her family—still color my life in shades of love, safety, and serenity. Her way of being a grandma has tinted the life I weave with my own grandbabies.

But, still handing out hugs and kisses, I’ll teach those who come after me a different way of growing old.

I was into bell-bottoms, beads, fast cars, and maybe a toke now and again (sorry, Gramma!) I married twice, traveled the world with a backpack, met some pretty gamey people, and enjoyed their foibles. I burned my bra alongside a lot of you. I protest things that don’t sit well with me, and I don’t have a prayer book. A meditation cushion suits me better.

My life is, was, and will always be louder, filled with colors, faster, and a hell of a lot of fun. The folks coming up behind me need to watch out for my dust. Grandma loved her rocking chair, her quiet, and her soap operas.

Me? That beautiful woman gave me the confidence to rock on with dignity and harmony.

Hop to my sister pub, Pen2Profit

A long, long time ago — I can still remember when some self-proclaimed expert explained in great detail that Otto Titzling invented the bra. (This sentence, by the way, may have been inspired by Don McLean.)

I swear, I wanted desperately to buy into his story. I mean, what could be better? Could the chaos of the Universe create such poetry?

But, alas, it was a lie that grew out of a mildly humorous book called Bust Up: The Uplifting Tale of Otto Titzling by Wallace Reyburn. Our buddy Wallace, a New Zealand humorist and rugby writer, buried his face in creating a number of urban legends that have real staying power. His inventive half-truths and lies caught on long ago, and to this day, it’s tough to convince some people that most of it is pure poppycock.

It should be noted that Reyburn’s prose is so persuasive that Trivial Pursuit listed Titzling as the correct answer to “Who invented the brassiere?” Hollywood Squares got bleeped when John Davidson answered the same question with the same mendacious response.

Yes, a few moments of internet research supported my thesis that no one named titz — anything could possibly have been involved in creating the brassiere. Although this story is bandied about worldwide and never loses ground, it’s a figment of Reyburn’s imagination.

He wrote that Titzling and his right-hand man, Hans Delving, unleashed the garment on the world in 1912, hoping to provide a solution for an uncomfortable problem experienced by a Swedish athlete named — Lois Lung.

The story unfolds with Titzling filing litigation against Phillipe de Brassiere for patent infringement, but there doesn’t seem to be a pinch of truth in the tale. One source says Mary Phelps Jacobs first officially used the term brassiere in 1914.

Reyburn’s books have sold in respectable numbers. He’s a funny man.

However, Hoag Levins studied all the sexual devices ever patented in the US, and his resulting book, American Sex Machines, declares that Marie Tucek hooked up the first brassiere patent in 1893.

Friends should be like bras — close to your heart and there for support.

Now the same blowhard who insisted to me that he had the absolute, indisputable facts about tits and slingers went on to bloviate about how John Crapper invented the toilet. Call me a skeptic. Something didn’t smell quite right about this taradiddle.

I went to the source, so to speak. Plumbing Supply’s website.

PLUMBING HISTORY - Sir Thomas Crapper

The history of Sir Thomas Crapper

www.plumbingsupply.com

I mean, who would have deeper insight? The site is flush with facts. They published the truth (their version) about Mr. Crapper and his connection to the toilet. Their article is an entertaining and elucidating read. Bottom line, Mr. C. was a plumber.

He did not invent the toilet per se. But despair not — the guy’s impact on the British plumbing industry, indeed, on toilets themselves, overflows with relevance. Crapper secured nine patents for drain improvement, water closet designs, manhole lids, and piping.

Crapper was a good man who left his mark streaked across the fabric of society. — Medium writer

Kenny Minker

(annnnnnd…mic drop)

Perhaps that thought closes the lid on the debate.

If you’re awash in doubt about the veracity of these urban legends, I suggest you pick up a copy of one of Mr. Reyburn’s books. The fellow died in the 1990s at a ripe old age, having deposited a number of amusing books into the waters of modern fiction. I’ve put you onto three books I bet you have not read. You’re welcome.

If you’re a working writer and found this article helpful, you’ll love what I’m sharing next week on Pen2Profit. Have a look at my passion project with exclusive bonus content for subscribers. Subscribe now!

Go see Pen2Profit!

The Once and Future Witches by Alix E. Harrow (Published in 2020)

Once upon a time, a young woman in Virginia pitched a book to a publisher. The pitch went like this: “Suffragettes but witches.” Three words and The Once and Future Witches was conceived. It’s a gem about three sisters in an alternate American history where three witches jump on board the women’s movement and turn it into a witches’ movement — because they believe in both.

But it’s also an example of writing that steps to the beat of a different drum.

For the past year, I’ve been disappointed by a lot of books. I read one a week, and contemporary novels often feel like they start out at a gallop and end at a dead stop. The book I just finished demonstrated perfectly that writers can break lots of rules and still create a story that doesn’t disappoint. Now, I’m going to begin emphasizing that in my coaching sessions.

The Once and Future Witches grabbed me and held on with a perfect storm of alternate history, mythology, and fairy tales tightly entwined in women’s rights and empowerment.

I loved the women in those pages — flawed and multi-dimensional, strong, smart, and resourceful. A story not too big, not too small — just exactly what I was pining for. Fun. Something to ponder.

Proper witching is just a conversation with that red heartbeat, which only ever takes three things: the will to listen to it, the words to speak with it, and the way to let it into the world. The will, the words, and the way. — The Once and Future Witches

In interviews, Harrow says she focuses always on the importance of storytelling and on stories as a means of escape. She intentionally plays with conventions, characters, and alternative history. She sprinkles the book with unique retells of fairy tales I know well, spinning the female characters as though they were strong feminists instead of persecuted princesses.

She put a series of historical realities into a cocktail shaker and poured them out with a revisionist twist. The Salem witch trials play out parallel to the Triangle Shirtwaist factory tragedy and blend seamlessly into the suffrage movement. It struck me as fun and purposeful; Harrow holds a master’s in history.

I love seeing a skilled writer bend and break the rules. Writing coaches carp at burgeoning writers, “Show, don’t tell.” Well, let me tell you, relying heavily on narrative as opposed to showing worked for me — I got swept up as if I were talking to a woman friend relating a gripping tale. Yep, it’s a fulsome narrative, but it kept me in Harrow’s world, and I didn’t want to leave.

She made me eager to hit the keyboard and work on a novel

Words are my playthings. I’ve been a writer forever, and I want to be Paul Simon or Don McLean in my next life so I can experience what it is like to always find the perfect word, the perfectly executed context. I saw the same talent in Harrow. She pleased me by being judicious with nicely tight writing that moves ever forward — her prose is elegant, silky, effortless. That’s why Witches lingers in my head though I finished it days ago.

A good witchy tale always appeals to me — magic delights me, and fantasy puts me in another universe. But the best thing a writer can do is weave me a story that makes me think outside my comfort zone and shows me something I hadn’t thought of. After reading this one, I’m thinking about what kind of novel I might write — and I do not often write fiction.

Or perhaps for all of them: for the little girls thrown in cellars and the grown women sent to workhouses, the mothers who shouldn’t have died, and the witches who shouldn’t have burned. For all the women punished merely for wanting what they shouldn’t. ― The Once and Future Witches

We’re not talking about a perfect book here. There are small hiccups that simply underline the authenticity of the writing. Once in a while, for example, her people fall into stereotypes (like some typical male character flaws) so the story can flow in the intended direction.

My reading experience was all over the map. Cliche, I know, but I laughed out loud (my husband kept glancing over at me to see what was so funny). I shed a tear or two and also found myself angry and irritated. The people and situations I was reading meshed perfectly with my life experiences but were different enough to keep me engaged.

He loves pieces of her — the thunder-blue of her eyes, the full moon-glow of her breasts in the dark — but he never even met most of her. If he peeled back her pretty skin, he’d find nothing soft or sweet at all, just busted glass and ashes and the desperate animal-will to stay alive. — The Once and Future Witches

I’m old; I grew up in the ’60s, and the Women’s Movement was huge for me. Feminism is/was not a hip thing to talk about; it is the only sane way to run a planet. Is there any reason equal rights should not extend to all humans?

As I read, it kept occurring to me that feminism and women’s rights have been a contention for centuries and may always be. I feel like Harrow gets that, and I feel connected to her because we both care. Deeply. But Harrow’s book isn’t just about witches or feminism. It’s about all women.

It’s about how we help each other and how we hinder each other. It’s about the challenges we face. When I finished the witches’ story, I felt more hopeful than I have in some time. This author is a young woman — she could easily wrap herself in her kids, her husband, her suburban life and sail through. But unlike some of her peers, she made me wonder about how we could right some evergreen wrongs. I felt a personal connection. For me, that is what a great book forges.

If this post entertained you or gave you something to think about, you can find more of my writing right here!

Click for more to love

Wow! A wondrous number of you have hopped aboard the Inkspired Community over the last couple of weeks. Whether you were lured in by the Yugoslavian freighter escapades or my Christmas fiction, or a recommendation from my awesome writer friends, I’m glad you’re here.

There’s a lot to be said for a life lived in chapters, even if some of those chapters were written while raising people’s eyebrows or making your family wonder how on earth you got so, um, weird? Unconventional?

However, I realized I’ve been a bit of a tease. I’ve shared the stories, but I haven’t properly introduced you to the “engine room” where these stories are built.

The truth is, while I loved the entertainment and excitement of a life well-lived, my real passion these days is helping writers of—shall we say—an “experienced” perspective do exactly what I’m doing here. Most writing advice today is loud, frantic, and aimed at people half our age. I prefer a quieter, more expert approach that offers actionable strategies.

That happens over at Pen2Profit.

It’s my “sister publication” where I take off the storyteller hat and put on the mentor hat. We talk about the craft of high-quality writing, the relationship with readers,

and the actual business of being a professional writer without losing your soul (or your sense of humor).

Since you’ve joined the Inkspired circle recently, I wanted to offer you a “seat at the professional table” before the next cohort begins. I recently shifted my Pen2Profit annual membership to an $80 model to keep the community focused and high-value, but for my Inkspired readers, I’ve set up a “Legacy Rate.”

Get 1/3 off forever at P2P

There’s no pressure to jump over. If you’re just here for the stories, I’m happy to have you.

But if you’ve ever looked at your own “potpourri” of experiences and wondered how to turn them into something professional, meaningful, and profitable, come see what we’re doing.

Either way, keep your eyes peeled. The next installment of the Inkspired journals is coming soon.

Warmly,

Pen2Profit / Inkspired Community

I’ve spent over forty years learning how to turn a month on a Yugoslavian freighter—and a thousand other escapades—into stories people actually want to read. I believe writers over 50 have the best material, but the worst marketing advice. If you’re ready to bridge the gap between your life’s "potpourri" and a professional writing career, you’ll find me mentoring the next cohort over at Pen2Profit. Click here to see how we do it.

THE 60s — ATLANTIS RISING

I’m old. This means I have a lot of time to mull things over, and I find myself mulling over what I have learned in various life-stages.

I admire Socrates and have always felt drawn to his ideas about the worthlessness of an unexamined life — hence my desire to examine. Socrates (469–399 BCE) was a strange and interesting fellow — one of the few individuals that thought-leaders say shaped our intellectual development so significantly that without him, our culture and attitudes might be profoundly different.

Socrates is said to have been a really ugly guy. He had a snubbed, tilted up nose, and his bulgy eyes not only stuck out, they were canted to the side. Think lizard. He’s often portrayed with a potbelly to end all potbellys — it’s not an auspicious description of a guy who lived in a culture that valued physical attractiveness above most other things. This could be why he immersed himself in philosophy and deep thoughts, both solitary pursuits.

He had two wives, Xanthippe and Myrto — maybe both at the same time — which could account, perhaps, for his refusal to escape from prison later on. I realize I’m way off on a tangent, so let’s get to how his thinking caused me to write this story.

Socrates and my examined life

Old Soc never shut up about knowing thyself. He insisted that the unexamined life is not worth living. Immanuel Kant (Metaphysics of Morals, 1797) describes “know thyself” as an ethical admonishment to dig into our hearts so we understand what we want (our will), why we do things (our motivation), what we should be doing (our duty), and how we can blend our wills with our duties.

I’m good with that. But I am quite aware that my wants and my will often preside over my dedication to duty. In examining my life, it’s really easy to see where that has caused challenges.

Being a (flower) child of the 1960s and 1970s, my free-form, erratic, mildly anti-establishment rebelliousness had a significant impact on my adulthood. I rather liked the self I developed, but that path wasn’t without difficulties.

Examining my formative years

I grew up in a large Roman Catholic, Polish/German, middle class Chicago family. My social network consisted of five siblings, a million cousins, two grandmothers, and a variety of aunts and uncles. These folks populated every holiday, social event, and various vacation outings.

Appropriately uniformed and thoroughly repressed, I went to a Catholic school. Rest assured, I toed the line, said my prayers, went to confession, did my penance(s), feared Sister Mary StinkEye, and did precisely what I was told. I was surrogate mother to my siblings from the time I was seven, as my mom was not up to the task.

Both of my parents were overwhelmed by life in general and by parenting six kids. My mother was almost always pregnant or postnatal.

Famous quote from my childhood: “You just wait till your father comes home, young lady, and he’ll give you what for.”

At age 10, when I was in the fourth grade, my parents transplanted us to a post-war subdivision of upscale(ish) lookalike houses in a subdivision in a far Northwest suburb, and I ended up in (horrors!) public school. My parents probably saw this as the beginning of the end of me as a docile, well-behaved child.

I spent the next four years observing my new set of peers, figuring out their strategies, and plotting my escape from repression. I still followed rules — my dad had a wicked temper and wielded a belt as if the state of the universe depended on his children being perfect.

My parents saw symptoms that I was brewing something suspicious in my personality and conduct. They couldn’t lock me in a tiny room under the stairs like Harry Potter’s uncle did, but they were on high alert. It was likely my growing penchant for talking back that got their attention. My occasional snotty quips did nothing to enhance their view of me.

After I graduated eighth grade, they enrolled me in the Catholic all-girls high school as a precaution — an ounce of prevention, so to speak.

On the school bus, we were required to wear a dark blue uniform, crisp white regulation blouse, white socks, black and white saddle shoes (impeccably clean), and white gloves. I complied, but barely. And I rolled the waist of my skirt up so my knees were visible. When Sister Mary Fussbudget made us kneel at the school door so she could verify that every skirt touched the floor, I was pulled out of line regularly. Once, I drew a tiny peace sign on my white glove with black indelible ink.

Another time, in religion class, the nun told us, “Be aware that a lay person may baptize someone in an emergency.” (yeah, that would be my first inclination in a life and death situation.)

She went on, “You could use any liquid available, even Coca Cola.”

My unstoppable wit kicked in, and I spoke out without bothering to raise my hand or get permission to speak. “Yeah,” I quipped, “Get that refreshing new feeling with Coke!”

You could have heard a pin drop. No laughter. The class looked aghast and alarmed. The nun seemed to expand to eight feet tall, stalked over to my desk, and rapped me on the head with her pointer.

I got kicked out of Sacred Heart of Mary at the end of the first quarter of freshman year.

Back to public school, and I did four years without drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, or sex; otherwise, I probably wouldn’t be alive today since my parents would have offed me. I skirted the edges of all those behaviors, though, pushing boundaries to the max — just exploring.

Around high school, I began examining my life as Socrates had advised, hoping to find a way to feel better. I learned that being a “good girl” has some slight advantages and can ward off corporal punishment sometimes, but I felt stifled, bored, and unfulfilled.

My discoveries in public high school

I found out I could be pretty amusing. I discovered that boys were interested in me for various reasons. I figured out that I related better to boys than I did to girls, and I learned that I was quite an intelligent and creative person. I began to express myself through writing.

The second half of freshman year, I joined the staff of the yearbook and the school newspaper because people liked to read stuff I wrote, and that made me feel special and valid. In these endeavors, I was allowed, nay, encouraged to practice my slightly caustic humor to fuel controversy, since controversy attracts reader attention.

I began to act out — not enough to cause retribution at home, but enough to get more attention at school. I loved it. For example, the newspaper staff hung out in a small room dubbed the “journalism office.” Our faculty advisor didn’t give half a hoot what we did in there — he spent a lot of time in the teacher’s lounge or off-campus smoking cigarettes.

We wrote ourselves hall passes and hid in that room during assemblies, gym class, fire drills, and any other time we didn’t feel like conforming.

One afternoon, we learned that rubber cement was an amazing diversion. Since we pasted up the newspaper with actual scissors and glue, we always had quart cans of rubber cement. We drooled a long, thin stream of the sticky stuff out the third floor window, allowing it to congeal as it made its way to the lawn below. Picture it, a three-story string of translucent goo hanging in the air. We slapped a sign on the window. “Snot,” it read.

Possibly the only other time I laughed that hard was the first time I smoked weed while watching Mod Squad on TV.

For the rest of high school, my away-from-home persona morphed into a flirty, funny, mischievous rebel. I began to thrive, seeing myself as a unique person that others were drawn to. I attended all the obligatory events, games, and dances. I had boy friends, guy friends, and regular friends. I cultivated my “outside the box” life.

Parallel to my school “universe,” I hung around the local community newspaper office where my BFF’s mother had a significant job. I watched, listened, and contemplated everything going on in there.

At some point, the community editor paid me something like 3 cents a column inch to compile a weekly “neighbors” column. That’s the small-town tradition of writing about Joey Smith going into the Army, Suzy Sunshine winning a baton twirling trophy, or Mrs. Miller’s Aunt Sophie arriving to spend Christmas with the family. Wildly exciting.

The paper, a hundred-year-old community weekly, was on the edge of becoming an important Chicago metropolitan daily, as it is today. Their writers, photogs, editors, and management evolved from old school traditionalists to progressive up-and-comers. Heady stuff, hanging out with them.

At 16, I sucked up my courage, approached the hip managing editor, and proposed that he hire me to write and manage a two-page weekly section for teens. To my shock and awe, he agreed. My career was born — I had learned to advocate for myself and trust my own worth.

I was two people for a while. At home, I had my toes firmly stuck to my dad’s line in the sand. Never crossed it. Never questioned the parents. Never gave any sign that I was anything but docile.

Well, mostly. My back-talking was becoming quite well-established and energetic. But I had learned to move out of slapping range faster than an Australian tiger beetle.

And then came college.

I became unstoppable

As my senior year unfolded, I grew bold. I announced at home that I would not attend the coming graduation ceremony. I orated about the ridiculousness of status events, the importance of my personal freedom, and reserving an 18-year-old’s right to do as I pleased.

“You wanna bet?” My father’s reply.

Therefore, on June 4, 1967, wearing a billowy gold robe and a black mortarboard, I took 200 measured, rehearsed steps from the entrance to our school gym to the stage ahead, crossed the stage looking neither left nor right, shook hands with Dr. Jenness, and received my diploma. Pomp and Circumstance droned in the background. It was 200 degrees F in that space, where 750 classmates and 1500 parents dripped sweat and couldn’t wait to get out. It was the largest class ever graduated in our Chicago suburb — we were the baby boomers.

Finally the parade ended, and we were admonished to restrain ourselves from throwing those mortarboards under penalty of who-knows-what. I immediately sailed my hat into the air, hitched up my robe, and ran.

And then what happened?

On September 3, 1967, officially a Northern Illinois University student, I stood at the door of Neptune Hall, my assigned dorm. I hardly recognized myself in the glass as I admired my garb.

Faded bell-bottomed blue jeans meticulously fringed at the cuffs by way of pulling horizontal threads with a heavy needle. I had drawn all kinds of pop-culture (which I thought were very anti-establishment) icons all over the jeans.

A white peasant blouse, fairly see-through, heavily embroidered in bright colors, with long, floppy sleeves that covered part of my hands. I made sure my cleavage was highly visible — it had become my most prized attribute. A rust colored buckskin jacket with too much fringe hanging off the sleeves from shoulder to wrist. I had inked a peace sign on the left shoulder.

The pièce de résistance — a leather Aussie slouch hat too big for my face. I was the shit.

There was no resemblance to the repressed high school senior from the previous June. I had stopped at a gas station on the drive to school and changed out of my conservative plaid skirt and sweater, which I tossed in the trash. It should be noted that I never looked back, and my edgy attitude grew ingrained and refined as I became me.

College was entertaining, and I still had great grades. I wanted to be a writer — the young Bahbwa Walters was my role model. Education mattered. My favorite class was an art history survey course taught by Ben Mahmoud, a sexy, mysterious, artsy, young hipster whose body of work included a series of phallic mushroom paintings. Symbolic? Sure — sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Not that I had experienced the first two. Yet.

I bonded with a rag-tag crew of hippie wannabes — a gay guy with hair to his butt, another guy we dubbed Mother, a flock of pouty flower-children girls in maxi-dresses and long hair styled with a hot iron or wrapped wet around juice cans to remove any hint of curl, wave, or bend. We draped beads on every body part that could hold them. We clinked when we danced.

We burned our bras, joined NOW, and protested anything that struck us as objectionable. I felt as if I occupied another universe and figured out day-by-day that my parents’ lives were completely unappealing to me. I realized I didn’t want to be like them. At all. Ever. Don’t trust anyone over thirty.

When my tribe and I talked, it went like this:

Make love, not war. Don’t let the man keep you down. Live and let die. Hell no, we won’t go. Pigs! If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with. Acid rock tripping free love anti-establishment like wow man flee THE MAN free your mind trippy groovy psychedelic farm out…

We were firmly, adamantly against political and social orthodoxy, the not-war in Vietnam, conforming to anything (yes, I know we were conforming to a whole lot of things), commercialism, marriage, and practically every societal norm. We hated politics and authority. Some of us moved to Canada or Haight Ashbury. We painted and pasted the chicken-foot peace symbol everywhere.

So what did we want? Peace, free love, self-expression, classlessness, and a gentle, nondoctrine ideology that favored what we saw as individual expression and freedom. We wanted to stick daisies in the barrels of guns. I was all in and having a blast — and we had the best music in the history of mankind.

When I wasn’t in classes, I worked at the hundred-year-old Elgin Clock Company factory. On the assembly line, I fixed four screws into a small brass mechanism, dab black gunk called glyp onto the screws, and passed that assembled unit to the next station. I did it for entire shifts, with my transistor radio set to WLS rock radio and an earphone in my ear. The earphone later gave birth to earbuds, but we used only one. Radio was monaural.

There was, in the middle of the factory floor, a rabbit hutch-looking structure consisting of a geometric, segmented frame with many sections of thick glass panes. At four foot intervals down both long sides of this 20 foot by 40 inch enclosure, there were 8-inch circular openings into which workers inserted their arms. Inside each opening was a heavy rubberized canvas glove. Arms ensconced in these gloves, workers assembled another production unit.

That workstation became significant, but first, I should tell you that when we arrived at work each shift, there were armed National Guardsmen at the always locked door. They checked IDs and allowed one person at a time through the door. You couldn’t leave without checking out and having a guard unlock the door. I often wondered why, but it was the era of demonstrations and protests.

Well, one day, a co-worker picked up a finished assembly that had come out of the hutch, and it slipped out of his hands. I was mindlessly screwing in screws, but I felt a rush of air and looked up. The room cleared out. Everyone but me dove for the exits as the item fell to the floor.

Turned out Elgin Clock made bomb fuse assemblies destined for the war effort. The company never talked about this — people learned via the grapevine. I, content to savor my music while glypping screws, had no clue until the day that fuse assembly dropped and people scattered.

My two hippie friends and I realized we were fueling the immoral war, but then we considered the decent bread we were paid to do the work. We worked for a few more months until management determined that our reject rate was 95%. We were summarily fired. A few of us picketed the plant, thinking we’d force them to stop supporting US aggression. No one cared. Power to the people.

The 1967 Democratic Convention dampened my freedom of expression ideals — I was there in the city for the riots, but being a suburban kid with little world experience, I stayed on the very far fringe of the action and booked like my ass was on fire when it became obvious that things were going south. Events like the civil rights battles, Jackson State, and Kent State all deeply moved and intimidated me. But time passed, and life became slightly less worrisome.

The third decade

I finished college, having moved from NIU to the University of Chicago Circle Campus. I’m sure I’m remembering incorrectly, but it seems like I wore the outfit I described above for four years as a symbol of who I truly believed I was. Lots of my high school friends didn’t return from Vietnam. As happens, my tribe thinned out as people moved on to other places and interests.

All things change. As I entered my 20s, I woke to the reality of making a living, acquiring a place to live, and feeding myself. In those days, women were not superstars in journalism; such jobs were scarce and underpaid. I dabbled in newspaper writing for a while before I fell into an opportunity to manage a training division of a national home-study school. An establishment job to the max.

Remember those matchbook ads inviting you to “draw this picture” of a person’s head, submit it, and qualify to become a famous artist? That company hired me and paid me a tidy sum to travel the country, open sales offices, train staff, and manage field offices from corporate headquarters.

Man, I kicked ass. I was smart, energetic, and an inventive problem solver. I abandoned my hippie persona and immersed myself in corporate America. Call me a sellout.

Men twice and three times my age reported to me — their careers depended on my review of their performance. This was almost unheard of for a woman in her early 20s — I was the only female on the management team. I felt awesomely cool, with a significant income and a lot of power. Before anyone thought of the Me Too Movement, I was the darling of three 40-something year-old brothers who owned the place. They doted on me. I grew a healthy ego, a ton of self-esteem, and a burgeoning recognition of how to leverage feminine wiles.

And 50 months later, I was burned out, stressed to the max, and depressed. All I thought about was getting away, but I had no desire to get married. No inkling to become a mother. No thought of pushing through and anchoring my nose to the grindstone for much longer.

One day, it came to pass that an older friend told me she had once become fed up with her life and decided to bail. She ran away to Greece and had an amazing time. I listened, exclaimed that I couldn’t possibly be that irresponsible, and dropped the idea.

Three weeks later, I had sold everything I could bear to part with, moved out of my apartment, gathered every nickel I could leverage, and quit my job. With coaching from my friend, I purchased a one-way ticket to Barcelona on a Yugoslavian freight ship that carried tons of cargo and a few passengers periodically across the Atlantic from Bayonne, NJ, to Barcelona.

The Chicago travel agent who arranged these excursions was a 5 foot-tall, 83 year-old man lurking in an office the size of a walk-in closet. The ticket cost $295 and included all meals, a cabin below decks, and ground transportation for exploring all ports of call. The voyage would take three months. I fully believed I would stay in Europe forever.

Long, long story short. Without making a single plan, I made my way to Bayonne on an American Airlines 747. I was reading Jonathan Segal’s Love Story and waiting for takeoff when a man sat down next to me. I glanced up, stunned to see my boss from the home study school.

“Um, Dale?” I said, at a total loss for words.

Words tumbled out of his mouth, and my astonishment grew, compounded, and turned to terribly uncomfortable confusion. He told me he figured out what plane I would be on and bought a ticket so he could declare his passionate love for me. Say what?

In a torrent, he explained that he loved me from the first time he laid eyes on me but never had the courage to tell me. Now this may seem very flattering, but the guy was closer to 50 than 40, was of zero interest to me romantically, and had a wife. And the love of my life to date, who would later become my husband, was slated to meet me in Spain in three months.

The most coherent thing I said for the first half hour was, “Um. But. Huh?”

The diatribe continued. He wanted me to turn around and fly back to Chicago with him, where he would divorce his wife and marry me. This idea threw me for a loop. I felt confused, embarrassed, naive, and awkward. I stammered out something inane — a definite negatory — and we sat silently for the rest of the trip. After arriving in Bayonne, he went off on a flight back to Chicago.

I made my way to the port, boarded the ship, and spent almost two years backpacking my way across southern Europe, crashing where I could and encountering all sorts of adventures. I dropped out of my corporate life and back into my hippie persona, acting exactly the way one would expect a counterculture rebel to behave. It got dicey sometimes, I won’t lie, but I loved every adventure.

I learned that the world is far older than the country I grew up in and that people are not much different, whether they are democratic, socialist, or tribal. I walked on Bedouin soil and wore a striped desert robe called a thobe. I saw Greek temples and Spanish crystal caves. I slept in odd places, like the tiny cabin of a fishing boat. I got to know myself and what mattered to me.

I figured out that America has advantages that other nations don’t, and I missed it. It became obvious to me that I liked charting my own course and following what my inner voice told me was the right thing to do. If there were consequences, I could handle them.

That was fifty years ago, but I remember each moment as if it happened yesterday. I know I had to reach deep into myself for resources that enabled me to find my way, stay relatively safe, and live by the seat of my pants. When I flew back home from Athens to New York, I had been on three continents and had explored eight or nine countries. I had 37 cents, half a pack of Greek cigarettes, no home, few clothes, and no prospects.

It took a fair while for me to reestablish my life when I got back, though I married my high school boyfriend two weeks after I touched down in New York. If I had it all to do over, nothing on this planet could make me do anything differently.

I’m an old lady, but in my soul, I’m the flower child who still believes what I learned by examining my life’s first three decades, thanks to Socrates’s advice. John Lennon said that life is what happens while you are busy making other plans. I’ve always been satisfied with the time when I didn’t worry too much about plans.

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Our story began far, far to the frozen north in the Burzee Forest, home of the Knooks, helpers to Santa. This magical forest is across from the Deadly Desert, south of the Quadling Country and is exactly the place where Santa Claus grew up. L. Frank Baum (remember his Wizard in Oz?) wrote of the Burzee and about how the Daemons stole Christmas from the Laughing Valley. That story is reminiscent of another well-loved story by Dr. Seuss.

Forest of Burzee - Alchetron, The Free Social Encyclopedia The Forest of Burzee is a fictional fairytale land originated by L. Frank Baum, famous as the creator of the Land of Oz.

How kindness morphed a plain old spruce into a wonder to behold

To go back to our story at hand, you never knew what would happen in those days in that Burzee forest. Christmas traditions were growing, and magic was always afoot.

Anyway, it was almost a thousand years ago—way before you or I were even a thought. Our story has come down generation to generation. Spoken lovingly from grandparents to parents to children.

It’s said that a flock of birds—likely sparrows, the poorest of birds—had to go south as usual, ahead of winter’s bitter cold. Being a little unorganized, like the grasshopper of old fables, they put their journey off, enjoying nice weather and basking in the sunshine. Instead of preparing and getting a move on, they swooped along treetops, snacked on abundant seeds and berries, and played.

Too long, it turns out.

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After a time, the sparrows finally soared upward to begin their journey. All seemed well. Their first travel day was sunny. Balmy. But the afternoon sky grew heavy as clouds rolled in behind the flock. The lead sparrows glanced over their tiny feathered shoulders and worried.

Day two was another thing altogether.

Wind swept in from the frigid north, strong and gusty, rudely shoving sparrows every which way. Gusts stuck ice crystals into feathers, gluing them together. Sleet blurred the birds’ vision.

Some sparrows tried to take to the trees below. The angry wind pursued them, shaking them off the branches. The birds plopped down, shivering, trying with all their might to take to the sky again. Staying aground was too risky.

They flew on, using terrible amounts of energy. All the long day, the sparrows froze right down to their very bones. No sun. The heavy snow tired each little bird, making them heavy and clumsy. The ground was a white wasteland. Terrified, the sparrows forged on—valiantly trying to outdistance the blizzard—but becoming hopelessly lost. South? Who knew where South was now?

The sun, seeming just as worn out, slumped to the horizon, and the birds knew they couldn’t go on. The leaders gathered the flock into a small V pattern so they could see each other, stick together, and find shelter.

Sadly, one by one, wings stiff, feathers wet, heavy, and frozen, they dropped from the sky like little stones. All hope gone.

A large spruce tree, firmly anchored in the stormy dusk of Burzee Forest, saw sparrows plummeting toward him. He took a deep breath, swelling his branches to their widest width, and he caught birdies two-by-two, sheltering them in his greenness. Spruce, whose heart was as warm as his branches, sheltered the little flyers, soothed their terror, and rocked them gently to sleep.

Finally, the storm blew itself out and faded away. Soft yellow moonlight picked out shadows on the snow. The moon smiled at the birds snoring peacefully in evergreen beds.

In the meadow, quite near the spruce, stood a tiny log house. The garden patch around it was widely known for its bounty of vegetables and flowers in the spring. The house snoozed under snow and moonlight now. Smoke sailed up through the cabin chimney, making the air smell homey and warm. In the window stood a single candle with a red ribbon tied to its base to hold it in place on the sill.

Earlier in the day, when the storm had begun, the grandma, who lived there with her husband, gazed worriedly out the window. At noon, she breathed a circle of warmth on the frozen glass, rubbed away the frosty crystals, and peered through a tiny open space.

“Hmm. I need to light the way for travelers this day,” she said. “It’s Christmas. Getting lost is no Christmas present.” She grinned and lit her candle.

Grandpa tossed a Yule log on the fire, saying, “I’ll keep the fire up so we can remember how the sun blesses us in summer.”

Grandma nodded.

When they slept later that night, both the grandmother and the grandfather had the same dream. A young woman, carrying a baby, crossed the clearing. She looked cold and lonely as she approached their cabin.

The grandmother woke, got out of her warm bed, and looked out the window. There, like in the dream, a lady walked toward the house.

The grandmother thought, “It’s odd how she leaves no footprints.”

The grandfather opened the door, put his arm around the lady, and led her in. They sat her to rest in their best rocking chair. They fed her, wrapped her and the baby in warm blankets, and talked with her by the fire as she nursed the little one.

Later, the old couple went back to bed, but their visitor said she’d sit a while. It was a night of peace and warmth. Slumbering deeply, Grandfather snorted a snore. Grandmother snuggled into the quilt.

As the moon crossed the sky and the night helped the forest recover from the storm, a little girl figure flitted, radiant and gorgeous, near the spruce. Her gossamer robes rivaled the brilliance of snow shimmering on the branches. She hovered by way of softly feathered wings and wore a circle of golden light round her curly locks.

Christy’s angel eyes were as blue as glass balls you’ve seen on Christmas trees. Her lips were the exact color of candy cane stripes, and her hair was precisely the shade of milky sweet cocoa. Her glowing aura woke the sleeping spruce and the birds in his branches.

“So, Tree,” she said, “long ago, trees like you, on the very first Christmas night, sheltered that newborn Baby in their beautiful branches. You’ve lived up to their kindness by taking pity on these humble creatures of the skies. Bless you.”

The tree swished his branches, rustling shyly, pleased with the compliment.

“Well,” Christy went on, “those nice folks in the cottage helped some strangers, too. They shared their holiday, showed concern for others, and lent a hand cheerfully. Even with snow all around, there’s warmth here.”

She put her chin in her hand and sat cross-legged, hovering above the snowy ground for a moment. Obviously, she was planning something.

“Ok. As an official Christmas angel, I’ve got a Christmas present for all of you! Watch this.”

She put two fingers between her lips and whistled. The shrill sound echoed through the night. She clapped her hands sharply, too. The spruce winced and looked around warily.

From every direction came silkworms. Christy pointed to the spruce, and the spinners sped up to the top branches. They spun silky strands all the way to the ground. Moonlight and reflections from snow and stars turned the silk threads gold and silvery. Points of light speared the crisp winter air, glittering for quite a distance.

Christy fluttered her wings. She darted up to the dark sky and grabbed a handful of stars, tugging them like a little dog wrestles with a rag bone.

Stardust mixed with snowflakes on the spruce branches, sending a rainbow of twinkling light splashing across the clearing. Startled from their sleep, sparrows twittered frantically for a moment. But Christy’s calm, quiet eyes soothed them.

For her final task, she called little furry creatures to her, bent down, and whispered into their ears. They dove off into drifts and burrows and returned minutes later, each bringing a bundle of berries and nuts from the forest floor or from their own winter stock.

Christy scattered the colorful ornaments into the spruce branches and stood back, admiring her artistry. She adjusted a berry here, blew some starlight from this branch to that, and was satisfied.

She winked, smiled, and vanished.

Sparrows chirped in Christmas beds. The spruce shook off his amazement, admiring the beauty before him. The woods settled once again.

A few hours later, the old couple woke when a log crashed to the hearth and sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. The lady and baby were gone, having been sent to find out if humans could be kind. The dim light from the fireplace shone on a dozen white candles, tied with a red silk ribbon, on the seat of the still-rocking chair. The cottage door was latched from the inside.

Opening the door slowly, brows furrowed, Grandma and Grandpa peeked out.

“Oh my,” the old woman exclaimed, rubbing her eyes as if the vision before her were a dream.

The old man clapped his hands and laughed, delighted with the gorgeous tree. His booming chortles bounced from limb to limb in the morning chill.

They had no clue how that first Christmas tree came to be in their clearing that night, but the soft Christmas Day breeze seemed to be trying to whisper something they just couldn’t catch. No matter.

Grandpa shrugged, tittered, and said, “It might have been the work of angels, you know.”

At that moment, from across the treetops came the faint sound of a silvery giggle. The spruce rustled his branches, and the sparrows twittered. And for the rest of their lives, the old man and his sweet wife decorated a spruce tree at Christmas. Soon, everyone who knew them did the same.

And the sparrows? It’s to be hoped they learned something about timing.

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We all know the theory that there are only seven or so master plots in all of storytelling, and that means we’re likely to see themes and arcs appearing regularly as we read people’s writing. For example, West Side Story is akin to Romeo and Juliet, and Jane Eyre is Cinderella without the pumpkins and over an extended time period.

Now, consider what I think I accidentally discovered about How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Dr. T. Seuss’s beloved 1957 classic.

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I did some super-sleuthing

Some time ago, an editor asked me to do a story about L. Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz stories since the movie was playing at a local theater for the holidays — in Technicolor on a big screen. Anyway, my author research uncovered other works by Baum, including The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus from 1902. Wow, new to me.

Having always been a rabid fan of the fae, magic, and otherworldly stuff, I was pulled right into the realm of the Burzee Woods. That magical place, the Forest of Burzee, is hundreds and hundreds of years old. It’s dense and might seem creepy or dark compared to the Laughing Valley of Hohaho on the eastern edge, but looks are deceiving — the wood is a place of mystical delight. It’s peopled with fairies, gigans, knooks, light elves, rampsies, ryls, sleep fays, imps, and a few demons, among others.

Tumbling down a Google rabbit hole, I began reading about a beachfront resort in Coronado, CA.

Yes, it’s a clue in my unofficial, nonscientific deductions about our pal, Mr. Grinch. Notable American writers who often hobnobbed at the Hotel del Coronado included Henry James, Upton Sinclair, Tennessee Williams, L. Frank Baum, and Theodor Geisel (aka Dr. Seuss). They hung out together and swapped yarns while bumping elbows with the likes of Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe, and W.C. Field.

See where I’m going? We writers know we get our inspiration from everywhere. Have a conversation with a fellow scribe, and we may come away with the bones of our next novel.

Over many years, Dr. Seuss and Frank Baum spent a whole lot of time at Del Coronado, according to many articles chronicling their lives. Apparently, they got along and had similar political bents. Let’s set their likely relationship aside for a moment and look at Baum’s Santa story and Seuss’s Grinch story.

For many days, I perused a 3,000-page website that contains everything anybody ever wanted to know about Frank Baum’s wonderful stories. You can explore the wiki if you’re so inclined.

Oz Wiki

Somewhere over the Rainbow, there’s an extraordinary place that’s made of Dreams, somewhere over the Rainbow, the Land…oz.fandom.com

And I discovered a Baum story called A Kidnapped Santa Claus. I read it several times and suddenly felt like I’d been there before. Aha!

The (highly condensed) story of Baum’s kidnapped Claus

Santa Claus lives and makes toys in his castle in the Laughing Valley. His live-in workers, ryls, knooks, pixies, and fairies, are always busy. I can hear the tink-tink of tiny hammers and the jingle of bells.

Everyone in the valley is happy and giddy. They live for Christmas.

Cue Whoville music:

Here’s the happy Whoville music

In Hohaho, Santa Baby is focused on making children happy, and he finds nothing but love all around him. He and the crew are getting ready for Christmas. But demons in the mountain caves hate the jolly old soul simply because he spreads so much dang joy. (You are sensing something vaguely familiar here, right?)

The only time the demons get visitors is when people are sad, depressed, and unhappy, but that is almost never the case. So they have a meeting and decide, after much discussion and strategizing, that the only smart thing to do is kidnap Kriss Kringle, make everyone miserable, and become the center of attention.

Long story short: the demons spend a few pages trying to influence Santa, steal his glee, and get him to cancel Christmas, but he isn’t having any and remains annoyingly pleasant and unshakable. So they hatch a plan to waylay the sleigh on Christmas Eve, and, guess what? Yep. Kidnap the rotund old guy. And so they do.

You can predict the outcome. Santa’s five best helpers were tucked in under the big seat of the sleigh, fast asleep. They wake up, chagrined to find Santa AWOL, and determined to fix the situation. It’s too late to go back, so they forge ahead, delivering the toys themselves with only a few SNAFUs.

The helpers consult the Snow Queen and find out what happened to their boss. Next morning,

“Marching over the snow was a vast army, made up of the most curious creatures imaginable. There were numberless knooks from the forest, as rough and crooked in appearance as the gnarled branches of the trees they ministered to. And there were dainty ryls from the fields, each one bearing the emblem of the flower or plant it guarded. Behind these were many ranks of pixies, gnomes and nymphs, and in the rear a thousand beautiful fairies floated along in gorgeous array.” — L. Frank Baum

The army rescues Santa, as you might expect, and it’s happily ever after for all.

I’ll grant you, the Whos could still have been busy in Whoville in a parallel universe working out their own holiday problems, but doesn’t that seem like a totally weird coincidence?

The last words

I’m not making any accusations. I have no idea if the two storytellers threw down a few too many pints one night at the Del Corona and got carried away bragging about their ideas for future stories. And frankly, I don’t much care. Theodor Seuss Geisel wrote more than 60 books, and you gotta get your inspiration somewhere.

We grew up with both stories, and they’re lovely, with each being characteristic of their author’s unique style. I love Ted’s skill with silly rhymes and adore Cindy-Loo Who is sweet enough to make your teeth ache. Frank Baum’s style is so straightforward and matter-of-fact that even when he’s talking about witches, wizards, and raquels, I happily believe every word.

You decide if you agree with me. Read the Santa story at East of the Web and give your opinion in the comments.

Short Stories: A Kidnapped Santa Claus by L. Frank Baum

Full online text of A Kidnapped Santa Claus by L. Frank Baum. Other short stories by L. Frank Baum also available

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A joke being handed around social media sites goes like this: How to read women — If she has her hands around your throat and is applying strong pressure, she’s probably ticked off. Well, we’re not that aggressive in our reactions, most of us, and some theories say women are easier to read than men. How ‘bout it? Can you decode a woman’s emotions?

The empathizing-systemizing school of thought tells us women’s brains are hard-wired for empathy and men are stoic. But should we believe men and women are built to feel or express emotions differently? I doubt it — if you can read a woman’s emotions, you can read all human emotions.

My husband and I found that when we learned to pay attention to body language and facial expressions, life was quieter. And know that some men are stoic and some women are empaths, but it can certainly go the other way.

Whether it’s your wife, girlfriend, partner, mother, BFF, or sister, you can provide comfort, support, and understanding while allowing her to be herself. All I really need from Dan when my mood is unpositive or someone has dissed me is a simple, “Well, that really sucks — want me to beat them up for you?”

Maybe women express and read emotions more keenly. We girls are taught early that it’s ok to show feelings, to cry, to pout, to giggle. We learn physical expressiveness, while boys are expected to reign it in. So, when little girls become women and are less likely to let it all hang out, how do you read our emotions behind subtle actions? Watch and learn.

1. If she leans back, even a little, when you offer physical touch — a hug, a shoulder pat, it’s likely she’s not receptive. Is she miffed? Maybe, and she may be too polite to say so, but surely the time isn’t right for friendly touching. She might just need some personal space. She may be tired. All you can really know is to respect her needs in the moment.

2. If she replies to questions or conversations with short, discussion-ending statements, one of two things is happening. She could be annoyed, but she may just be up to her hoo-hoo in alligators and so busy clearing the swamp that she doesn’t have time for you. Is it possible you’re too needy right now?

3. Invite a woman out three or four times and get an off-putting response — you can bet your Jockeys she isn’t that into you. Get a hobby. Move on.

4. If she holds her arms close to her body in a hug-like gesture and she isn’t smiling, she needs comfort or human warmth. Approach gently and ask how you can help or hand her a pretty flower.

5. When you know something serious is challenging her, but she keeps saying, “No, I’m fine. No, it’s ok.” You can be sure she’s not and it isn’t. Find a subtle, unobtrusive way to lend a hand or provide support without turning the spotlight on yourself. Be ready to listen — she’s not looking for you to solve her problem; just support her feelings.

6. She’s pouting — unusual for her. Subtle? You might not think so, but truth is the pout probably doesn’t mean anger. Something has truly disappointed her, and she may wish someone would treat her like a little girl for one minute and grant her wish, whatever it is. If she pouts constantly, she needs to mature, and you might need to cool the relationship for a bit.

7. Tears are streaming down her face, or she’s sobbing into her martini — do not tell her, “Don’t cry.” Crying is healthy and restorative. Give quiet affection. Hold her and be quiet. Ask this: “What do you need right now?”

8. Silly, playful, slightly raucous giggling? Hey, Babe, that means she is delighted with the world, with you, and with herself. Go with it. Right now, you can probably talk her into agreeing to you buying that new laptop the budget can’t really handle. Refer back to #1 and #2 — if she’s doing those, put the laptop buy on hold.

9. You’re out playing or shopping or whatever, and she gets testy, snappish, and irritable. She’s hungry, Dude. Feed the woman.

See? You don’t need psychic intuition to puzzle through a woman’s emotions and responses; just watch the signs. Look at her, listen to her, and allow her to call her own shots. As long as she isn’t reaching for your throat and growling, you can probably work through most of her cues and turn yourself into a remarkable partner.

If anyone has inside tips about how to navigate a man’s cues and body language, do leave a comment!

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Hello, Inkspired fans, for the month of US Veterans Day, I want to reshare this important story with you. My family was deeply involved, and the consequences of these events are always horrendous. The story is difficult to read, but so important to understand.

Google these three words, browse the results, and you will feel like throwing up: headlines rape military.

Right now, the United States (and some European Countries) is in the midst of an escalating epidemic of sexual abuse of women who serve our country. And I promise you—the epidemic can touch your life without warning or provocation. I’ll tell you what you can do to advocate for yourself or a loved one. I wish I could tell you how to survive without scars, but I can’t.

From an opinion piece, USA Today, April 2023: The percentage of women in the military who were sexually assaulted in 2021 spiked to the highest level since the Defense Department started tracking the statistic, according to new data.

Depending on who you read and how many military members they interviewed, sexual assault statistics range from an intolerable 8% to an incomprehensible 25% of military women. It happens to substantially fewer men, but the number is still tragic and disgusting. We’re talking tens of thousands annually and rising.

The US Department of Defense agrees, “…female troops…and…male troops said they were assaulted while on duty during the past calendar year, the department’s annual 2021 report shows based on surveys of service members.”

There’s a ray of hope: “The number of sexual assault reports filed by victims with military authorities—the other key metric used by the department to gauge the scope of the problem—also jumped about 15% from the previous year.” The increase could mean more women are getting braver and reporting.

If you’re feeling sick and disgusted, you should be; and consider further that a staggering “41.1% of women veterans say they experienced sexual harassment without physical assault,” a situation that receives even less reaction from the military and the public (USA Today). The actual number could be even higher since many survivors of both kinds of attacks never report their experience. Service members, male and female, say they don’t trust any branch of the military to protect them.

Women are often victimized more than once

Can you imagine how it must feel to be a victim of rape? No, you can’t. Now think about surviving two rapes—each perpetrated by a trusted supervisor. I will tell you a true personal story from some years ago, with real consequences today. I am very connected to the woman who survived these events. Seventeen-year-old Beth was on active duty with the U.S. Navy. Her assailants, both supervisors, outranked her. Getting help and justice took intense tenacity and occurred more than a year after the second rape. Keep going for her whole story.

Anybody can fall victim to military rape

Beth entered the Navy two days after high school graduation. Eager and excited about serving her country, she knew she could become an officer and make a difference. She felt ready to endure anything to make the grade. Beth learned quickly that the military is male-centric, but she had the right stuff to stay focused and succeed. She had wanted the Navy for a career since the fifth grade.

Beth didn’t join the military because she couldn’t do anything else. A major pharmaceutical company had awarded her a full-boat, 4-year college scholarship. She turned it down. In boot camp, Beth stood out as an achiever with a professional attitude. In her post-boot camp training school, she chose a career path most women wouldn’t pick. She wanted to work with aircraft and maybe someday qualify as a Blue Angel, so she became an aviation technician. Excellent school record. Outstanding participation. She snagged a choice assignment for her first duty station, and off she went into her wild blue career future.

On base, as a rookie, she worked well with peers and superiors, taking teasing in stride and keeping her eye on her goals. Everyone liked her. No complaints from her or about her. She volunteered for activities and extra duty and began assembling her officer qualification package. Always outgoing, she had a healthy social life, too. There were parties, group activities, and a great relationship developing with a new boyfriend. Life was good.

And the terror begins.

It was Christmas Eve, the third Christmas in a row she was separated from her family. Her boyfriend was away on temporary duty. For Beth, Christmas had always been a bigger-than-life event full of fun, a big extended family, lots of presents, and great food. This time, it was a horror story. Beth, hoping for a distraction, heard a big party was planned. Too young to drink and too busy to deal with hangovers, she was the designated driver for a group of friends.

Late in the evening, Beth noticed a guy she knew, her boyfriend’s roommate, getting pretty drunk. He was a petty officer and her supervisor, so she was concerned for him. He kept drinking, and someone pocketed his car keys. As the party wound down, Beth poured him into her car, laughing at his antics, and drove him home after dropping off her other friends. Half dragging, half pushing him into his apartment, she dumped him into his bed—leaving him in street clothes. She tossed a blanket over him and thought, “He will not feel good in the morning.”

Tired, she left the roommate to sleep it off and decided to sleep in her boyfriend’s empty bedroom on the other side of the apartment.

In the middle of the night, Beth jerked awake, startled to find the roommate on top of her in the act of sexual penetration. She struggled and yelled, “STOP IT.” She tried to push him off. She failed.

Don’t make the team look bad, Sailor

The attack frightened and traumatized her so much that she couldn’t even bring herself to tell her parents, whom she trusted without reservation. For a week, Beth often cried, overcome by embarrassment, fear, and emotional turmoil. Beth decided to tell someone, so she went to the Master Chief. He was nice, she recalls. Pleasant. But his message was clear.

“You waited several days to step forward,” he told her. “It’ll be a he-said, she-said. Your word against his.”

Remember, the perpetrator outranked her as a supervisor in her unit. The chief pointed out that the whole team would suffer if Beth made a big deal about this without proof or witnesses. Everyone would look bad. Did she want to do that?

Like many teens, Beth thought authority figures were on her side and would give her the best advice. She decided to let the matter rest to avoid any further trauma. She never felt right about that choice. Beth recalls, “My decision to not prosecute was not good, looking back. But I cared about my command and was concerned about how a prosecution would reflect on everyone. After all, I had no proof. No rape kit.”

A 17-year-old child who had never been away from her supportive family before, she felt she was expected to be grown up. Strong. Beth was a sailor and wanted to be an officer. The Navy made it clear from boot camp that you respect the chain of command and do as you’re told. Master Chief made it clear she could end up with a black mark on her record. Of course, he was nice about it. Empathetic. Beth dropped the issue and went back to work.

It wasn’t easy. She looked over her shoulder constantly. She got icy stares from her attacker and his friends. He was still her supervisor, and he controlled her life. Word had gotten around that she ratted him out. The creep told everyone she had “wanted” him all night long. Beth tried to heal with support from her family, but they were far away. The Navy offered her nothing — no counseling, understanding, medical help, or transfer to another supervisor. That happens to many women. These women are often young, inexperienced, and far from their support networks.

And the nightmare was far from over.

Attack number two: same unit, different supervisor

Beth heard she was being sent on temporary duty with her team to an island paradise. She looked forward to the distraction, but before long, paradise became hell. A week after arriving at the new station on the Island of Crete, a group of sailors, including Beth and 40-year-old supervisor Petty Officer Martino, went off base for a weekend. They booked several hotel rooms as a group, though they had been told to sleep on base. This wasn’t uncommon. The group was mixed, men and women of various ages. Martino was significantly older than most of the team, and it wasn’t common for a supervisor to go off partying with the team.

Martino, a known rule-breaker with a reputation for risky behavior, often came on strong to young women and was often rebuffed. He was married and had children. Witnesses said he bragged he’d “get it on” with Beth. The man was middle-aged, overweight, with a bad complexion. Why would a teenager want him? Later, the prosecutor in a court martial would ask the court to ponder that question. It should be noted that military culture sets an expectation that women see themselves as strong and able to meet all challenges.

Soon, Beth felt worried about breaking the rules and worried about the consequences. The evening had been boring, and there was some acting out. She wasn’t party-minded anyway, so she returned to the room she shared with two girls who were both still out around town.

Beth was asleep when Martino entered her room with a key he later said someone gave him. For the second time in half a year, Beth woke to a man raping her. She struggled, slapped, hit, kicked. She shrieked, shoving the large man off and onto the floor. She said later she had no idea where the burst of strength came from, but she remembered thinking, Oh HELL no!

She fought with a burst of adrenaline. Beth screamed and shrieked for help, flung the door open and ran, pounding on doors (still screaming), and finally latched onto a female co-worker. Clinging, Beth gasped, “I need the police and a doctor.”

Hurt. Stunned. Terrified. Pissed off. Finally, pissed off.

Beth reported to the police, the command, another supervisor, and anyone who would listen. Over time, evidence was gathered, including a rape kit, and ultimately, a court martial convened in Rota, Spain, where Beth’s unit had been based.

The Navy finally offers help: too little, too late

Beth made civilian and military police reports and was taken to the hospital, where a male Senior Chief met her. She had a rape exam and was questioned. Martino never claimed she consented. He said, with hubris, “I knew she wanted me.”

The next day, the main base commander ordered everyone back to the home base in Rota. He gave Beth the phone number of a SAVI counselor (Sexual Assault Victim Intervention). SAVI advocates for survivors of sex crimes; they have recently been renamed Sexual Assault Prevention and Response. They can accompany a survivor to meetings or appearances she feels uncomfortable about. SAVI workers are supposed to make sure survivors get services. Sometimes months pass before SAVI is available. Sometimes, they don’t do their job at all. Sometimes, a base doesn’t even have a counselor.

Beth recalls, “This particular counselor told me it would be helpful if I testified, but I couldn’t be made to do it. I thought long and hard through months of nightmares, fear of walking across the base, fear of going to work, and fear of staying in my own house at night. I tried to get mental health counseling, but the Navy and civilian medical staff were overbooked. My female supervisor and a close female friend stayed with me in my house for months.”

When those women were unavailable, Beth stayed with a married couple. It didn’t help. She decided to get her case in front of a court martial. For months, chunks of her days were spent in interviews by JAG (Judge Advocate General’s Corp). They were all men, not unkind, but not easy to talk to. She gave hours and hours of depositions. Beth was asked to wear a recording device, phone her attacker, and talk about the incident.

She saw him daily at work; no job change had been available.

Beth said, “Every time I was interviewed or testified, I was shaken to my roots for days. Terrified. Distraught. I once saw the attacker as I drove across the base, and I hid under the dashboard of my car for over an hour until I was sure he was gone. I had to hear and read the most awful things he and his wife said about me—do you know what that’s like? To have someone ranting lies about your character and your person—in public?”

This case was only unusual in that the command made an effort to move the complaint forward. Most women encountered roadblocks at every step and soon give up. Beth’s courage and tenacity were not the norms.

The Navy tried, but not hard enough. Beth told her family weeks later that she hadn’t seen a local doctor. She couldn’t get off work. She received no mental health intervention for the same reason and worked with Martino daily. Male co-workers shunned her. Gossip was rampant. Imagine an 18-year-old enduring that.

The wheels grind slowly and then stop

For a while, there was no more progress in her case. Beth found support from her family when the Navy left her adrift. Her mother spent every day at home researching similar cases. She made phone calls all the way to Washington, D.C., and wrote letters. Slowly, Beth got some services but never got everything a rape victim should have, including care for post-traumatic stress. Other military women report similar situations—some stories are even worse.

Fear blanketed Beth days. Noises made her jump. She didn’t sleep much for a long time. She bought a very large dog, which helped some, but she still felt exhausted and confused. She ended up being temporarily reassigned to clerical duty and losing months of practice in her own specialty. Her career was permanently derailed. As for her attacker, he went about business as usual. It took two years of wrangling with the Department of the Navy, SAVI, and other players to resolve the case.

Ultimately, Beth was sent to Key West, Florida, to negotiate medical retirement, something she did not want. Now 19, she made the difficult decision to return to Rota and testify in the court martial. She flew alone and waited three days to be called on. Beth testified for five grueling, terrible hours—facing her rapist. His wife sat and glared at Beth for all those hours.

“I felt for her as a person,” Beth said. “I understood the impact a guilty verdict would have on her life, on his children. I shook all day and all night. But I did the right thing. Other women (and I) deserve to be safe. My attacker took away the safety. I did it because I knew I would be angry with myself if I didn’t.”

After she testified, Beth could not get air into her lungs—she thought she was dying. She was a mess on the plane and thought about calling an emergency doctor. Was she having a heart attack? That is what it feels like to be a survivor of rape—one rape. To have endured two within weeks of each other could destroy a victim.

Beth’s recovery and her future as a survivor

The base change began the healing, putting Beth closer to her family and ensuring medical and mental health assistance. The Navy should have addressed Beth’s duty location immediately after the attack, but that never happens. Other military branches are no better. The Navy’s failure to be proactive, indeed, their failure to address this sexual misconduct pandemic, causes survivors to suffer mental and physical problems like

• PTSD

• Self-medication

• Sleeplessness and night terrors

• Unexplainable physical symptoms, including headaches, gastric distress, heart problems, and muscle problems

• Low self-esteem

• Anxiety and depression

• Loss of income and career

• Isolation

Women like Beth often go into their careers with high expectations for themselves. They hold themselves to a high level of performance and feel lost when they can’t maintain it. For years, they may perform properly, at times, but then are sabotaged by their challenges. For ten years, Beth was certain her attacker would come looking for her or send someone to find her. One of the survivors’ biggest issues is taking back control of life, feelings, and fears. They do better living with family, not strangers until they reform the emotional connections that create trust. Beth noticed her palms sweating and her heart jumping as she retold her story. She felt lightheaded. Some survivors never recover completely, but they will not likely progress in the military environment.

A decade later, Beth has permanent emotional distress, anxiety, and trust issues. Through her courage in testifying for five hours, her assailant was convicted, demoted, dishonorably discharged, and put in prison. The prosecutor said he had not seen another conviction in 20 years. He commented that almost no one receives prison time. Martino is in Leavenworth.

Beth received a medical disability discharge but was subjected to the typical hostility, ridicule, and accusations on many levels as she fought, refusing to yield. Though the military code is “never leave a fallen comrade,” the male-dominated military doesn’t see a psychologically injured woman as fallen—or as a comrade.

Beth is now a mother to six awesome kids. She has overcome many of the problems directly attributable to her trauma. She still has a big dog, her husband has to help her through anxiety attacks, and a few relationships did not survive her recovery process. But Beth is whole, with a few scars; she earned a master’s degree in psychology but has never been able to work. She hopes to counsel survivors at some point. Beth’s eldest son is a senior in high school, and last week, he joined the Navy.

How Beth got help—what a survivor can do

1. Beth’s mother emailed the base commander, requesting assistance for Beth as a rape survivor. People told her not to “interfere,” but that action jump-started the court process. Every victim should find an advocate who cares about her.

2. Mom contacted the SAVI Program Manager requesting help. SAVI is now SAPR (Sexual Assault Prevention and Response). Partially because of that contact, there is now a Safe Help Hotline at 877–995–5247.

3. Beth insisted, through the chain of command, in writing, that she be transferred away from her attacker.

4. Beth contacted the Command Master Chief at each base once she was transferred away from Martino. She requested time to pursue medical and mental health appointments during working hours.

5. She wrote to her Congressional Representative, filing a written request for assistance. Her request for transfer and separation had frozen on a Navy desk. The Congressional representative was able to get it moving again.

6. She saw civilian physicians to document her condition at the Navy’s expense.

7. She sought counseling through a civilian rape crisis organization and asked them to document her issues in writing for her command.

8. Beth visited the Navy legal office to determine what kind of assistance they could offer. She insisted on filing charges and testifying against her attacker.

9. She wrote to the Miles Foundation, a national advocate providing assistance for military survivors of sexual crimes.

10. She contacted civilian legal representatives who work with separation concerns. They can often answer questions about soldiers’ rights.

What YOU must do

Read and study the Uniform Code of Military Justice to understand policies on sexual crimes. If you are raped or attacked, make a lot of noise, report to authorities (civilian and military police), seek medical attention and document every step in writing. Don’t give in to pressure. Seek legal help. Here’s a fact sheet from ProtectOurDefenders.com that will help you understand the importance of standing strong.

Speak up and find help. Pursue medical and mental health assistance. Testify against your attacker. If a man rapes, he will rape again. Victims of rape, whether military or not, for some reason have a statistically huge chance of being raped again. Persevere. Know it wasn’t your fault, and you will recover with time.

Whether or not you are a survivor, write to your Congressional Representative and demand closer scrutiny of sexual misconduct in our military. Every citizen has this obligation to protect the people who volunteer to serve our nation.

You can find some good resources at WoundedTimes for PTSD help.

Sexual Assault

Military

Rape

Mental Health Awareness

Womens Rights

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My daughter texted me a photograph of three of my 15 grandchildren yesterday. I saw the pretty day, the quietness of their mood, and then something more. It occurred to me that each of them is teetering on the edge of a life transition.

All of life is impermanent. We know that a photograph represents the light and shadow of a moment frozen in time, so to that extent, it’s permanent. As a grandmother, I’ve seen a lot of life and its changes

When I got my daughter’s text, I thought, it’s beautiful that these guys are enjoying time together. But something drew me in deeper, and I felt like I used to when inspecting a contact sheet in the darkroom. I really looked at the image and thought about how I was reacting.

Here’s what I came to understand. The littlest boy, moving a toy bulldozer through a sand pile, is 3-years-old, and he is 100% focused on the mysteries of how sand moves. As he should be. Three-year-olds interpret the universe based on what is in their focal point. So this little guy is doing his job, quietly and seriously, exploring his version of everything.

The bigger boy is five—pouring water onto tiny mounds of sand, mixing it in, and observing. He’s impressed by what he can do with sand. Fives are all about how they interact with and control things outside their parents’ sphere. This guy knows he can create things no one else can — things that are his.

The man-boy on the right is sitting quietly watching his brothers with a quiet expression of affection on his face. He is 17—a heart-rending age. He is evolving physically, mentally, emotionally, and psychologically. Our adorable “little guy” will be an adult before we know it, traveling his own path. Sobering thought. In this frozen moment, he is almost certainly harkening back to the simplicity of his childhood. I know, because I know him, that he’s contemplating his feelings for his baby brothers, his changing relationship with the world, and the fact that he is about to join the Navy.

If this isn’t an iconic image of how life shifts and the rites of passage we all encounter, I don’t know what is. Without this image, a frozen moment, and without my having made time to study it, I would have missed something golden. And that’s my point.

As I write this story, my personal takeaway is about impermanence and haste. It’s about how we, as we age, learn to stop and mindfully delight in a moment. My daughter caught this slice of time in her kids’ day and it might now live forever, even though we live at warp speed these days.

Humans, especially those under 50, seldom make time for conversations because texting gets the job done. We binge-watch television content that once would have entertained us for 26 weeks. If we read, we read content, not books.

But as a grandmother, without the stresses and pressures of parenting, I’ve got time to stop and smell the roses. I treasure these moments in my grandchildren’s lives.

Everything in life changes, and each generation has its own focus. That’s all good. We should curate the photos we take so our grandchildren and their children can discover what their past generations looked like, what they did for fun, and how they lived. Global knowledge now doubles every 13 months, and it will soon double every 12 hours. Vrooom.

Slow is better. I’m much more comfortable at the pace of those young boys digging in the sand. And the moments are worth respecting and preserving.

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Ages ago, in the time before websites and dotcoms, my husband and I and a close buddy were department managers in a multi-million dollar retail outlet of a major catalog business. You know the kind. They’re still out there — Hammacher-Schlemmer, Lillian Vernon, Williams Sonoma, Sharper Image — though they have scaled back. Many have bitten the dust — Spiegel, Eaton’s, Service Merchandise, and McDade & Co. The Amazon precursors.

We worked for McDade, which, like others, mailed out tens of thousands of catalogs every year and ultimately invested in large brick-and-mortar department stores. Like most of retail, the bottom line was king, and the owners pinched pennies till the pennies screamed. They had to pay out as little as possible to survive, and that’s how McDade got hold of the three of us. We worked cheap.

We three musketeers were in our twenties, unable to exploit our college degrees in a gamey job market where retail was flourishing, but other sectors had unemployment as high as 22%. We were personable, presentable, relatively sober, married, and could pass as adults. We snatched up the jobs at McDade and were put in sole charge of the toy department, sporting goods, and the warehouse. And so it began.

OTJ training

On day one, we were each given a tour of the store, a copy of the catalog, a long set of rules, and a green manager’s jacket. The store manager, Irving, was a 45-year-old rotund, barking ex-marine (my impression). The assistant was a red-haired dork with thick-lensed glasses and the personality of Casper Milquetoast, the original snowflake. The two of them were constantly at odds and continuously unavailable.

It should be noted that the focal point of the store and the catalog was the jewelry department, widely known for selling diamonds and other gems at discount prices. It was engagement ring central. And that’s where the real story began.

FBI bulletin

Irv called an emergency meeting early one morning over the PA system before the store opened. Several of us department managers were mighty annoyed since the meeting would interrupt our morning coffee and the last lap of the race we were holding in the warehouse. We had mounted our Cushman LSVs (indoor low-speed vehicles) and were tooling around, laughing gleefully, and knocking over huge cartons.

We slouched into the meeting, displaying our irritation, and slumped onto metal folding chairs. We looked exactly like characters from a James Dean movie.

Irv intoned, “This is serious business. We been called to action.”

We rolled our eyes in unison.

Our goofball store manager then made a seven-minute speech. We were all aware that a group of jewel thieves had recently walked into one of the other Illinois stores in broad daylight and made off with a sizable collection of diamonds, gold, and gems. Now, the FBI and local authorities had determined the gang was targeting our store in the next day or two.

We thought it was all exciting. Irving handed out surveillance assignments, though I’m certain the authorities never suggested he insert himself into the case. But that was Irv. Impulse control disorder mixed with a lack of common sense.

Channeling Maxwell Smart and the Keystone Cops

It would be a long day, funny now as I look back, but not so much in the moment. Unbeknownst to me, Irving told my husband and our buddy, Dave, to lose their manager smocks, put on their coats, and go sit in our car in the parking lot. He figured they’d get first sight of the thieves and be able to write down a license plate number.

How they were to recognize the crooks was unspecified. My guys didn’t care. It was an adventure, and they had the tail end of a blunt out in the car, so what the heck. Off they went, backslapping and chortling.

I was told later that around noon, the gang entered our store, wandered around, stopped at the diamond displays, and did their thing. I guess it was a sort of distraction-and-pocket plan. Irv and his posse were skulking around behind the showroom’s perimeter walls. They dripped sweat and trembled like squirrels in traffic.

My memory is sketchy, but the thieves got a fair amount of merch and left the store. Undercover cops hiding nearby trailed the suspects. I have no idea if they caught them or not, but the best part of the story is yet to come.

How the Feds found my Mary Jane plants

Meanwhile, my guys were out in the parking lot. When the crooks arrived, the driver randomly parked right in front of our car. This was a professional gang with guns and ammo, sitting in plain view of two 20-something doofuses toking on weed. Apparently, they didn’t have much impact on each other, and the robbery went as planned.

The rest is all on me. When I found out my husband had been sitting nine feet from big, ugly, mean criminals, I freaked out. I mean, if hubby could write down a license number, so could crooks, am I right?

At quitting time, I refused to go home without a police escort. And the local detective listened to my story and agreed. The cops would drive to my house; we would follow.

When we pulled up behind them in our driveway, the detective gave us the international hand sign for stay in the car. No problem at all for me.

At that moment, my husband said, “Oh sh*t. The plants!” Gulp.

We had painstakingly cultivated six 5-foot-tall gorgeous marijuana plants, which were sitting perkily in my sunny kitchen window. I was watching three burly detectives open my back door and hustle into the house. Talk about sweating!

So there we sat, fully expecting to be hauled off to the clink and sent up the river. Remember, this was in the goodle days when nothing was legal or even tolerated. My mother was going to kill me.

And then it happened…

One detective was standing in front of my garden, shaking his head and grinning. He glanced at me, then backed out of my range of vision. Oh god, oh god, I promise I’ll never smoke again if you let me get out of this.

Five minutes later, old Sherlock ambled out my door, walked to my car window, and said this, “There is no one in the house. It’s safe to go in. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you — call us if anything seems odd.” He handed me his card and stepped back.

Foolishly not able to let it go, I said tremulously, “Um. But what about…”

He waved his hand and said, “Nah, I didn’t see nuthin’.” I think we sat in the car a full 10 minutes trying to compose ourselves.

Epilogue:

A couple of days later, from my living room window, I saw a car in front of our house. I kept watching for an hour. Still there. An hour later, still there. I found the detective’s card and called him. I watch enough TV to know that jewel thieves always catch up with witnesses.

The cop called a half hour later. He had come out and interviewed the guy in the car, who turned out to be a private detective surveiling my neighbor, whose husband thought she was having an affair.

This all happened to me, in a small, boring suburb of Chicago where absolutely nothing ever happens. The takeaway? It’s seldom a fine idea to smoke a doob in a parking lot.

If you like nostalgia, here’s a nice video about the bygone days of catalog houses.

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Long ago, my favorite boss heard me telling a co-worker, “You should work efficiently and be better organized.”

My boss held up a hand like a stop sign and said, “Please don’t should all over yourself or anyone else.” He got my attention, we all laughed, and I learned a lesson.

What’s so freakin’ wrong with saying “should,” anyway?

It’s an admonishment, an injunction, an order, a judgment. As soon as the word leaves my lips, the recipient bristles, digs in their heels, and maybe wants to slap me upside the head for being arrogant. Who am I to tell anyone what would make them better? Is my way the only way?

I’m not arguing, I’m just explaining why I’m always right.

Sometimes, I want someone to do something, and I have a particular process in mind. How can I communicate that effectively without being a pompous ass? I can choose to be respectful.

I can admonish, “You should do that project over, and this time, do it the way it should be done.” Or

Maybe I say it this way, “I admire creative thinking. Please try again, though. I can show you what could be changed.”

The second statement boosts my helper’s self-esteem and confidence. We both feel satisfied. Using a respectful approach might take an extra nano-second, but the result is positive and worthwhile.

“You alone are enough, you have nothing to prove to anybody.” — Dr. Maya Angelou

Sometimes, I’m shoulding all over myself rather than someone else. What’s the big deal? Should implies one particular, correct way to do something, and implies that I’m wrong if I choose any other way. Should can also indicate that I can’t make good decisions. I can tell myself, “If I have any decency, I should get up earlier.”

Then, if I don’t follow through, I feel inadequate. I feel guilty. I may even increase my level of stress and set myself up for failure next time, too.

We simply shouldn’t use the word. (Yes, you see what I did there.) There are unlimited ways to avoid it. Relationship experts advise couples to swap could for should as a matter of habit. If I choose could over should, the pressure is off. Clearly, I have a choice. I can get up earlier, go to bed later, or decide not to change my routine at all. In any case, I’m not a failure or a disappointment.

“You should respect each other and refrain from disputes; you should not, like water and oil, repel each other, but should, like milk and water, mingle together.” — Buddha

Ok, maybe Buddha can get away with it. But if I nag at my grandchildren that they shouldn’t eat so many sweets, I set up an immediate urge in them to push back. I might choose to say, “Hey, I’ve got some delicious applesauce; let’s have some together.” That approach sets up a positive interaction, provides togetherness, and avoids scolding or lecturing. It’s more likely to succeed and can be applied in all kinds of situations.

Sometimes, framing my statement as a suggestion or an option is the perfect solution. If I tell my friend she looks ghastly in green and should never wear it, she won’t be impressed by my tact. But I could say, “I’d love to see a blue dress set off your eyes. Would you consider looking at a few?” Now I’ve got a happy buddy, and she might end up with a new look.

Using the word should isn’t criminal — it’s ugly. It plays into the present irritability and unrest in our society. So many people run around telling everybody how to act, how to vote, how to live, and how to think that arguing and bickering break out everywhere. Shifting our presentation a tiny bit by choosing a less negative word when we speak may begin to gently diffuse some animosity. If that’s true, why wouldn’t we? We could, you know.

A pair of non-prescription, digital in-ear hearing aids made me younger and more beautiful. No, really — I felt old when my biggest contribution to conversation became, “I’m sorry, what?” And it isn’t attractive to carp, “Speak up, for the love of God.”

Follow along and see how my OTC hearing devices are life-altering, cognitively uplifting, and an epiphany at the same time.

Hearing aids, the quality of life, and dementia

Nih.gov cites a clinical trial by Dr. Frank Lin from Johns Hopkins University that compared the rate of cognitive decline over a three-year period between people who did and didn’t receive hearing aids. The group with hearing aids had an almost 50% reduction in the rate of cognitive decline.

“Hearing loss is very treatable in later life, which makes it an important public health target to reduce the risk of cognitive decline and dementia,” Lin said.

His colleagues found that mild hearing loss doubled dementia risk. Read that sentence again, please. Mild hearing loss doubled dementia risk. Mayo Clinic, Harvard Health, and a significant number of other health experts agree.

History of my ears (skip if you must)

I’ve been deaf for more than 50 years from a congenital condition called Otosclerosis, characterized by calcium deposits freezing the normal vibration of a tiny inner ear bone, the stapes. There are, of course, many causes of hearing loss. From The National Institutes of Health: About 15% of adults over 18 have impaired hearing, and at least half of us hear poorly after 75.

Early on, I could keep up with conversations if I watched people’s mouths move. But little by little, I couldn’t hear the wind, subtle variations in music, and a lot of other comforting sounds that add to the quality of life. So, I went on a quest for solutions that wouldn’t involve hearing aids. I didn’t want them. My mother, my grandmother, and my uncle wore those big, clunky ones with a battery pack to stick inside your shirt. Not for me.

At age 30, I had a surgical repair that lasted some years before the bone froze again. I experimented with American Sign Language. I tried and rejected a few hearing aids, one of which got stuck inside my ear canal and sent me to the Emergency Department.

First-hand, I understand why many of us have neglected the idea of improving our hearing. It’s a pain in the butt to find the right solution. There are coping strategies, but we’re vain. Gadgets can be fussy to use and maintain.

I kept seeing these new studies about hearing and cognitive problems. And, as I grow older, my hearing grows suckier. I’m not alone in that. Do you realize that struggling to hear and listen can be exhausting? I had to rethink.

My new ears and what I discovered

My aging friends and I made a pact early this year to revisit the hearing aid conversation. About a year ago, the FDA approved non-prescription, over-the-counter (OTC) hearing aids for adults with mild to moderate hearing loss. In the past couple of months, these new aids have become widely available, very affordable, and technically more advanced.

My reasons for continuing to cope were becoming a little lame.

In reading news reports, I learned that older versions of non-prescription hearing devices only amplify sound. I had tried one of those and hated it.

All noise was louder, and human speech was still drowned out and unintelligible. Sitting in a crowded restaurant, at a concert, or even at a family party was awful. Cacophony of sound. Confusion. I was still reading lips because everything happened at the same intensity, and conversation was practically painful.

New technology OTC hearing aids are controllable and customizable. These true hearing aids are built to enhance speech, make background noise recede, and actually allow you to differentiate sounds and speech.

Some are Bluetooth-capable, and many are wireless. I found some with replaceable batteries and some that are quickly rechargeable. Manufacturers are continuously improving the technology and releasing new versions every month.

It’s awesome that some health insurance plans cover the entire cost, and some offer a partial subsidy — but the bottom line is that hearing aids are now more affordable and accessible to purchase. So I did just that.

Because my ears and my deafness are suitable for hearing aids, I have been able to reduce my risk of dementia and enhance my quality of life. I’m less tired and more engaged in social situations.

Period of adjustment

I started my quest by purchasing a simple, over-the-ear, battery-powered hearing aid from a major maker. My health insurance offered it with my over-the-counter pharmaceutical allowance. I wore that version for two weeks and was astonished at how my daily experiences changed. I decided to go all in and get the tiny in-ear version for both ears. It was a momentous decision.

It took time to get used to everything. Some people take up to four months to become completely comfortable with their hearing aids, but most adjust in two to three weeks.

For example, the sound of my own voice was loud and echoey at first. Over some years, I had developed a pattern of talking really loudly because I couldn’t hear myself. Now, I quieted down fast.

Sharp sounds like setting the table made me yelp and reach for my volume control. I figured out my floors creak — almost everywhere. I heard airplanes in the sky and birds in the trees. I turned my mobile phone volume from full to about 1/8th of its range. No more phone feedback.

It’s really nice to watch TV with the window open and not worry that my neighbors will toss pebbles at me to make me turn it down. It’s fun to tell my soft-spoken husband to stop yelling and delightful to catch every word my grandkids whisper.

Most of us know people affected by the epidemic of dementia, and we get how serious that condition is. With the simple step of enhancing my hearing, I am less likely to be impacted by cognitive issues.

We all recognize that our society is fraught with depression, isolation issues, and social divides. Improved hearing has a positive impact on all of those things. Instead of sitting quietly, nodding at what I can’t hear dinner companions say, I can participate effortlessly.

If I want to settle back into my cocoon of silence, I can switch the aids off or leave them in the charger. But with my aids, I can re-hear parts of music I have missed for half a century.

I’m all in. You might want to reconsider augmenting your hearing if it isn’t all it could be. Age isn’t the issue. We all wear glasses when needed, and many of us baby boomers have become comfortable with walking accessories or other assistance. Hearing aids don’t scream, “Old person!”

After a month of wearing my new accessories, my brain has re-recognized sounds and made new connections with my ears. I no longer notice my own voice or sharp, clangy sounds.

A number of my older friends also chose to address their hearing problems and are delighted with the change. We’ve put some worries to rest.

There’s a lot to fret about in this world, and it’s wonderful to know that I can easily protect my cognitive functions while getting reacquainted with sounds I lost long ago. Last night, I heard a cricket chirp.

Does prayer’s power heal the sick, change lives, or fill our needs and desires? Should you bury a statue of St. Joseph if you want to sell your home or put St. Christopher on your dashboard as you travel this coming holiday season? There’s no definitive way to prove the power of prayer, but it’s not for lack of trying. Humans, including scientists, charlatans, and medical experts, have attempted to prove or disprove the efficacy of prayer since the beginning of intellectual curiosity.

The most surprising thing about these studies is we haven’t learned much. Some studies seem to show concentrated group prayer, whatever that is, has a measurable effect on AIDS patients.

A decade ago, Dr. Elizabeth Targ’s famous double-blind research convinced some that AIDS patients who were prayed for lived longer than AIDS patients not prayed for by a controlled group of prayer-sayers. How do you control that?

Reading university studies is interesting but confusing. Some show cardiac patients who believe in God doing better than those who don’t. On the other hand, in a Harvard study, it looks like cardiac patients assured of receiving prayers of intercession didn’t fare as well as others, and Charles Darwin’s Cousin Francis Galton determined that if a king’s subjects prayed for him, the poor guy lived a shorter life than other kings.

Consider this. Studies aside, nearly everyone has stories of friends, family, or acquaintances who lived a miracle brought about by prayer or devotion. A widow accidentally drops her keepsake wedding ring in the ocean. She prays daily that she will find it. Years later, it turns up in the local fisherman’s catch.

A missing child is inexplicably recovered when his whole community gathers to pray.

My husband was diagnosed with a terminal illness ten years ago. We prepared ourselves. We prayed a lot. He’s still around, and his medical team is astounded. He should not have had a positive outcome.

There are thousands of stories of humans visited by angels –some of them seem inarguable. We can’t get enough of George’s angel in It’s a Wonderful Life, and books about causing change through prayer fill bookstore shelves.

May all be free from sorrow and the causes of sorrow; May all never be separated from the sacred happiness which is sorrowless; And may all live in equanimity, without too much attachment and too much aversion, And live believing in the equality of all that lives. — Traditional Buddhist prayer

You can drive yourself to distraction Googling for answers on whether prayer has power or can effect change. SayingYourPrayers.pdf has a list of formal, rigorous scientific studies.

You can find first-hand prayer testimonials on the Miracle of Prayer post at Os.me, and, I dare say, all over the web.

Maybe the most rational conclusion was drawn by Wendy Cadge in the sociology department of Brandeis University, Massachusetts. An expert on how religion and medicine impact each other in today’s American culture, Cage remarked, “With double-blind clinical trials, scientists tried their best to study something that may be beyond their best tools; and (this) reflects more about them and their assumptions than about whether prayer ‘works.’ “ (emphasis added)

I’m a modern Buddhist — prayer for me doesn’t resemble the Pater Noster, and my higher power is substantially different from a biblical god. Still, I am tuned in to my spirituality every day. I survived cancer by way of a fantastic medical team and a nudge from my spiritual self. My husband weathered a potentially fatal illness some years ago, and the same thing happened. He’s still here, too. You can call that prayer.

Let me be willing to see the big picture in all things,
act in accordance with my best, most ethical self,
and grant the benefit of the doubt to all those I meet. — Abby Willowroot secular prayer

The question isn’t complicated. The answer doesn’t lie in studies funded by millions of tax dollars. If I attend to my spiritual growth, I have a relationship with my personal mode of prayer and with my higher power. When my devotion is honest, sincere — prayer can smooth out rough areas and improve the quality of my life.

With all that’s going on in our world now, it might be time to see the value of prayer with a clearer eye.

It might be time to believe in miracles.

This is a story of kintsugi, the oriental art of reclaiming broken art by respecting the process of mending and healing. It works with people, too.

When I fired a huge, intricate clay sculpture that I had spent weeks refining and perfecting, the kiln gods unsympathetically exploded the jawline and blew off the chin. This was not my fault — they knew that but didn’t give a ratzass. My heart was broken, which also didn’t concern those gods, just like the Universe can be ruthless about hurling thunderbolts into our lives.

Kintsugi is an ancient Japanese remedy for unforeseen circumstances in the making of art. If a precious bowl is broken, an artist may use kintsugi to refine the pieces, set them back together, and, instead of hiding the scars and pretending nothing happened, they use bright gold powder mixed with bonding agents to put the pieces together. The injury and the healing enhance the work and create an even more beautiful, relatable piece of art.

At a point in my life when I encountered a number of happenings that I couldn’t control and couldn’t escape, I needed a major change and a redirection. I put down my writing career — the isolation of working alone wasn’t helping me at all. Floundering a bit, I looked long and hard for something to rescue me, and I found it.

A long-time friend listened as I presented my laundry list of troubles. He was empathetic and kind as he watched me wring my hands. He said, “I just met the clay instructor at the college’s community ceramic studio. You’d like him, and you’re always doing art projects. Let’s go talk to him.”

I said, “Yeah, but…” (don’t you just love yeah buts?) “I’ve never worked with clay — don’t know anything about it.”

Still, we went over to the college anyway, for fun.

Ten days later, I was sitting in the beginner ceramics class, clumsily forming a pinch pot with some slippery mud called stoneware. I felt a little anxious, like a noob trying not to look like one. Tom, the instructor who would become my mentor for the next decade or so, encouraged, joked, demonstrated skills, and lured me in minute by minute.

Tom didn’t just show people how to make pots. He shared a deep love of the ancient art of preserving mud and mixed in his personal philosophy of how working with mud connects us to mindfulness, spurs muscle memory, and develops creativity independent of conscious thought.

Pretty soon, I was in the studio anytime I could steal a half hour away from my writing jobs or the concerns and stresses in my life. It wasn’t long before I could let my hands do the clay work independently while my mind felt clear and unfettered. Hours slipped by without my being aware of the passage of time. It became my meditation, my focus, and my solace.

For me, there were, over the years, as many failures as successes. My fellow mudders and I often laughed long and hard at some of our missteps and took extreme pleasure in our successful work. Clay art is fraught with happy accidents that produce beautiful work to surprise even the artist. You learn to roll with it.

In those years of playing and experimenting with mud, one of the oldest arts in the history of mankind, I learned to let go of things that didn’t serve me. I learned that worry is a worthless pursuit. I learned that outside aggravations churned on without me while I was safe and oblivious in the studio.

Concepts like kintsugi made sense to me. Another ancient idea, wabi sabi, focuses on finding beauty in imperfection and accepting the temporary nature of all things. Wabi sabi is an unrushed and basic view of the Universe filled with authenticity and naturalness of growth, decay, and death.

That aesthetic philosophy leads us to recognize power and beauty in things we might otherwise be tempted to judge as unattractive. Once we embrace those things, we can reframe challenges so we experience their value instead of finding fault or pain.

To weather challenges in clay work and in life, it’s necessary to dig deep and find our sense of resilience and power. Kintsugi underlines the impermanence of everything in life — the only constant is change. My carefully constructed clay head sculpture had succumbed to a random event, the same way that fragility, setbacks, and unpredictability have sometimes colored my life.

The injuries we sustain and the choices we make

I have moved through the death of a child, combat injuries to two of my children, the loss of a dear brother to suicide, and, like many of you, an assortment of hurdles in my path. As humans, we can choose to be steamrolled by adversity. Many people do. We can also choose resilience.

When I have chosen to be flattened, my energy is depleted. I feel dark, lost, maybe hopeless.

I say things like, “Why me?” and drag myself through the mire with sadness in my heart and a sense of injustice. I admit it. I wallow. I am aware that I am making a choice to feel my pain and allow my psychic and spiritual injuries to ripen. Sometimes, it’s very helpful to rend my garments, rub my face with ashes, and chew bitter herbs — I kind of get into it. That was my choice when my brother died.

And that’s fine, for a time.

His suicide at age 33 was immediate and shocking. Unpredictable. My wallowing gave me an opportunity to grow into the loss and face the life-change. But at a point, I found myself laughing out loud at something goofy and endearing Bill had said in his life, and I recognized a need to rebound or to get stuck.

So I made a new choice. Kintsugi. I mended me, making sure I didn’t hide the broken part, but I let the joy that was my brother make the pain acceptable.

When performing a kinsugi mend, we mix gold or platinum powder with urushi lacquer to form a strong, beautiful, visible glue. Here are some things that helped formulate the glue for my psychic healing.

• Energy — renewing and sustaining my desire to forge onward and move forward.

• Visualizing a bright future

• Inner power — focusing on my strengths and the positives in my life

• Flexibility — allowing myself to experience all of my emotions, both positive and negative, while not allowing them to take over.

• Strong relationships and wholesome activities. Almost everything is easier with a support network. I ask for help when I need it and manage my feelings by keeping engaged with good people and healthy endeavors.

  

The rest of the story

I don’t work in clay much anymore — my hands are old and the work is challenging — so I’ve turned my whole focus back to writing and communicating.

I’m well aware that I will never master all of life’s mysteries, and I will not likely become enlightened in this lifetime. But I am ever grateful for the chain of events that led me to try something way outside my wheelhouse and wallow in earthy mud instead of in earthly pain.

Bottom line — take a risk and break out of your envelope — you never know how much you will gain and learn from adopting a resilient way of moving forward. May you be well and creative.

Footnote: All the ceramic pieces are handbuilt and finished by me. I have about 200 completed pots, some functional like cups, pitchers, and bowls, some are strictly about form, like the sculptures. I often referenced prehistoric pots, especially in the style of ancient pots of the Jomon period found in caves in China, decorated with rope impressions.

You can find more from me at Substack.pen2profit.com or Pen2profit.online