Forgiveness? Whether, When, How

MRS. JOB AS HERO, AND FORGIVENESS

2012-01-17T12:01:00.000-08:00

This past Sunday we watched a DVD in the series of interviews Bill Moyer did with Joseph Campbell. Even as I watched what seemed like a discussion between ego and the collective unconscious I realized that Mrs. Job qualifies as a hero.

At that same gathering, another person told me he’d been re-reading my forgiveness books, finding things he didn’t notice the first time through. Of course I was thrilled that he was going through the forgiveness materials again, and it pointed out to me how much our readiness influences what we take in and use.

And that takes me to Mrs. Job’s cover. If I wanted to, I could see the responses falling in two categories – those that are ego oriented, i.e., what would best sell the book, and those that more subtly tap into unconscious emotional response. Since my question was really an ego one, I looked for guides to sales. But even there, the more non-ego responses seemed helpful.

OK. Let me get specific. Most everyone who responded said they liked the Mrs. Job cover as it is, citing especially its serenity and symbolism. At the same time, they seemed to agree that a sexier cover might sell better. Very few said they liked my suggestions for change of title, though it was thought that sales might be better if I were to use “Mrs. Job’s Journey,” suggesting mystery and intrigue. One person wondered whether she would have been “Mrs. Job” in her day and suggested “Job’s Wife.” I have to admit I wish I had realized how the mispronunciation of “Job” would have affected people’s interpretation of the title. “Job’s Wife” would have encouraged a more correct pronunciation, I think.

So, where has this left me? Very grateful for the responses I received, and still wondering what to do. I admit it doesn’t seem worth it to put more money into the project at this point. But please keep thinking for me and letting me know the result.

2012-01-13T17:26:00.000-08:00

MRS. JOB NEEDS HELP

I’ve talked before about the five reasons why Mrs. Job doesn’t sell. (See my website http://forgivenessoptions.com/content/9/mrs-job )

Now I plan to do something about it. And here’s where I need help. Please give me your opinion, either here or on my website or by e-mail. What I’m looking for is a way to make it reach out to more people, so whether you’ve read it or not (and I won’t ask … ) I want to hear from you. Here’s what I plan to do on the cover to make it clearer and more appealing.

(1) I made the mistake of leaving the Ph.D. after my name so people think it’s a heavy academic tome – or maybe a self-help book. It’s not. It’s a love story. SOLUTION: I’ll remove the Ph.D from after my name.

(2) People think it’s a religious treatise because it’s about biblical Job. It’s not a treatise. Yes, it is true to the events that happened to him in the biblical story, but it’s fiction built around those events.

(3) Some people think it’s a “liberal” tome, calling into question some biblical beliefs. It’s not. See (2) above

POTENTIAL SOLUTONS: I’ll change the name to counteract the assumptions in (2) and (3) above. I’ve had a few ideas. My first was to change it to “Mrs. Job: A Love Story.” A member of my writer’s group suggested “Mrs. Job’s Journey,” even as they expressed the opinion that it should have a colon and something after it. My daughter said I shouldn’t put either of those out there so people could come up with their own original ideas, but I decided to give you a sense of the kind of thing I’m looking for. PLEASE HELP WITH OPINIONS or SUGGESTIONS, I’ll repay you with gratitude and appreciation.

(4) Many apparently think it’s about working people, or maybe the wife of Steve Jobs, because they don’t pronounce “Job” right. SOLUTION: I don’t know. Maybe changing the title will help overcome that, or maybe a line above the “o,” alerting people that it’s a long “o.” SUGGESTIONS?

(5) There are those who don’t buy it because they already have, and liked it so much they’ve been lending it to their friends. And that’s why their friends don’t buy it. NO SOLUTIONS NEEDED. I think that’s a fine reason.

I INTEND ALSO TO CHANGE THE COVER. I know at least two people who love the cover, one of whom says it won’t, however, sell the book, even though she loves it. I think first off a lighter background will help, and I have a few ideas I’ve been running past a graphic artist. I’ll put those out there when they get closer to some kind of finalization. In the meantime, I’m eager for suggestions.

If you want to take a look at the cover as it is now, click on the link in the first paragraph.

'TIS THE SEASON

2011-12-22T14:18:00.000-08:00

I love this day! – The Winter Solstice. From now on more sunlight, more cheer.

I love this holiday season too. I have been blessed with a Santa Claus Christmas since my childhood. I know that’s a blessing I don’t share with everyone, a fact which makes me sad. But the music and the memories make me glad as well, along with deep gratitude to my family. I especially love the fact that MPR’s classical station plays so much more choral music during this period.

I love realizing that I’ve made it through another year with good health. If all goes as planned I’ll enjoy another healthy Christmas with my family in a few days.

It’s the Holiday, really. I wish joy for everyone, however you celebrate the coming of the sunlight.

And wouldn’t it be glorious if our thoughts of peace were to become more concrete in 2012? That’s my wish.

FUN AT THE ADLER CAFÉ

2011-12-03T06:11:00.000-08:00

Last evening I had a good time first enjoying a potluck feast and then with the chance to chat with Adler folks and friends on the topic of forgiveness. (I sneaked in a bit on Mrs. Job as well.) What a neat group! I understand that a common comment at the end was “It’s necessarily complex.” That it is. Lots of discussion followed my suggestion that “to forgive is to accuse.” After it was all over, one person asked whether it’s possible to forgive someone without their knowing that you have even accused them, to say nothing of forgiving them. The answer? – an unhesitating “yes.” Forgiving is basically for the forgiver.

While we were chatting after the session was over, one woman conveyed her thanks to women of my generation for the work we had done for women. It got me started – remembering when my daughter at 13 couldn’t switch from her pediatrician to a woman physician because one was not available – women were not allowed residencies at the local hospitals. Then I went on remembering – no women pharmacists, anchors on the evening news, reporters from all over-including war zones, police officers, mail carriers, military personnel, fill in the blanks. Certainly there were no women in authority on CSI (but then, I guess there was no CSI.) The point? Change happens, best observed when we look back. Back when Lou, the Italian Catholic, married me, a Swedish Lutheran, it was a mixed marriage. Today it would hardly qualify.

The lesson? We best understand what we’ve been living through when we look back at it. Sort of hopeful, I think.

HELP OTHERS KEEP THEIR DIGNITY

2011-11-16T07:53:00.000-08:00

Sometimes clients attribute their own wisdom to me. I think that was the case recently when a client told me she found it helpful that I had said it’s important to help others keep their dignity. I’d like to believe I said it. I certainly agree with it.

Some behavioral stuff that’s important in following through on that is focusing on the other and, though it sounds like an oxymoron, doing that by making no “you” statements, as in judging, but rather using “I,” as in recognizing and expressing my own feelings and opinions in a respectful way -- taking responsibility for myself. Well, there are exceptions. I love receiving a “you” statement that suggests, as she did, that I had been helpful. It’s the blaming yous or the guessing-how-you-are-feeling yous that deprive others of dignity.

OK, that’s my thought for the day. Confusing? Hmm. Maybe that’s why I need clients to translate my psychobabble into English.

DEVASTATION IN CONNECTICUT

2011-11-03T18:00:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my friend in Connecticut who feels fortunate to have access to power at her worksite. For those of us who aren't there, here's a sense of what it's like for those who are.

It’s now Day 6 with no heat, hot water, electricity, telephone...nothing! This includes no gasoline at the pumps, food spoilage, and no stove for cooking. I’ve never seen such a storm (18-24” snow) such as the one we had this past weekend...actually I’ve never even seen snow in October. What made this storm so deadly and the “perfect storm” was the combination of water-logged soil from Hurricane Irene, excessive moisture in the air, and trees fully laden with their fall leaves. Nature’s “gift” of hail; heavy, wet snow; icy roads, and (here’s another first) a thunder and lightning storm made for a truly apocalyptic night. In all my years in New England, I have never seen such horrific damage – not only did tree limbs break, but the whole tops of trees snapped off like candy canes. Huge trees were uprooted and tossed about like matchsticks, ripping power lines from the poles, blocking roads, and destroying anything in their way. The whole area now looks like a war zone, with everything closed.

IN THE INTEREST OF FAIRNESS AND FULL DISCLOSURE

2011-11-02T17:14:00.000-07:00

This is Mr. McCabe's e-mail response to my previous posting re accusations of attempts to defraud and of lying - everything from this point on is a copy of what he sent, including his highlighting. (If it is confusing, most of it through my signature is a copy of my original correspondence with him which he has quoted.)

"OK,

I’ll just post your original email:

“ -----Original Message-----

From: Mona [mailto:forgivenessoptions@earthlink.net]

Sent: Friday, October 28, 2011 6:39 AM

To: wpmccabe@wildoceanseafoods.com

Subject: Double order

Identified as customer ID 5017, I have a receipt for order #9045,

dated 10:06 am, 10/20/2011 for the total amount of $23.43.

I have received notice, however, that two orders have been sent, the

other one numbered 9044. Also, my American Express Account has been

charged twice.

This is a surprise gift to the addressee and, unfortunately, you've

already shipped it. But I don't want to pay double what I planned, and

I don't want to burden them with a trip to return it. I'll notify my

American Express account to withhold payment on the second shipment.

Perhaps you can send Mr. MacGregor a self addressed envelope with

which to return the other one.

Please get back to me on how to handle this.

Thanks,

Mona Gustafson Affinito”

Our response will be posted as well. Perhaps the next time you wish to “socialize” some correspondence, you will show your friends the complete dialog."

Forgive Wild Fresh Frozen Seafood for insult?

2011-11-02T09:35:00.000-07:00

Forgiveness does not mean accepting abuse. Not having received the apology I asked for at the end of this episode, I'm sharing this story as widely as I can.

Anyone ordering from Wild Fresh Frozen Seafood should call within a few hours to confirm that only one order has been entered on their computer. The number to call is 800-980-2435 Or, if you raise a question, be prepared to be insulted.

Before I go on with the back story, I just noticed that he says I ordered Crab bibs. I ordered lobster bibs. I do hope he sent the right thing, or my gift recipient might be insulted. Fortunately he's a good friend so I'm sure it won't do too much damage.

This is the back story. I've emphasized some important lines in bold:

On 10/20/2011 I ordered a product for $23.43 and immediately received a confirmation for order #2045 - usual procedure when ordering on the web, I relaxed until I received notice on 10/27/2011 that two orders were being shipped, #2045 and #2044. My credit card had been charged twice.

I assumed an error had been made. (I still assume it was all an error.) I sent an e-mail identifying the order numbers, saying, “This is a surprise gift to the addressee and, unfortunately, you've already shipped it. But I don't want to pay double what I planned, and I don't want to burden them with a trip to return it. I'll notify my credit card to withhold payment on the second shipment. Perhaps you can send [him] a self-addressed envelope with which to return the other one.

Please get back to me on how to handle this.

Thanks,

Mona Gustafson Affinito"

In response I expected something like, “We apologize for the inconvenience. We will send a postage paid attachment for Mr. [ ] to return the extra item.” Instead I got an accusation that I was trying to defraud Mr. McCabe.

“Dear Monica, (Note the name change.)

You ordered two sets of crab bibs, we sent two sets. We have no way of "charging your card" after you order..If you wish to return one, you will have to pay for return shipping. Should you feel that defrauding us of $22.43 is an appropriate response, we will challenge the attempted chargeback.”

And then came the implied accusation that I’m a liar. When I responded that I had received only one receipt, he responded,”Regarding your receipt(s). You got two. Every completed order has an emailed receipt. This function has never failed.”

I’m willing to concede I may have hit the “finish” button twice, in which case I would expect I would have received two receipts. Then I would have called to cancel the second order before it was shipped. I’d also be willing to apologize for the error. The truth is, I never received the second receipt. Believe me, if I were going to start a career of fraud at this stage in my long squeaky clean life, I’d aim for something more than $23.43.

Anyway, I told him to accept the $23.43, that I forgave him for the insult, and I’d like an apology. I waited for that before posting this. None was received, so here I am.

Mona Gustafson Affinito

http://www.forgivenessoptions.com

Empty Bowls

2011-10-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my friend Anne Sinclair for sending this --

One way we here in Santa Barbara raise money for the Food Bank at this crucial time of the year is have an "Empty Bowls" Event held on the first Sunday in November. Local artists make bowls that the donors choose upon arriving. Gourmet soups are provided by local restaurants and some of our SB notables such as the mayor, a popular columnist in the local Independent newspaper and actors (John Cleese) serve the soup.
Water and bread are also provided. Every donation ($25) goes to the Food Bank. It is a poplar event and last year the third sitting (200 servings per sitting) was added. There is also a silent auction of donated items and services.
Oh, and yes, the donors get to take their bowls home.

MORE ON EMPTY FOOD SHELVES

2011-10-24T09:29:00.000-07:00

My friends who starred in my earlier blog re food shelves sent the following, with permission to publish it. It seems pretty obvious that the private sector is overwhelmed, not up to handling this systemic problem on its own.

For a third paragraph on the Food Shelves blog—we went shopping again and this week the shelves at the Food Bank were even more empty. We were told that there had not been a delivery from a local supermarket in over a month.

Paragraph four—I’m writing a message in the monthly church news letter to inform the church folk of the situation. I will suggest that if we brought just one food item whenever we came to church, it would really help to fill the food boxes. Also, if groups that meet weekly or monthly did the same, it would be even better. We’re starting that with my monthly book group—not a church related activity—but the members are community minded.

WATERCOLORS

2011-10-18T07:12:00.000-07:00

A women’s retreat at Mount Calvary on Saturday, October 15, 2011 –

Let justice flow down like waters

Let the waters flow through my hands on the way to healing the world, knowing it won’t happen in my lifetime

Let my hands remain open, un-grasping sharing

Let me celebrate the wrinkles, the spots. Let them be my gifts to the waters of life and grace.

And then came the watercolors:

The little box of paints looked and felt delicious, like the new box of crayons on the first day of school

First painting – just play. What emerged was pretty, flowing pastels.

Second painting – send my prayer to God. Not so pretty. I tried hands reaching out. Ugly emerged.

Third painting – receive God. More lovely, flowing pastels.

No budding artist. Still, I brought them home. And they all looked better upside down.

As Job’s "friends" learned, we don’t have the power to control God with our prayers – only ask and maybe, in time, receive.

EMPTY FOOD SHELVES

2011-10-14T12:25:00.000-07:00

While I was In Maine I accompanied my friends Harriet and Bob on the beginning of their monthly stint picking up food from the central warehouse to stock the shelves of their church outlet. The first step was to do an inventory of needs at their site. I don’t have words to describe what happened to the pit of my stomach when they unlocked the door and we walked in. EMPTY SHELVES! There were, I think, ten jars of peanut butter and a few sad looking boxes of pasta, with another few stray items. I didn’t even feel grateful that I don’t have to feed my family off such shelves, I just felt shame and intense sadness.

It was even worse when they returned from their expedition the next day to the warehouse. Those shelves were lacking as well. They intended to bring back enough supplies to fill boxes based on a list posted on the wall, but there would not be enough items to complete the list. On the day when the unit is open, people coming to pick up their share will find big gaps – even toilet paper was missing.

I learned in my High School English course that there should be at least three paragraphs here. But what should I put in this last one?

A WEEK IN MAINE

2011-10-10T14:18:00.000-07:00

First days – cold, rainy, wrapped up in layers topped by raincoat with hood. End of week, bright sunshine, temperatures approaching 80. No matter the weather, being with good friends is always warm, with the collective ongoing struggle with a New York Times Crossword puzzle. On Sunday an organ recital deep-massaged our bodies at the Basilica in Lewiston. Of course, Freeport is a Monday stop for lunch and dropping a minimal amount of money – a Nine West handbag on sale for $22.00 – but I didn’t even go to L.L. Bean this time – doesn’t seem right, somehow.

What else? A fabulous exhibit of Edward Hopper paintings. I confess, I do like recognizing the subject. Dinner with more friends by the Maine shore with a view of their private island. Another time found me with my annual fix of boiled live lobster by the sea (indoors this time, though. It was one of the cold and dreary days.) As an invited guest for a class on the Hebrew Bible I found gratification that “Mrs. Job” had it pretty much right about the heritage of Jacob and Esau. Visiting the Shaker Village offered order, peace, and beautifully crafted products,

Somewhere around 1980 I flew in to Portland on Bar Harbor Airlines – six rows of single seats on each side, a cooler up front with choice of sodas if one chose to open it. Only one of my little Bichons could ride in his cage on my flight. The other one had to wait for the next trip.

More recently I flew into Portland on a cozy little plane with two seats on each side – maybe ten rows. Forgive me, I don’t know airplanes. All I know is that this time the rows were three by two and so long there were lavatories at each end of business class – and stuffed full. The waiting line for the rental car was forty-five minutes long, almost as long as it took the luggage to come out for the two big planeloads of passengers who had just arrived

Before I left the state a visit to a most amazing museum proved that Portland is not the small town I once thought it was. The harbor bustles with art displays and shops of crafty wares and interesting foods. The more things change, though, the more they stay the same. Maine is still the place to go for calm and quiet

OCTOBER 5, 1955, WINOOSKI, VERMONT

2011-10-05T13:57:00.000-07:00

No coat needed. Only the balerina length wedding gown, the crayon yellow sun, the sweet, dusty smell of the brightly dying autumn leaves, Lou with his drugstore necktie to make up for the one he forgot to bring, and nineteen other caring people including Father Boucher. Lou's family had attended a pre-nuptial Mass, while the rest of us received a private communion at the local Lutheran church.

I think we both knew we were making a mistake, but we were committed, and remained committed for almost 20 years. A magnificent day in Vermont! Here I'm sharing my annual quiet remembrance.

LOVE/GRACE

2011-09-27T13:55:00.000-07:00

http://www.forbiddenknowledgetv.com/videos/religion--spiritual-practice/spiritual-reality-near-death-experiences-2010.html#.Tn5N-tSuBgQ.email

Whether it's Heaven or a protective nervous system, these people experienced a life-changing event.

MUST I ALWAYS BE CHEERFUL?

2011-09-22T10:59:00.000-07:00

This one breaks all kinds of rules – especially the one about keeping the blog entry brief. I promise to be less wordy in the future if you’ll stick with this one to the end.

For most of my life with my mother, and especially during her eleven years in a nursing home before she moved on out of this life, I perceived it to be my job to save up happy stories to tell her. I was pretty good at it too. She was totally shocked when I told her I was getting a divorce – no inkling there was anything unhappy in the relationship.

It got to be a habit. I have to store up happy things to tell. Well, guess what! I don’t always feel like telling happy stories.

Like, be careful what you ask for. I managed to refinance my mortgage at a reduced rate of interest, which meant my bank got a copy of the appraisal – a huge downgrade in the value of my home – so they had to reduce my line of credit by 75%.

Last evening, after several insomniac nights, I had no energy to do anything but watch the vigil for Troy Davis which ended in tragedy.

I decided to try one last effort to sell my books. Paid for a neat new website that connects with a neat new facebook page, this blog, and Twitter. I committed to a regular monthly fee. They are really great – very helpful. But I’m not good at selling – no movement.

I broke a kind of a rule for therapists – when the therapy round is done, don’t contact former clients. My e-mail contact with a former client asking how she was doing resulted in a response indicating she was doing well and asking about me. I sent a two-sentence description of what I’ve been up to and referred her to my blog for more information. She was hurt by what she perceived as a put-off, wrote me back in anger, basically telling me to get out of her life. My truly heartsick response was met with silence.

See!? I don’t feel like being cheerful.

Oh, but wait. What can I learn from this?

1) Telling happy stories. Actually, I did admire Polyanna when I finally got to read her, but there’s another basic rule of therapy – honesty. My mother wouldn’t have been shocked at my divorce news if I’d been open with her all along.

2) Hey Mona, I don’t feel sorry for you about your mortgage thing. You have a lovely home to live in, and the remnants of an equity line of credit. Just don’t forget those who have none of this.

3) The execution of Troy Davis? I can only hope attitudes will continue to turn against the death penalty. I understand there is a generation change. Thank goodness for young people!

4) Selling my books? Well I will try – this coming Saturday even. But. Mona, just be glad for the time you have to write and do what you enjoy.

5) Hurting my former client? How many times do I have to learn to be careful with words. How easy it is to read them differently from the way they were written! I learned that back in the days of writing multiple-choice questions for my classes. I always took the test with them, regularly getting one wrong even though I’d written and reviewed them myself.

6) The “rule” against connecting with former clients? I’ll continue to break it. So many wonderful relationships.

So, I guess my insomnia will continue for people living in terrible situations that I can’t fix, but for which I can continue to do my small part.

My High School yearbook said of me “All succeeds for those who are sweet and cheerful.” (What an insipid comment). Well, guess what!...

DO YOU TAKE BLUE CROSS?

2011-09-06T13:56:00.000-07:00

I get it. I really do! But I also think it’s sad – almost to the point of being tragic. Here’s the call I got yesterday from someone looking for therapy. “Are you a psychologist?” he asked. “yes, I am.” I answered. “Do you take Blue Cross?” he said. I get this kind of call often, and this is not a complaint about me. I knew what I was doing to my potential income when I decided to refrain from becoming a provider for any managed care organizations once I moved to Minnesota. But here are a few things he might have said in the service of his own needs: I’d like to ask you a question about the kind of therapy you practice. Or, Are you still taking patients/clients? Or, I’m looking for someone who can help me with my depression/obsession/alcoholism/marital/child-rearing problems – whatever.

I told him I was not a Blue Cross provider, but that as a licensed psychologist my services are covered. I do not bill Blue Cross directly, however. I will provide a statement at the end of the month which you can submit. “OK, thank you,” he said, and hung up.

Now, here’s what strikes me as sad. The question had nothing to do with his health needs or with finding an appropriate provider for him. It wasn’t his health that was his primary question, it was his insurance company. Sometimes people stay on the phone long enough so I can help evaluate who – occasionally me – might be right for him, or whether the free initial consultation might be helpful, or whether I might have a sliding scale of charges, or even why I chose not to be a provider.

As I said. I understand it perfectly. People have to consider what they can afford. But if you go shopping for a blue shirt and find a pink one that doesn’t fit you well but costs half the price, does it make sense to make your purchase on the basis of price alone? Psychotherapy is nothing to fool around with.

On the other hand, maybe, once he had made contact with a Blue Cross provider, he would have explored further. I hope so, and I get it! But health care and insurance coverage are not the same thing. It’s that confusion that makes me sad.

MORPHING, MOLTING, CHANGING

2011-09-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

Eda LeShan had the perfect metaphor many years ago. In order for the lobster to expand, it must leave its old shell behind and let another one grow that fits better, leaving itself vulnerable in the process. I guess snakes do basically the same thing. Those of us who’ve been around a while have probably experienced that vulnerability more than once. I know I have: when I left the full-time professor role to become a full-time therapist; again when I left part-time instruction, and now when the economy and my avoidance of managed-care have reduced my private practice.

There’s still writing, which I’ve tried, with moderate success; and my current tentative reaching out to doing personalized editorial proofreading http://forgivenessoptions.com/feeds/item/15/new-service-offered. Patricia Gitt gave me the idea and the opportunity, working on her new novel “ASAP.” It’s a good read. Check it out. If my work has really been effective, you won’t notice it, because your attention will be focused on her story. http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Patricia+Gitt&x=8&y=14

And then there’s that vulnerability thing. When I moved to Minnesota I pictured myself enjoying the leisure of sitting around and reading. I’ve finally been doing that some, but I have to confess, it feels weird – vulnerable, really. I appreciate the encouragement of friends and family to go for it. I’m working on it.

WHAT A HURRICANE CAN DO!

2011-08-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

I cried, I really did, when I saw the clip of one of Vermont’s wooden bridges being washed away. I was glued to CNN both in the anticipation and in the aftermath of Irene. I’m awestruck at the efficient activity that saved so many lives, and wonder about the person I saw interviewed who chose to stay behind to surf because he believed all the precautions were hype, or the two kayakers who chose to risk themselves and the first responders who recued them. I am so sad for the ones who did lose their lives or their family and friends.

Mostly, though, I must confess I’m still stressed at the thought of what might have happened – but didn’t – to my daughter, husband, and guest as they endured the blackness of the night with the evil of the storm trying to get in. Only their Sheltie seemed to think it was fun. Indeed, one of the four downed trees did take out the bedroom end of their home. Thank God the young woman had evacuated the upstairs bedroom before the killer tree fell on her bed.

The memory of that night still haunts them. As far as I know the roof is still a gaping hole; the cloud of insulation and ceiling dust is settled into a mess below; electric power is still off; and the insurance adjuster has not come. The stream of folks stopping to take photos has probably tapered off, and they know the kindness of sympathetic neighbors. The darkness of night still hides lurking evil, reflecting the insecurity of what comes next.

But they are alive and healthy! The thought of what might have happened! How grateful we are for life. That’s when we know what really matters.

FIVE REASONS WHY PEOPLE DON’T BUY “MRS. JOB,” and a p.s.

2011-07-26T14:06:00.000-07:00

(1) I made the mistake of leaving the Ph.D. after my name, so people think it’s a heavy academic tome – or maybe a self-help book. It’s not. It’s a love story.

(2) People think it’s a religious treatise because it’s about biblical Job. It’s not. Yes, it is true to the events that happened to him in the biblical story, but it’s fiction built around those events.

(3) Some people think it’s a “liberal” tome, calling into question some biblical beliefs. It’s not. See (2) above.

(4) Many apparently think it’s about working people, or maybe the wife of Steve Jobs, because they don’t pronounce “Job” right.

(5) There are those who don’t buy it because they already have, and liked it so much they’ve been lending it to their friends. And that’s why their friends don’t buy it.

p.s. In reference to the previous blog: I've been getting messages from friends who smilingly complain they can't answer the questions. Thanks. That's the point.

X-WORD PUZZLES AND THOUGHTS OF FAME

2011-07-21T08:09:00.000-07:00

X-Word puzzles keep me company in my last minutes before sleep at night, but still I can’t stop my mind from humming. About what? How brief is fame. The thought actually cheers me up when I get bummed because I can’t manage to push any of my books into best-sellership.

Age and good memory (if one has one) help some. Try some of the recent examples from Will Shortz Ed. (2002). Monday through Friday Easy to Tough Crossword Puzzles. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin. By the way, I’m happy with Monday through Thursday – they leave me feeling moderately good about myself. But Fridays?! Sometimes I don’t know the answers even after I see them.

Try these. I gave some help with a few of them.

You’ll find the answers below. It’s up to you whether you want to cheat.

1) 1950’s Wally Cox sitcom

2) Anne Bancroft role of 1967

3) Clinton Cabinet Member – 4 letters

4) Mohawk sporting actor

5) Chuck of “Code of Silence.”

6) Flappers’ Hairdos – 4 letters

7) He sang of Alice – 4 letters

8) Sportscaster John – 6 letters

9) Adlai’s 1956 running mate

10) “I’ll Be Around” composer Wilder – 4 letters

11) “Gaslight” Oscar winner, 1944 – 7 letters

12) Noted traitor – 6 letters

11) Peace Nobelist Bunche – 5 letters

12) Kenton of jazz – 4 letters

13) Show for which Bob Fosse won a 1978 Tony – 6 letters

Okay, so you got them all right. My point still holds. One way or another it comes to an end.

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

(1) Mr. Peepers; (2) (Mrs. Robinson; (3) Reno; (4) Mr. T; (5) Norris; (6) Bobs; (7) Arlo; (8) Madden;

(9) Estes; (10) Alec; (11) Bergman; (12) Arnold; (11) Ralph; (12) Stan; (13) Dancin

RECORD HEAT - COURTESY MY NIECE

2011-07-17T15:04:00.000-07:00

My niece in Connecticut gave me permission to pass this on in my blog. I think you'll enjoy it.

"I understand that you are planning to send us potentially record heat. Please don't. Heat makes me want to cry. It pushes down on me and makes me feel as if I will never go outside again. It swells my hands, makes me feel like I am not "up to things", or that I cannot possibly endure the challenges of the day. It alters my plans, encourages me to further procrastinate, makes me worry about my ability to make it in the world, suggests that I should give up on plans, makes it hard to think of any reason to actually open my door. I can't shovel it, throw salt on it, add clothing to make me more comfortable (and, lord knows there is a limit to how much I can take off), drive more skillfully, make creative structures from it or wage friendly battles with others, complain about the landscaping service and their plowing skills or those of the town, tell stories about past adventures, put on special foot covering to be comfortable and safer, alter my work plans to fit in with safety warnings, light a fire, bake or cook. And this with central air for which I am eternally grateful and paying dearly.

Heat makes me want to cry
Cold makes me search for a sweater or blanket."

REMEMBERING JENNIE

2011-07-16T12:54:00.000-07:00

July 12 was the anniversary of my mother’s 1895 birth, the year before Sigmund Freud published The Aetiology of Hysteria. The fifth child of seven in her immigrant Swedish family, she was the first born in the United States and the only one to finish High School. She searched Titles for the City of Bristol, Connecticut until the birth of my brother when, ‘of course,’ she gave it up because she was now a mother. Fifty years after her retirement her work was remembered in the Bristol Press. I believe her bouts of depression were related to Betty Friedan’s “problem that has no name.”

Jean, my cousin once removed (or something like that) shared this memory, “I can still clearly picture your proud looking Dad and meticulously dressed Mother walking down the aisle at Bethesda Lutheran on a Sunday morning,” That basically says it all. From the beginning when they dated in horse and buggy, the church was the center of their lives. On the days when mother wasn’t sitting by her bedroom’s upstairs window sewing or mending, watching for my homecoming, she was greeting me as I joined her at one of the women’s circle meetings.

Mother’s day was predictable: breakfast ready for us when we got up – orange juice, coffee, toast and cereal or eggs and, for me, a spoonful of cod liver oil followed by a chocolate candy kiss to kill the taste. Lunch ready for my father when he came home for his midday break from the office, followed by clean-up and a nap. She was bathed, refreshed (as if she needed it – always clothed in a pretty dress and apron) when he got home after work. So was I when I was little – toys stashed, hands washed, clothes tidied.

Hallie and I picked violets for our mothers on Mother’s Day. My father frequently picked Lillies of the Valley for her from his beautifully kept gardens. Mother picked herself up when she was needed, like the time we went to the 1939 World’s Fair, carrying our packed lunch, and enjoying it, even though she had a terrible cold. Or when she came for a week to help Lou and me with our firstborn, or home-schooled me when I missed three months of third grade, homebound with chicken box and then whooping cough. Or when she brought me food and treats the weekend I hibernated in their study, finishing my thesis.

Mother achieved the end in 1975, but she’s been looking back at me in the mirror regularly for some time.

REMEMBERING HALLIE

2011-07-07T10:11:00.000-07:00

These days my mother tends to look back at me from the mirror, but even more frequently it’s Hallie -- her quizzical smile. I hear her voice often too, usually when I make a stupid mistake or express a thought she doesn’t approve of. “Oh, Mona …” in her distinctive voice. How fortunate Hallie and I both were to live well into our adulthood in the houses we had known from our births. Back yards adjoining, we played, fought, shaped each other.

Today is the anniversary of Hallie’s birth, but she’s not here to celebrate it herself. She’s been gone since 2002. My daughter and I arrived at her home in Cape Cod right after she’d sat with her family for her last breakfast – a glass of prune juice – and asked when I’d be there. Back in the Hospice-provided bed, she energized herself into a hearty Hallie laugh when I recalled out loud some of the adventures we had shared. Then she was gone. Her body carried on until 2:00 a.m. the next morning.

Hallie grew up in a house filled with cigarette smoke. Her mother declared that she smoked because it was good for her asthma, a belief she had good reason for holding. See Tye, Larry. (1998). The father of spin: Edward L. Bernays and the Birth of Public Relations. New York: Henry Holt and Company, for the tale of how Bernays sold physicians and dentists on testifying in print to smoking's medicinal value. Hallie began smoking when she was 13.

Somewhere in the late 1980s she sought help in hypnosis which worked beautifully. She never again longed for a cigarette. But it was too late. When she died, the doctor declared amazement that she had survived so long with her lungs so badly damaged.

So, Hallie, today I'm celebrating the fact that you are still looking back at me, critiquing my behavior.

CELEBRATION AND COURAGE

2011-07-05T16:33:00.000-07:00

Fourth of July and another year that I celebrated in good health, in a place of no bombed out destruction. The Minnesota Orchestra was inspiring on the Excelsior Green. The weather was perfect, as were the comfortable folding chairs I bought earlier in the day from Ace Hardware, with beverage holders for the frozen lemonade to go with the picnic supper. It was moving, honoring the veterans who stood with the songs representing their branches of service. The fireworks were gorgeous (as long as I kept my ears covered.) The crowds were calm and respectful. It was a great evening!

On our recent Holland America Line cruise, we Americans were outnumbered by the Dutch. Everything was announced in two languages, causing me once again to regret my poor knowledge of languages other than English. A majority of the Dutch were well advanced in age, as indicated by the walkers, wheelchairs, canes, walking sticks, and bent backs. But courage! Oh my. Nothing held them back. They made their way on all the walks, working their way up stone steps to enter old houses. Better than what I did. I figure if I’ve seen the inside of one old wooden house, I’ve seen them all, especially if I’m going to experience vertigo making my way down the stacked-up rocks that pass for stairs.

My father defined courage as doing that which one is afraid to do. I try to do that with important things. But for me, another part of courage, and of finally being a grown-up, is admitting I’m scared and avoiding unnecessary risks.

So what does all this have to do with peaceful July fourth celebrations and courage? My chiropractor reminded me that our Dutch companions were of the age that suffered the trauma of the Nazi occupation of WWII. On our last day we visited still-functioning windmills – the kind we think of as belonging to the Netherlands. Among other things, we learned that during the war the position of the blades sent messages like, “There’s a package to be picked up.” With gratitude for my annual good luck, I can only imagine the trauma and the courage of that wartime experience. – of any war.

SELF-ESTEEM, SELF-CONTROL, AND MENDING FLAWS

2011-07-04T07:45:00.000-07:00

The theme of Saturday evening’s sermon, honoring our celebration of Independence, was self-esteem. Of course this psychologist sat up and took notice. These are my reactions. Tragically, the concept has been badly misunderstood in the past decades! The result – narcissism, depression, inability to solve problems, poor appreciation of criticism, and probably more. Genuine self-esteem - based on self-efficacy – is developed by encouragement and recognition of one’s strengths, observation of one’s weaknesses, and the provision of tools for improvement. Or, as Adlerians are wont to say, having the willingness to be perfectly imperfect.

Instead, too much parenting and education has protected developing individuals from any sense of imperfection, thereby encouraging an inflated and inaccurate sense of one’s worth, lack of tools for dealing with disappointment by self-modification, reacting instead with blaming and striving to correct and control others. Early in my own education and teaching, the value of tests and papers was the pointing up of errors and suggested correction, often painful, but accepted as part of the strengthening of one’s knowledge. By the time I retired from teaching, the goal for many students had become getting an A, anything less, in their opinion, being the instructor’s fault for failing to recognize their worth.

Basic to healthy self-esteem is the courage to recognize one’s own flaws and gain control over them. In summary, if we really love someone or something, we are willing to see it’s correctible faults and point them out, with hope for a strengthening of the honesty, integrity, self-control and consequent power of the object of our affection. Last evening we sang “America the Beautiful” which includes the words: “God mend thine every flaw; Confirm they soul in self-control…”

THE TOP OF THE WORLD

2011-06-30T07:38:00.000-07:00

On 6/20/11 I visited Hammerfest, Norway, purportedly the northernmost city in the world. There the Museum of Reconstruction documents the almost total destruction of the town by the retreating Germans in 1944. Only the small funeral chapel remained. It strikes me that back in the USA I was worrying about studying and proms. Question: What is the advantage of ignorance of the suffering of others?

It was relaxing on the Holland America Line’s cruise of the Norwegian fjords to hear so little news – only the basics in the daily New York Times summary. In fact, I find that I’m choosing music over news on public radio now that I’m home. But in Hammerfest in 1944 the focus was on working together to restructure their town and lives. In fact, it’s interesting to note that it’s the Museum of Reconstruction, not the Museum of Destruction – emphasis on the positive -- cooperation.

What if we all allowed ourselves to be aware of the events of the world: slavery, poverty, unjustified imprisonment and torture, mass murder of populations, prejudicial treatment, pollution of our world, enforced ignorance? Would we find it intolerable? Or would we be more cooperative in working to reconstruct?

HOLD ALL CALLS. JUNG WAS RIGHT

2011-06-08T18:08:00.000-07:00

My brain is swollen tight up against my skull, and my heart is about to break my ribs. No. It’s not a medical emergency. It’s just time to retreat to my introvert for some recovery time. I’ll tell you why, and then I’m withdrawing until I feel like getting back into the extraverted fray again.

Swollen heart. I spent time this past week with my college roommate and her husband – in Maine. Even had a whole lobster, gift of other Maine friends. Overlooking the water, of course. Oh, and a brief swim in a very cold lake. But it’s the friendship that counts. And that continued with a trip to New London for a Connecticut College reunion. (It was Connecticut College for Women then.)

We don’t look like our yearbook photos any more, and widowhood is almost as common as toothpaste, but zoom in close and there is community warmer even than it was when we graduated. “Wise Women” was the theme, and that we should be – lots of experience to ripen us. “Mrs. Job” and my forgiveness books were included in a signing at the bookstore. No surprise – I was the oldest author there, but in the group attending were rows of the CC scarves that mark our class. Would that everyone could have such a rich store of friends. OK. So much for the heart.

As for the swollen brain, I’ve been deep into getting to know my magical website – still not released to the public, but the work of some very clever people. I have more to do on my part, but I need time out. Remember Jung’s opposites? Every once in a while the extravert has to retreat for replenishment. I’ll be back before too long with the bells and whistles (well, sort of) of my new web site.

WE DON’T FORGIVE TORNADOS

2011-05-27T06:44:00.000-07:00

Why don’t we feel the need to forgive natural disasters? Certainly they wreak havoc every bit as horrible as what people do. I’m thinking the answer to that question might shed some light on forgiveness.

Is it that a hurricane attacks randomly, so victims don’t feel personally offended? But so do terrorists attack randomly.

Is it that we lose faith in our ability to predict what will happen? What a challenge to our sense comfort and control. Certainly natural disasters shake predictability to the core, just as murder and mayhem do. Yet we don’t feel the need to forgive the earthquake.

Is it that we attribute responsibility to the human offender? But certainly we know that the tornado is responsible for the devastation being suffered.

Maybe it’s a matter of morality. We expect human beings to follow some kind of moral code. Only if we choose to blame God for the natural disaster do we have the same expectation of the earthquake.

So, does it boil down to blame? The first step in forgiveness is to blame the offender. To forgive is to accuse.

Oh yes, one last piece – shame. Why do we find the little personal offenses, like a friend not speaking to us, so hard to forgive? Shame?

Just asking. What ideas will you share?

FORGIVENESS IS AT THE BASE OF THE MRS. JOB STORY

2011-05-19T06:34:00.000-07:00

Forgiveness has been my public emphasis lately, but let’s not forget that behind the Mrs. Job story is a biblical story of forgiveness. In brief, Job was from Edom. Edom is another name for Esau. Esau’s inheritance was stolen from him by Jacob (and his mother). Jacob went off to live with Uncle Laban while Esau, in anger, took a second wife, the daughter of Ishmael (the attributed source of Islam).

Jacob, some fourteen years later, finally got Rachel’s hand in marriage, after being duped into marrying Leah first. (My heart goes out to Leah.) Returning home from his long sojurn with Laban, and fearing Esau’s justifiable rage, Jacob courageously sent his servants and family on ahead of hem, But Esau surprised him with a welcoming embrace. Now that’s a forgiveness story.

So, deep in Job’s family background was a spirit of forgiveness. That’s my take on it, anyway

Mona's comments on forgiving abusers

2011-04-30T07:12:00.000-07:00

Recently I was interviewed about forgiving an abuser. Click on this link if you would like to see the result.

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/7994389/tips_for_forgiving_an_abusive_spouse.html?cat=5

Well, this is different!

2011-04-29T08:51:00.000-07:00

Vanity and Mrs. Job. That's what this is all about. But then, I do believe we need a light touch every once in a while.

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?created&&note_id=10150254740335041&id=150195330040#!/notes/skin-authority/our-royal-face-of-the-week-mona-affinito/10150254740335041

What I told the TV about forgiveness

2011-04-22T09:36:00.000-07:00

I was energetically talking to the TV as I watched an episode of “Forgiveness: A Time to Love and a Time to Hate” which was presented recently on PBS. (In fact, I just ordered a copy of the DVD for my library.) It’s really well done, with its emphasis on the complexity of the issue.

So what was my frustrated ranting? “Look at my ‘When to Forgive,’ I shouted,” It’s based exactly on that complexity, which is why it’s not called something like “The Miracle of Forgiveness” which the publishers wanted originally. The point is to recognize the reader’s specific situation and the possibilities available for an appropriate and moral response.

My frustration? “When to Forgive” isn’t in the hands of so many people who could be helped. The same goes for my “Forgiving One Page at a Time.” Want to know more? This link will take you there.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Mona+gustafson+Affinito&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3AMona+gustafson+Affinito&ajr=3

The More Things Change; The More They Stay the Same

2011-04-14T07:59:00.000-07:00

I’d be old-fashioned in the classroom now. Oh, I did innovate. In my last course I used weekly e-mail exchanges to receive and give instant feedback on brief papers. In the 60s, I contributed to a TV course where we lectured on screen and evaluated progress with traditional methods.

But recently I heard of a web course based on two principles: Socratic method and Games theory - as in games like World of Warcraft.

In the 60s, our team entertained classes of 125 students with an assortment of slides and movies displayed on the big screen as we lectured in the traditional way – early version of powerpoint?

Then there’s SCSU itself. We had no glossy magazine like the college produces now, or “Southern Life,” the campus newspaper, which inspired me to write this.

What caught my eye was research Bill Sherman (psych department) did with Michelle Vancour (public health) extending her doctoral study of academic moms to the study of men in academia.

Now here’s where things stay the same. “These men ‘don’t feel the same level of guilt about going to work as moms do.” A father might say, ‘I don’t like to travel because I miss my kids,’ rather than feeling guilty about leaving them, as mom’s do”

“One key difference in how the men and women in their studies view work/family balance. Dads compartmentalize, saying ‘This is what I’ll do and this is when I’ll do it’ whereas moms try to find bits and pieces of time to fit everything in. ‘Women don’t just turn off one thing and do another,… they multitask.’”

Guilt and multitasking. Been there; done that. Still trying to train myself to compartmentalize.

SURVIVAL OF THE COOPERATIVE

2011-03-26T12:11:00.000-07:00

THE AGE OF COMPASSION?

Recently I awoke wondering if I was depressed. I still don’t know whether I was, but I did know I didn’t want to sit and stare into space, much as I wanted to. That would result in guaranteed depression at the end of the day. So I read a book – I mean a print book – which I had sitting on the top of my pile: Frans deWaal, “The Age of Empathy, Nature’s Lessons for a Kinder Society.” I do recommend the book. His 2009 thesis revealed in the preface is so hopeful:

“American politics seems poised for a new epoch that stresses cooperation and social responsibility. The emphasis is on what unites a society, what makes it worth living in, rather than what material wealth we can extract from it. Empathy is the grand theme of our time, …”

Then I received the latest report from the Southern Poverty Law Center. “…more than 1000 hate groups – a record number – are now operating in our country. And armed, antigovernment militias mushroomed for the second year in a row.”

Just an example of the negative evidence that could have sent me back to bed depressed. That’s when I called on the technique I learned years ago from my college roommate – with some modification – Twenty years from now I’ll see what was really going on as we were caught in the eddy of change.

There must be a nice six-word phrase to convey that sense of anticipating what today’s maelstrom will have calmed down to mean twenty years from now.

For more on deWaal’s book, click here for my review on amazon.com. I’ve titled it “Survival of the Cooperative.” You’ll have to scroll down to find it on page 2.

http://www.amazon.com/Age-Empathy-Natures-Lessons-Society/product-reviews/0307407772/ref=cm_cr_pr_btm_link_next_2?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=0&pageNumber=2

While I’m at it, take a look at the review of my classmate’s book, Lois Spratley, “Transatlantic Triangle.” I’ve titled my review, “Love and Nostalgia – A Darned Good Story.

http://www.amazon.com/Transatlantic-Triangle-Lois-Spratley/product-reviews/0595224539/ref=sr_1_2_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1

MY MOTHER WASN'T DEAF

2011-03-10T08:31:00.000-08:00

On Friday, March 7, 2011, I was given what I consider to be a gift – over an hour with Dara Beevas of Beaver’s Pond Press. It was like a free tutorial, discussing the state of “Riding in the Back Seat” which is nowhere near complete, but the development of which will be greatly modified by the content of that discussion. A review written by Jordan Wiklund at that office focused on the distinction between memoir and autobiography, including the following which I found not only instructive but delightfully challenging as well: “… a memoir often wraps an image or idea around itself again and again, re-visioning itself with every chapter or section. Local writer Pat Francisco (Telling) shares this gem about the genre; ‘the real goal of memoir is to re-learn, re-envision, and re-understand what you thought you knew.’”

Of course, I’ve been waking up at 3:00 a.m. since, manipulating ideas about turning the steering wheel in different directions. The fact is, working on “Riding … “ has helped me understand my own marriage and divorce in new ways – and that after I thought I had worked it through completely.

Today, though, I want to focus on a side discussion that developed between Dara and me – the issue of respect for one’s elders. Since I certainly am one of “them” now, I have some reactions springing from personal experience. There are things that people occasionally do to/for me because of “respect” for my age which I, perhaps because of my own personality, don’t experience as respectful. On the other hand, I’ll confess that I’m hoping my views in “Riding … “ will be perceived as valuable based on my lengthy stay on this planet. And I do grab my son’s arm for stability when walking in the slippery snow (which we’ve done a lot of this winter.) I also appreciate rides people offer me when going to strange places in the dark, or even in the daylight. I won’t drive 494 any more – partly encouraged by the “55 Alive” instruction that one should avoid driving in places where one does not feel comfortable.

But here’s the deal. Sometimes “respect” becomes the assumption of inability – a stereotyped view of aged decay. Many years ago, my mother was “seen” by a young psychiatrist in the nursing home where she was living. I was present at the interview. He shouted his original greeting, something like, “Hello, Jennie, I’m Dr. …” “I’m not deaf” my mother responded. “And how have you been feeling,” he shouted back. “My mother isn’t deaf,” I chimed in. And so the interview went. Maybe he suffered a disability, but it certainly would be a rare one – the inability to speak in a normal tone of voice. (Just imagine classroom discussions when he contributed his thoughts.) A few days later when I visited my mother, I learned that she had fired him. Hooray! What a wonderful assertive move on her part. Not only was she not deaf, she was very clear in her cognitive functioning.

Wondering whether I’m being hypersensitive about these issues, I looked up the definition of “respect.” Dictionaries vary, but here’s what my little Merriam-Webster Pocket Dictionary says: “to consider deserving of high regard; esteem; to refrain from interfering with (another’s privacy.)” Am I stretching it too far to suggest that we all deserve “respect,” with maybe an extra portion of interest in the value of experience that comes with age? That’s quite different from the assumption of disability. To put it differently, I suspect there are just as many individual differences among us aged as there are among our younger friends.

Oh, one more thing about nursing homes. I objected at one point to the staff at the nursing home calling my father “Carl.” I pleaded that he was Mr. Gustafson, just as my mother was “Mrs. Gustafson.” I was told that old folks prefer to be addressed by their first names. Maybe some do, but ask. Individual differences, remember?

I’d be so happy to see comments in reaction to this blog.

Oh, Why have I been away from the blog so long? Lots of things, like computer problems and corrupted e-mails taking up my time, but mostly it’s been my problem tearing myself away from “Riding in the Back Seat,” the creation that will certainly be greatly modified after I catch up on myself. No, I’m not anxious to finish it, That would be the end of me …

HOLY EARTH – “HOLY AGITATION, SUPERMAN”

2011-01-05T09:52:00.000-08:00

OK, the title sounds flippant, but the issue is heavy. Last evening I attended an inspiring presentation at Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church in Chaska, part of the series: “Toward a Sustainable Abundance.” The presenter was Pastor and Theologian Gwin Pratt whose topic was “Holy Earth.” Discussion was active, full, and varied, representing the abilities and thoughtfulness of the wonderful people present.

The spirituality of the movement to care for the earth was the topic. As I understand his point, the earth is not just a “thing” deposited by God for us to use as we please. Rather, the earth is God and God is the earth. If you prefer a non-religious approach, the earth is Gaia, a living organism, or take the Indian approach, it lives, belonging to all of us. I am totally comfortable, indeed pleasured, by that view.

But here’s my issue. I came home agitated – so agitated that I ate too much before going to bed, therefore waking up agitated at 3:00 a.m., struggling to identify the source of my agitation. So please follow me on my quest for an explanation.

I get that the earth is alive, not an inert ball of stuff. All it takes is one earthquake and/or a tsunami to demonstrate that fact. I get that the pollution we contribute to the rivers in Minnesota ends up creating a zone of death in the Gulf of Mexico. I get that melting ice in one part of the world creates floods in others. I know that it sickens me when I see a mountain destroyed in the process of mining, not just because of the deadly effect it has on the neighborhood around it, but because it feels like the removal of a breast without anesthetic. I understand why some family and friends are vegetarians because it makes them ill to see how food animals are treated.

I also get that the earth can sometimes heal its own wounds. I saw that in 1995 on the visit to Leipzig, Germany, when we were escorted on an after-lunch walk to the top of an almost lush mini-mountain. Except for occasional detritus emerging from the grass, one wouldn’t know that it grew on the pile of remains from the WWII bombing of the city.

I also get that humans are a part of the vibrant life of the earth, along with the rest of the flora and fauna. Sorry, but sometimes I equate us to microbes fighting each other for our share of the body, and often as healers, but certainly interrelated. Just like the melting icebergs that create floods, what each of us does ultimately affects everyone else. I believe that. Why else would I have become a practicing psychologist, an enthusiast for social justice, and a part, however small, of the movement for restorative practices?

I suffer pain for people all over the world who are deprived of the opportunity to lead full lives, utilizing their strengths and reaping the just rewards. I believe there is a direct relationship between respect, or lack of it, for the earth and the condition of the folks who populate it.

When I travel, I find myself reciting a mantra, “And now he’s dead,” as I view the elegant coffins and other memorials to people who struggled to come out on top in power over the earth and ownership of its parts. Working on my memoir, I’m aware of the blessings I enjoyed in the circumscribed world in which I was raised, not only ethnically and geographically, but also in a time and culture very different from today’s. I am aware as well that my journey on earth is limited by my very humanity.

In the discussion last evening, it was clear that the situation is hugely complicated, and no one of us can solve it all, but there were wonderful suggestions, among which was returning to the land in the form of local gardens. I know this is a movement providing not only food, but also appreciation of the joys provided by communicating with mother earth. Actually, it reminded me of the successful Victory garden my childhood friend and I created and harvested when we were thirteen. It was also clear that earth and we who are a part of it can grow in health only as we band together to raise consciousness. (Hmm – a familiar term from the 70’s.)

So, what was agitating me? The speaker’s wife, if I understood her correctly, directed me toward the answer. She recognized that we are living in exciting and hopeful times, even in the midst of what seem like impossible problems.

Ah-ha! I know what caused me concern. It was probably my imagination, but I had the impression that implicit in the conversation was a sense that today’s technology was an enemy in the struggle – especially that it creates distance between people. Here’s my take on it. Technology is here to stay. It emerges from one of God’s gifts to us – the ability to understand, create, and invent. And I can list a whole bunch of sources that inspire me with the things that individual people and groups are doing with technological solutions. There’s “Ode” and “Yes,” two of my favorite magazines, and the unsolicited supply of used magazines my son contributes, like “Scientific American,” “Technology Today,” and “Discover.” I confess I don’t read his from cover to cover, but they let me know that folks are working on all kinds of ways to reduce destruction of the earth, and contribute to its healing. And even sometimes with the economic motive of making money.

I’ve learned, as the speaker’s wife was indicating, that when we live in the center of the conflict, we can’t see clearly where it’s heading. Like the 1950s when I knew the atomic bomb was going to kill me, or, true confessions, when the addition to our home in the 1960s had a fallout shelter in the basement. Ah, but that’s another story.

And let’s not leave out Pastor Pratt’s recommendations. Bill McKibben’s book, “Eaarth: Making a Life on a Tough New Planet;” (Yes, “Eaarth” is the correct spelling of his title) books by Barbara Brown Taylor; John Abraham to be speaking at St. Luke’s on March 10, 2011; and especially 350.org. (I’ve been on amazon.com, googled, and sampled all.)

OK. I think I’ve got it. Now to eat some breakfast.

THE ACCORDION EFFECT

2010-12-11T14:25:00.000-08:00

THE ACCORDION EFFECT

Yup! The accordion, as in needing to open wide to take in the energy and squeeze it to get the music. It’s been a long time since I blogged. Blame the openings and closings. There’s a lot of squeezing together going on: time past becomes time present as I work on my memoirs, which will probably be of interest to no one but my family and me. I’m up to page 176 and not even divorced yet. In fact, the women’s movement hasn’t yet begun, or the bomb scares of the 60s. Well, that’s not quite true, because the way I’m writing it, some events from past and present do merge, accordion fashion.

Right now I’m living so many Christmas seasons all at once, from the days of huge family smorgasbords around Uncle Emil’s massive table to this year’s anticipation of Christmas Eve dinner at our favorite restaurant in Williamsburg, VA. From the days of anticipating visits from Santa Claus to the days of looking forward to his visits to my children to today’s Toys for Tots. Each year comes around faster, and each Christmas Eve I say the same thing (I guess I get boring): “I can’t believe I’ve been blessed with so many happy, healthy celebrations with family.”

The family, of course, gets smaller and smaller. I was basically the youngest of the youngest, so there aren’t many of us left. Most recently I’ve been spending time with the DVD of my trip to Sweden and Denmark with my parents in 1955. My son-in-law began the process by scanning my 35mm slides and, together with my memory and web searches, putting them in order and labeling them. Doug has coordinated them as much as possible with my reading of my mother’s diary from that trip. Now that’s what I mean about the accordion. It’s like hearing my mother speak at a joyful time in her life. And me? Well, I was a lot younger … Some things strike me especially, beginning with the end of our trip on the SS Kungsholm when we went off course into a hurricane in the North Atlantic to rescue nine men off a sinking Greek freighter. Truly newsworthy, we thought, until we came home to the devastation wrought to our town (fortunately not to our home.)

Items of note: Friends and family saw us off with a party in my parent’s stateroom before hearing the equivalent of “All ashore that’s going ashore.” No scanners. Remember? Not so long ago, actually. One of my father’s wealthy friends gave him a bon voyage gift of $10.00 to spend any way he’d like in the dining room! My mother made note of a hospital in Sweden where the nurses occupied housing in the building to the left of the hospital and the doctors were to the right. Remember that division of the sexes? But Skansen looked pretty much the same as it did in 1976 when I went with Doug and Lisa, and even today. And Tivoli in Copenhagen? The photos could have been taken yesterday.

That’s what I mean. I’m living in the past and the present at the same time, and pretty much surviving it. I’d much rather be the age I am now. I don’t want to go through all that again. Still, I wouldn’t mind having that body. Why that body? Well, it was a lot more agile, though truth be told I’ve always mistrusted my own feet when it comes to heights. Even in 1976 I made my kids climb down the hill rather than ride the steep down-escalator from Skansen. During Thanksgiving week in Italy, poor Doug had to put up with my panic going down the winding hill from our timeshare to the parking lot below – daily. It was worth it, though, at least to me. Food, food, food, fabulous food. Even our most favorite Italian restaurant can’t live up to what we had there. Wine, too. A friend of mine challenged me to try every wine in Italy. I did give it a try.

We spent a day in Rome, looking at the outside of the Roman ruins. OK. I’ve seen one Roman ruin I’ve seen them all. The Vatican? We walked right in. November is the time to visit. No crowds . Michelangelo’s Pieta, the Sistine Chapel, a chance to pray for a special friend in Connecticut. All good – even moving, but I loved the Duomo in Arvieto more. Breathtaking. I confess that I prefer the small towns: Spoleto and Assisi as well. I did get my wish to see Pompeii – a bit of that accordion effect as I thought of the wealthy folks living in fabulous beauty and luxury before they left their slaves behind to die in the ash. I’ve promised myself I’ll google it. I understand they escaped into slavery in Egypt.

Today I’m snowed in, missing a fun Holiday concert and celebration, but I’m counting on tomorrow to be better for the Minnetonka Choral Society Concert and dinner afterward.

Monday I’ll be doing what I still keep working at – with minimal success – trying to sell my books. I’ll spend the day on Monday at the LinkedIn holiday celebration with my books spread out on table #8.

I think of the friends who moved on to the next phase of the journey during the past year with deepest sympathy for their families feeling the emptiness. I hope memories act a bit like a musical accordion.

I wish happy holidays for all of you who had the patience to read this through. One thing about the accordion effect: I know that twenty years from now we’ll have a full understanding of what’s growing in the midst of today’s turmoil, and I count on being around to “get” it.

HIGH SCHOOL DURING WWII AND ITS END

2010-09-02T08:19:00.000-07:00

Thanks to you kind folk who commented on my last blog. The concern and support felt good.

And now this is a segment from my "Riding in the Back Seat." I've tried to keep each section to 1000 words more or less, not counting the title. This one makes it exactly. What you see in it depends on your age, of course. I hope you find something of nostalgia, history, or comedy (how camp!) in it.

CARRYING THE TORCH

In September 1943, when we were bussed in from Forestville to become part of the Bristol High School class of 1947, the heaviness of WWII, the most widespread war in history, accompanied us. Bristol buzzed with activity, especially at New Departure Ball Bearings. Rumors claim that at least one of the clock companies did secret work for the war effort. Anyone who could work was employed, at high wages. Day care centers provided care for employee’s children. Air raid spotters and Wardens did the work I’ve described earlier, most with greater efficiency than Hallie and I demonstrated. When we recited allegiance to the flag, we pledged to “one nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Visits to the movies, largely cheerful musicals, began with newsreels of war, horrible but distant except for habitual fear for the guys (sic) fighting overseas, and for the people living there. Isolated in our own freshman building, we concentrated on being teenagers. Miss Jones gave me an A with the comment “Excellent capture of an experience” for an essay I wrote claiming Thelma’s misadventure at People’s Forest as my own. Nothing sufficiently exciting had happened to me. In the spring I phoned Eddie McHugh to ask him if he wanted to go to the dance. His answer was “no.”

As summer vacation began and we anticipated, with some dread, our move to the big high school building in the fall, news came that changed the atmosphere we breathed. On June 6, 1944, as my parents celebrated their twenty-seventh anniversary, D-Day, the bloody but ultimately victorious battle of Normandy, began. Hope, a sweet, shallow-breathing, painful emotion, shaded our fun in the sun.

In 2001 our family visited Omaha beach. Feeling like hallowed ground, row upon row of crosses and Jewish stars brought order out of what had been terrible chaos. A few years ago an offensive e-mail made the circuit focusing on the crosses there, claiming that battle as evidence that we are a Christian nation. Wrong! It took all of us.

In August 1944, just before our sophomore year, tension began to yield as newsreels announced that all of Northern France was under allied control. Sadness, gloom, and dirges prevailed, however, in April when President Franklin D. Roosevelt died on the twelfth of the month. Our class history pointed out, “The President of the United States passed away before being able to rejoice at the end of hostilities in Europe” Harry Truman was sworn in. Who?

The dirges were personal for us as Uncle Everett died of heart failure at just about the same time, leaving Aunt Gerda alone, and the one who finally had to move in with my aging Grandpa Anderson to care for him until the end of his life at age ninety-two.

Close to the end of our sophomore year, on May 8, 1945, Germany’s unconditional surrender was announced and hope became more excitement than dread. Before the newsreels at the movies the bouncing ball led us in singing, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again ..”

That summer I learned to type. My parents insisted I should, but there was no hope of my taking that course in school; kids in the college curriculum were banned as there were only enough typewriters to serve students in the business courses. So I traveled daily that summer to a typing course in a private business school in Bristol. I became sufficiently proficient in QWERTY to make some extra money typing papers in college.

I’ll bet part of my parents’ motivation was the fact of my terrible penmanship. The Palmer method of wide circles and up and down motions in the early grades hadn’t done much for legibility, so I imagine typed papers in themselves might have biased teachers in my favor. On the other hand, I’ve claimed that the reason I got so many As in my bluebook exams was the fact that teachers just threw up their hands in despair for their eyesight with an “Oh what the heck! Call it an A and move on.”

The lack of room in the typing class may also have reflected what was an apparent growing population of Bristol teenagers. My memory is vague, but I recall that our days were divided in two, so that some of us went to school in morning sessions and the others in the afternoon. This isn’t a real memory, but I’ll guess I preferred the afternoon assignment. I still slept well, long, and late in those days.

In the meantime, adults were creating for themselves the perpetual problem of how to deal with teenagers. One solution was Teen Town as reflected in this quote from ‘The Torch,” our yearbook. “… many of our classmates could be found after school or in the evening at Teen Town. This teenager’s haven was something new in our town and attracted many of the students.” I think my attitude was closer to the truth. I resented being labeled as a member of some group that needed containment. I don’t remember that Teen Town lasted very long.

Just before we began our junior year, On August 6, 1945, the Enola Gay dropped “Little Boy,” the equivalent of 20,000 tons of TNT on Hiroshima, Japan, a city of 250,000, 70,000 of whom were killed instantly, another 70,000 of whom died of radiation within the next ten years. The bombing of Nagasaki followed on August 9. We were shocked and even gleeful, having no way to anticipate what it would mean that we had just initiated the atomic age. What we did know was that we started our third year in high school celebrating the Japanese surrender on September 2. Euphoria, an all-body wildness I’m not neurologically wired to experience often, zinged through our personal atomic structures.

The War was over. We would live in peace! Our Glee Club practiced “One World” for our participation in the state chorus: “One world built on a firm foundation; one world no longer cursed by war…

PRIDE GOES BEFORE A FALL; I’VE BEEN SCAMMED

2010-08-23T11:07:00.000-07:00

There are at least two ways to tell a story. I could take you through the process, the tension, the fears, the resolution, the relief, the chagrin, and the therapeutic action, or I can start with the conclusion and then tell you the story. I’ve chosen the latter. Where does the pride come in? Mine. I thought I was perfectly immune to any kind of scam. Not only am I smart enough not to respond to e-mails from Nigeria, I thought I knew all the possibilities. I know I should never send money to a cause I haven’t initiated or explored fully, especially if I’m asked to do it in a hurry. Daily I check my accounts to be sure nothing weird is happening. I’ve had clients with whom I’ve sympathized when they’ve sent money off for the prize that never came or got caught in other scams. I do lots of things to protect myself, not all of which I’ll report here because I now know there are really bright people ready to turn anything into a plan.

I also want to say up front that, while all this was going on, my grandson Erik was innocently going about his daily business, oblivious to the way he and his voice were being used. And I want to express my high regard for the talent, creativity, and skill of the scammers. Boy! Were they good!

Grandparents among you, please take notice. My cousin in Florida tells me (Now she tells me!) there are warnings all over Florida about this scam, Florida being a great location to catch caring grandparents. I guess the scammers are now targeting wider and less informed territory.

Personally I am hurt. I’ve spent the summer being very careful so I could save for next summer’s vacation and I was just about there. But that’s all that’s lost. I can still pay my mortgage, enjoy my concerts and plays, give to the causes I care about. In other words, it’s not very bad. I’m mildly chagrined, but as the story unfolds, you’ll see how convinced I was that I was talking to Erik. So, on with what I’ve learned.

When I agree to keep a secret, my mind clamps down on it and imprisons it in a special place. Given my career, I think I’m especially susceptible to that. I’m also pretty good at not agreeing to keep a secret until I’m sure I want to and can. But when my grandson, in stress, asks me to keep a secret, I’m quick to agree. First step in the scam, of course. Don’t tell anyone.

What else have I learned? (1) Good people try to intervene when they suspect something may be wrong. (2) Western Union is the one untraceable way to send money. (3) An American accent calling from the police department in Canada should raise suspicions. (4) Essential to a good scam is lots of realistic detail; (5) the scammers could have been right next door to me, ‘cause phones can be rigged easily to appear to be coming from almost anywhere; (6) We hear what we expect to hear; (7) For a couple of reasons I think they were targeting me specifically, or at least my town of Chaska; (7) But here’s the clincher which I learned from my military friend who was once connected with the CIA, people can be, and are, trained to pick up someone’s speech patterns. It takes a short time for talented people, and it’s useful in the job they do. (As I said to my cousin, “Hmm, do you suppose my scammer was once trained with my tax money?)

My immediate reaction once I knew I’d been scammed and Erik was safe was to follow basic therapeutic principles and look for a way to get control of the situation. The money’s gone, but I could still look for a way to follow my former husband’s advice, “Turn a defeat into a victory,” or the saw “When you’re given lemons, make lemonade.” So I sent off a note to a local TV channel offering my story. They haven’t responded, but here I am hoping you’ll hear it to good purpose.

On Friday morning at about 9:30 a.m. I answered a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

Hi Grandma,

Erik, Hi. How are you? [Can’t you just imagine the victory signal in the hotel room? They had me.]

I’m OK Grandma, but – well – can you promise not to tell anyone for now?

Sure. What can I do for you?

Well, Grandma, Craig’s grandfather died suddenly a couple of weeks ago, and he loved his cabin in Canada, so the family came here to leave his ashes. Craig asked me to come, and yesterday, after everything was done, we found a nice fishing spot – kind of isolated and really nice. There were a couple of other guys there too and we got to talking. They seemed really nice, so we invited them to come back with us for a barbecue. On the way there, we got stopped for a broken taillight that Craig didn’t know was broken. The two guys in the back freaked out and the police made us all get out of the car. It turns out those two guys are known drug dealers, and one of them had slipped his stash under my seat. So they arrested us all. They charged us with using, dealing, and intent to transport over the border. So now they’re going to keep us here until the trial unless I can come up with bail. Grandma, I can pay you back tomorrow if you could just send it for now so I can get out of this place. I don’t want to spend another night in this box, and this is my only phone call. Craig’s grandmother has already bailed him out.

How much is bail?

$5,220

Oh my God! I haven’t got that kind of money!

That’s OK Grandma, if you can’t do it.

Of course I can find it! How do I get it to you?

[OK, You folks who are reading this now, knowing it’s a scam, I want you to understand that all this time it’s Erik’s voice. It’s Erik I’m talking to.]

I’ll let the officer tell you.

Officer John Bannon gets on to tell me that Craig and Erik both tested clean for drugs, though the other two didn’t. Then he explains to me what to do. I need to get cash and send it via Western Union to someone named Williams Prince in Miami, Florida. Sgt. Bannon emphasizes the “s” on the end of William. [ohmygod, looking back, isn’t that a suspicious name? Sure. Everything is clear once you know what’s going on.] He’s the person who handles bonding for U.S. Citizens, he tells me.

“Come on, I said, “You must know they aren’t guilty.” And Officer Bannon says, “If it were up to me, I’d let them go, but you know… “

Do I really need to leave home to do this? I have a client coming at 11:00. Can’t I just give you my credit card number? [Oh Mona. Were you ever hooked or what!?] Fortunately he declined that offer.

“It may not take that long,” says Sgt. Bannon. “Where do you live?” I tell him I’m in Chaska, MN. “Let me look it up on the web,” he says. “There’s one right there in Chaska at County Market. And let me know when you’ve sent it so we can let the bondsman be on the lookout for it. And be sure to keep track of the fee for sending it, because we’ll reimburse it.”

Yes, but my bank is in Excelsior. Isn’t there a Western Union there? He asks me to spell “Excelsior” and takes time to “look it up on the web” and tell me there isn’t a Western Union there. [See why I think Chaska was targeted?]

Now I’ll shorten the tale into a narrative. I called my client and asked her to postpone until Monday because of a family emergency. She kindly agreed. I went to the bank where dear Beckie asked me “Are you sure this isn’t a scam.?” I was sure. I had been talking to my grandson (but of course I didn’t tell her – sworn to secrecy, you know.) I asked the teller to look up on the web and see whether there is a Western Union in Excelsior. “Yes, there’s one at TCF bank,” she said, looking at the web. [I know, I know. I know. Why didn’t I catch on then? But I had been talking to Erik!] At TCF bank I learned they had given up the Western Union desk, so I found the County Market in Chaska.

At County Market I left the Western Union order on the order phone and gave the guy the money. “Are you sure this isn’t a scam?” he asks. Of course I’m sure. I’ve been talking to Erik. Once that’s done, I call the phone number I’d been given where a guy answers “Niagara Police.” I ask to speak to Sgt. John Bannon. The 'officer who answered' gets him on the phone, asking what the fee was for Western Union so they can reimburse me. I’ll be getting the check in about two weeks, he says. He tells me they’ll call me when Erik is released. The time goes deep into the afternoon and I’m about to go off with Doug, so I call the number again and the “Niagara Police” answer. “We’re processing it,” he tells me. It will probably get to be midnight or so. “Is Erik going to need a lawyer” I ask? “I don’t think so,” he says. “The charges will probably be dropped.” You can call anytime, though you might get a different officer tomorrow. "Tell Erik I’m going to be with Uncle Doug. Is it OK to tell him?” ‘Officer Bannon’ turns to ‘Erik” who says “No. I’d rather wait until I can explain it to the family tomorrow.” [Something about this is weird. The kids never keep anything from Doug. Is he really that embarrassed?]

Off I went with Doug. No phone call, and no phone call in the morning. Finally I called the number for the ‘Niagara Police” and got a recording in French, followed by an English translation, that no one is answering at that number. Getting scared for Erik’s safety I leave him a message on his cell phone. “Where are you?” and I check the web for reverse phone numbers. There is no one attached to the number of the “Niagara Police.” I call 911. “It’s a scam,” I’m told. “I’ll send an officer to talk to you.” Now I was really scared for Erik. I had been talking to him. Had they kidnapped him? Just as the cop arrived, Erik called. “What do you mean where am I? I’m in Philadelphia, of course.” When I told him the story, he said “I don’t even know a Craig.” I was so relieved Erik was safe. Money is only money.

And there you have it. Erik’s safe, and I’ve learned a lot. Oh, by the way, when I was believing the story of being stopped by the cops, I thought what a great way for smugglers to get their stuff across the border, hiding it in the car of the innocent and letting colleagues on the other side fetch it.

Camp Woodstock and stuff

2010-08-03T08:27:00.000-07:00

I goofed! If you are on the automatic recipient list, please disregard the too-large double-spaced thing that just came through. Now I'll start over.

I haven't written here because I've been wrapped up in two things, trying to learn Italian, and enthusiastically writing "Riding in the Back Seat," a book no one will probably ever want to read, but I feel compelled to write it. Anyway, I decided to include one segment (the equivalent of pages 74-76.) I'm trying to keep each chapter/segment to 1000 words.

Reactions would certainly be appreciated, but in the meantime, I hope you'll just enjoy ...

CAMP WOODSTOCK: JOY, FUN, ACCOMPLISHMENT, AND SAD ASSOCIATIONS

I just googled myself right back there – into the wood smell of the cabin and my upper bunk, canoes in sweet blue waters, the barn with its long meal tables, craft stations for interlacing leather belts and lanyards that went home as gifts and souvenirs. Two-weeks at the YMCA camp in Woodstock Valley, Connecticut; the feel of total immersion. If that sounds like a form of baptism, it’s pretty close to the truth. The intimacy of the immediate and the sublime was realized in one of my favorite spots, the hallowed Cathedral in the Pines. Nestled in the trees, sweetened by the smell of living wood and the calm of blue lake waters, it was the site of formal worship, and more important, the place of escape from whatever was too much of the good and bad to bear in the busy day.

Hallie was with me in 1942; World War II was in full horror overseas; the outcome was unclear; and we were twelve. Gas cards were saved to fuel us there. We outlined the initials of our latest crush in tape on our upper legs so there would be a white imprint of sorts left after we got really tan. I chose the initials HB for Harry Belmar. He, of course, had no idea I had a crush on him – a cute blond guy who was in my confirmation class – a joint venture of our Forestville church with the Bristol church that shared the same pastor. I’m not sure I even felt an attraction for him. It was more important to have a crush than to experience it.

I received a blue ribbon, designed especially for me. Something like, “Most surprising progress in diving,” or whatever nice way they came up with saying it. The fact is, although I loved swimming and had no fear of the water, I did fear going in upside down. Learning to dive involved kneeling on the dock and going in headfirst. Having mastered that, one proceeded to do the same thing from a standing position, ultimately to propelling oneself into the water from the diving board. Daily, as everyone moved beyond me, I knelt on the dock trying unsuccessfully to invert myself into the water. Night after night in my bunk, I imagined the feeling of diving. On the last full day, I walked out on the board and, quite nicely if I do say so myself, executed the headlong catapult into the water that I had been imagining. I picture counselors huddling to discuss possible ways to recognize that astonishing feat which would not have been noteworthy had I not displayed a long period of failure.

It taught me something I later used in some of my classes; I discovered that athletes have been known to do that kind of practice in imagery – a great example of the intimacy of mind and body.

Overcoming shyness, I sang in the talent show. First time successfully performing in front of people – makings of a college professor?

I wish I could honor the memory one of our counselors by recalling her name; she was tall, blond, pretty, and very nice. On November 28, 1942, she died in the Coconut Grove fire in Boston, one of 492 killed, closed in by boarded up windows, locked doors, a revolving entrance trapping people unable to move either in or out, lax enforcement of insufficient fire laws, and overcrowding by 500 over the limit. Death by painful violence, unlike my Uncle Emil’s quiet demise at home.

I still find remnants of the empathic frustration and anger I felt at the image of people trying to escape out the limited exit space. I thought of her in my classes when on occasion I’d talk about the study that observed people pulling their own rope-attached beads out the neck of a coke-like bottle. When people cooperatively took turns, all their beads got out. Not so when people competed to be first to save themselves. The Coconut Grove fire spread so fast it was basically impossible for anyone to help anyone else, to say nothing of take turns. Even the firefighters couldn’t get in to help. I experience even more intensified anger when people have been trapped more recently in similar fires because a choice has been made to keep exit doors locked. More should have been learned from the Coconut Grove fire, or the concern for people’s welfare over profit.

By the way, googling reveals the photo of a Coconut Grove matchbook advertising dinner for $1.50. Among the dead was Buck Jones, in town to promote War Bonds and his own films.

In the mid 1980s, I had just finished teaching research related to pro-social behavior. It involved [fake] smoke creeping under the door and people’s reactions under varying conditions. As we were discussing those results, and the deception, another faculty member gestured me into the hall, pointing out the fire in the ceiling. I returned to the classroom, requesting that people leave calmly and quietly, because flames had been detected. Of course, they didn’t leave – not about to be fooled - until I sent one student out to validate the observation.

A few years back, after a picnic on the palace grounds in Colonial Williamsburg, the fireworks display ended in a sudden downpour of rain. In demonstration of the beads-out-of-the-bottle effect, some people huddled under the exit gate, making it almost impossible for the rest of us to get out. The following year that event was cancelled, citing the “riot” that occurred in the rain.

And there you have it – the juxtaposition of personal delight, war, terrible civilian tragedies, and very uncomfortable but minor inconveniences. That’s part of the accordion effect – juggling the simple and glorious with the complex and tragic.

When my children were of late childhood age they went to Woodstock. It was a nice experience for them, but not the thrill it was for me. We can’t relive our own pleasures by exposing our children to them.

HISTORY MOVES SLOWLY

2010-06-29T08:35:00.000-07:00

I am constantly reminded that history moves slowly. In college in the late 40s and early 50s, I decided that I would follow my passion for psychology on to graduate school and still see myself as an attractive woman, potential wife and mother. Beginning in 1970 I began teaching the psychology of women with textbooks just beginning to appear. Related to that I did talks about town on A Healthy Woman is a Crazy Person, usually beginning by singing, “This Little Light of Mine; I’m Gonna Let it Shine.” Contrary to the beliefs of the opposition, the point was not to hate men, send women out to work, and avoid wife and motherhood. The point was to make possible the full potential of women’s gifts. We talked about flex time, working from home, shared jobs, help with child care. Indeed, at Southern Connecticut State College where I taught, we pleaded for a day care center for faculty. It would have made sense, since SCSC specialized in Education training, so it would have provided practical training for Early Childhood majors. Even there, though, the culture wasn’t ready. My memory tells me the day care center at SCSU didn’t develop until after I had retired in 1986.

Much of what we longed for then has come to pass, spurred by the culture’s economic need and the development of amazing technological advances. These thoughts have been inspired by the book I’ve been reading on my Kindle-- Steven Hill’s “Europe’s Promise: Why the European Way is the Best Hope in an Insecure Age.” Regarding the lesson of the influence of economic need, he refers to “the dependency ratio,” the ratio of dependent members of society to the wage-earning members who contribute to their support. A light bulb lit – like “of course” – when he referred to the dependents at both ends of the age scale. Kids are dependents too. While the number of aging is going up and is predicted to rise even more, childbirth rates are going down. On a short-term basis, that produces a ratio balance. Over time, however, aging will continue to increase, but fewer children will be growing into productive employment. That’s the problem. There will not be enough working folks to support both ends of the dependency ratio.

So, how does this relate to my opening points? Hill cites evidence that there are two potential sources for increasing the number of gainfully employed - immigration and women’s equality, which would have the effect of increasing the number of births. He says it more effectively than I can. “It is deeply ironic that a substantial part of the response to the continent’s dilemmas hinges on two solutions: less sexism and less racism. More immigration and better integration will help reverse the population decline and increase employment, which will positively affect dependency ratios; more women’s equality also will increase employment and the dependency ratio, and could lead to a higher birthrate.” (Kindle location 4669 – 74)

“Feminism is the New Natalism,” he says. Instead of forcing women to choose between career and motherhood, cultural and financial attitudes toward economic support of parenthood would have to change. Citing data from specific countries, he says. “Germany, Italy, Spain, and other countries need a new generation of women’s liberation, founded on freeing women to be both mothers and workers – working mothers. Fortunately, successful models already exist in neighboring Scandinavia and Britain.” (location 4612, Kindle) Those models include parental leave for both parents, high-level childcare facilities, business, insurance, or governmental subsidies for child wellness. The packages differ in different countries, but the goal is the same – to balance the economic health of the country.

The author is talking about Europe, but much of this may apply as well to the United States. I remember, for example, how quickly a child-care center was established in one wing of my grammar school during World War II. The emergency was clear. Similar centers were established in many businesses so mothers could work, knowing their children were cared for. We knew Rosie the riveter had to be freed up to work on the production line. There are employers today who are establishing similar care centers – a great way to help women to be gainfully employed and, not incidentally, providing jobs for the day care workers. It may not be so apparent, but we are in an emergency situation today as well.

I hope this will not be read to suggest that women should take the self-sacrificing role of providing financial as well as personal care of dependents at both ends of the age dimension. Rather, in a culture that cares about all its people, I read it – and I hope you read it – as encouragement for enriching women’s lives even as the health of the economic culture is supported. Remember, Rosie was paid men’s wages.

My favorite young critic (24) wants me to be sure to make the point that we won’t really be “there” until we talk about giving strength and encouragement to “parents.”

Oh, by the way. As revealed in one of my previous blogs and in this one, I’ve made the conscious choice to divulge and to take advantage of my age, knowing full well that our culture sees it not as an asset but a deficit. Who knows? Maybe my college friends and I can change that bias. In the meantime, I feel like a walking history book – a lesson in patience. It, whatever “it” is, takes time. That’s why I’m planning to hang in here at least for another 20 years so I can understand in retrospect what the heck is going on now.

WHEN DOES CAREGIVING BECOME CARETAKING?

2010-06-17T06:17:00.000-07:00

This will be a short blog. I have the question but not much of an answer. It started a few days ago when a friend and I were discussing a book we had read. It took us to the issue of family systems and my comment that caregivers require people who need care.

She corrected my language, asserting that I should be distinguishing between “caregivers” and “caretakers.” The emphasis, she pointed out, should be on the last half of the word. I guess in a way it might even be biblical, with the assertion that giving should be done in quiet, without advertising one’s largess, with genuine concern for the person receiving the care. Given that distinction, the term “caretaker” would refer to folks who need some sense of control or competence or superiority or something else, with the emphasis on satisfying a need of one’s own by way of tending to the needs of others.

As you can see, I’m wrestling with the implications of this distinction, a very interesting one. Any reactions?

2010-06-12T08:34:00.000-07:00

APPRECIATING GOOD FORTUNE (with special note of 1947 - 1979)

Snippets and snapshots have been dominating my thoughts these days, stimulated by working on “Riding in the Back Seat” and, recently, a request from Boston University for snapshots of memories of my time in the Ph.D. program there. Things that have hovered at the back of my mind are springing forward. How lucky I was that my father was the youngest of his family whose oldest brother was already here when he came from Sweden. There was a family waiting for him. Even though he never wanted to blow his own horn, he had friends at work who would, at appropriate times, tell the boss things like, “You’d better promote Carl Gustafson or you’ll lose him to another company that will appreciate him,” and so he made his way – almost in spite of himself, but based on his abilities – to a nice position.

How lucky I was to be the youngest in my family, born at the beginning of the depression, but old enough when we were pulling out of it so that I didn’t really experience it as my brother and sister did. My parents gave me the wonderful gift of a Connecticut College education. Years later I was fortunate to have a mentor in Bill Trinkaus at Southern Connecticut State College when “mentor” was just a word in the dictionary. And I was among the last group promoted to Full Professor there in 1978 before a long, dry season of limited spending on higher education set in.

All that is personal, but reading Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers this summer reminded me that my good fortune was directly related to broader demographic factors. My life and my career hit the years at just the right time. Remembering that my parents new home – which they moved into a month after I was born – relied on public events like new roads and electricity to the suburbs, I went back to one of my favorite books, Stephanie Coontz, The Way We Never Were. There I realized how the home ownership my husband Lou and I enjoyed depended upon government action guaranteeing home loans with less than the 50% down payment that was often required before WWII.

Wondering how accurate my perception was that the economic divide had widened during my career and parenting years, I decided to get more specific and google the year I graduated from High School – 1947. (Now you know!) I knew I was among the lucky ones that WWII was over. (Never mind that we really believed wars had ended.) It turns out that 1947 was a significant enough year that it got mentioned in several places. Coontz points out (p. 78) that 1947 was the year when the government began a project to build 37,000 miles of new highway. Oh, and in 1956, the year after I was married and before we bought our first home, the Interstate Highway Act provided for an additional 42,500 miles – all of which helped the growth of suburbs.

Recently I have commented on the lives of the wealthy in Bristol. We had rich folks connected to the clock companies and to businesses that had been especially important during the war. They lived in mansions, quite similar to the starter mansions I see near my neighborhood in Minnesota. But they were a part of our community. Their kids went to High School with me. My boyfriend’s father owned a diner, disparagingly called “Dirty Bills.” by some. One year the daughter of the president of one of the clock companies was his date for the prom. (If you want to know more about why I wasn’t his date, you’ll have to read “Riding in the Back Seat” when it comes out in a few years.)

Were we an unusual community, or was there really not such a huge disparity between the wealthy and the rest of us in those years? I found the Internet loaded with references to 1947. It really was an important year! It didn’t take long to come up with a brief quotable reference. “For a quarter-century after World War II, Americans grew more prosperous and less unequal. Families in every fifth of income distribution saw their incomes double between 1947 and 1979. But the next quarter-century changed course dramatically. Between 1979 and 1998, the top fifth gained 38 percent, and the top 5 percent gained 64 percent, while the bottom fifth lost 5 percent of real income.” (If you copy and paste the following, it will take you to the source of the quote, Dec. 15, 1999 entry, “United For a Fair Economy.”)

file:///Users/mona/Desktop/Report:%20growing%20divide%20at%20decade's%20end%20%7C%20United%20for%20a%20Fair%20Economy.webarchive

See how personal these data are. It wasn’t just my imagination that wealth distribution was fairer in my family-raising and career years. I was part of the filling in a metaphorical sandwich between 1947 and 1959. So much for the bootstraps theory and more evidence of my good fortune just for when I happened to be born.

One last word. Mrs. Job needs readers – and purchasers. And remember, she is now available on Kindle for $6.00. Also, please, if you like her, a review on Amazon.com would be really nice.

2010-05-26T14:17:00.000-07:00

Some of you have been kind enough to tell me that you enjoy my blogs – quite a motivator, really. And all the more reason why I feel so remiss that it’s been so long since I wrote.

On Thursday, April 29, I returned from a fabulous Mediterranean cruise. As I took a few days to do the things one does to get back to normal after a long time away, I kept writing the blog in my head. I had so many things to say, I thought I might have to break it into two. Then I got hit with something very akin to the flu, except without gastro-intestinal involvement. Since “I never get sick,” it came as a shock. All I could do was cough, sneeze, use up boxes of Kleenex, sleep, and occasionally, when energy was really high, stare into space, or maybe even watch TV. Unfortunately it did nothing to reduce my appetite. By the time I was recovered enough to go grocery shopping I was pretty much down to black olives and ice cream bars. I’m happy to say I was able on Sunday, May 9, to see M. Butterfly at a Guthrie matinee. It was fabulous. Not one wink of nap was I tempted to take.

So now, about the cruise. We were fortunate to have a direct flight from Atlanta to the Rome airport, but even at the last minute it looked like we might not be able to do it with Iceland sending its ash over Europe. Even when we arrived at the airport in Minneapolis, we were told we wouldn’t be able to get to Europe. It took insistence and 20 minutes of consultation for the woman at the desk to discover that Rome would probably be opened. Still, even as we flew to Atlanta, we were planning alternatives – maybe John C. Campbell folk school. Meeting Atlanta friends at the airport, we found only Jeff and Max. Val was home preparing the house for our visit, which she was sure would happen. The fact is, we made it to Rome right on schedule.

But lots of people didn’t make it. Holland America kept the ship in port an extra day for passengers held up by the ash situation, and, depending on which rumor you go with, 200 or more people never did make it. And some others had their cruise inadvertently extended as they were invited back on board when they couldn’t fly home. Our schedule was modified to make up for that extra day in port (which we, of course, spent sleeping -- jet lag recovery.) I can’t tell you anything about Corfu. We never did get to do that stop. I can tell you we were lucky in Athens, being there before the strikes that closed down the acropolis. Well, I guess I was lucky. My acrophobia really kicked in there. All the while as I made my way halfway up, I was rehearsing, “What goes up must come down.” I found myself a piece of something to sit on/cling to, while Doug went mountain goating above me. But here I am. A survivor.

I’ll try not to get boring with detail, but I do want to mention the half hour we had in the Acropolis museum. It’s the best visit I’ve ever had to a museum. Our guide took us on a quick tour of the development of statuary art, from the stylized Roman statues to the more detailed and realistic Greek works – mostly marble, because bronze statues had a tendency to get melted down for ammunition. The one we did see had come from a sunken ship. Particularly intriguing was the – probably competitive -- development of grave markers. Engravings to honor the dead or their gods gradually emerged from the marble, finally becoming separate statues.

Marble in the art; marble in the streets - old and a bit uncomfortable to walk on in Ephesus, flat and beautiful in Santorini. Apparently that seismic area produces marble in quantity. That area also had me in awe of the smallness and yet significance of each of us. Civilization after civilization was built on top of the ruins of its predecessor – earthquakes, volcanoes, and the human desire to invade, possess and destroy. With apologies to those who hear this too often from me, all I could think of on seeing the statue of a famous conqueror, “And now he’s a pile of bones.” Makes one think about the meaning of our own existence, and what we’ll leave behind. And time! I wonder whether it affects the sense of individual significance to live on the remnants of so many previous civilizations.

More travel is planned for Italy in November. I’ve ordered Pimsleur “Quick and Simple Italian.” After all, people will see my last name and expect me to understand Italian. I sort of agree that I should have picked up something in my years in New Haven. Unfortunately my in-laws discouraged learning Italian from them. They wanted me to know only “proper” Italian. My parents, on the other hand, didn’t want me to learn Swedish after all the harassment my father had experienced as an immigrant. So here I am, reminded how very difficult it is to learn another language after the age of 4 or so. We’ve become so accustomed to people in other places speaking English as if it weren’t a second language that we tend to take it for granted. Well, I do, anyway. Then I hear someone delivering a major speech, or even a lengthy interview, in basically perfect English, and I am amazed. I do wish I’d been taught foreign languages in grammar school. German wasn’t so bad in High School – so much in common with English, and with the word order I heard in church as a child.

Ho hum, I have gone on. I’ve got some other stuff I want to talk about. Maybe I won’t be so slow to write the next blog. Just one last word. Mrs. Job is now available in Kindle format -- $6.00.

WHAT I WANT TO BE WHEN I GROW UP

2010-03-31T14:36:00.000-07:00

I just decided what I want to be when I grow up. Well, not just now, but sort of early this morning as I woke up. Yesterday a friend of mine told me the reaction of the person to whom she had given a copy of Mrs. Job. Reportedly she loved it, and wondered would I be willing to do a retreat at her [Lutheran] church. There was no real offer, just the suggestion that I should think about it. It took a good night’s sleep for me to realize that this is exactly what I love to do. Forgiveness, Justice, Job and his wife. They are so intimately connected, and how they tie in to my interest in gender psychology and restorative practices! So now my thoughts are off and running. What a great two-day retreat we could have, or even a one-day workshop. It would have to be tailored, both in title and content, to the hosting group. If it were a group of Lutheran women, for example, it could be "Mrs. Job, forgiveness, and justice for the Godly woman." For others it might be "Forgiveness, Justice, Restorative Practices, and the influence of Mrs. Job." Who knows? It would take a lot of thought to name it, and more thought to arrange a fruitful presentation that would frame the issues and their solutions in general as well as personal gain for participants. But my cupboard is filled with so many great ingredients for the recipe. It would be fun. First job – construct a blurb that would describe it to a general audience.

OK. That’s it. Help me with your thoughts. In the meantime, I have spent some time (not enough) on “Riding in the Back Seat” and reading on my deck in halter and shorts. Imagine! It’s that warm here today.

I GET DISCOURAGED – AND THEN I’M NOT

2010-03-13T09:57:00.000-08:00

I guess it’s all part of the process of deciding what I want to be when I grow up – or maybe just growing up. Anyway, I get discouraged when I sell only two books at the Bloomington Theatre and Art Center Writers Book Festival. I get discouraged when I discover I don’t have the energy I once had to contribute my efforts to the causes I care about. I get discouraged at the danger I put other people in when I attempt to drive in strange places in the dark. I even get discouraged when I find I want to do nothing but read my Kindle. (Currently it’s “90 Minutes in Heaven.”)

Then I watch the snow melt with much more enthusiasm than one might muster to watch the paint dry. Every morning I look out to see whether the really dirty stuff is gone. (not yet). My damaged deck chairs are now unencumbered by accumulated snow, and I can send them off for repair, dreaming of sitting in the warm summer sun. I can sit and read for an hour or more at a time without feeling guilty that I’m not being productive. I can catch up on phone calls to many of the people I care about.

Then there’s the four session series we’ll be starting tomorrow at the Presbyterian Church based on the DVD “The Power of Forgiveness.” It was a success when our JustFaith+ group sponsored it recently at Mount Calvary. And the booklet I’ve been preparing for my Connecticut College group is just about done, with the help of Diane Eidsmo, a very talented lady at Mount Calvary. On the 18^th I’ll be helping to facilitate a group discussion on the book “Riding the Bus With my Sister,” in a project sponsored in part by the Chaska Community Engagement Group. On March 25^th I’ll be doing a small part, helping to set up – being in attendance for conversation – at Mount Calvary’s new project which we’re calling “New Friend’s Community Meal,” with a goal of serving a meal for the community at the end of each month. My part is small, but I guess every little bit helps.

Oh yes! Tonight we Spring our clocks forward, giving us an extra hour of light at the end of the day – additional comfortable driving time for me.

Then there's the "Mona's book" business friends connection I've set up on Facebook. What I’m most excited about right now, though, is that I’ve finally begun “Riding in the Back Seat.” My head swims with ideas for the little vignettes I’ll be including. Just for the fun of it, I’ve decided to expose you to the beginning as it stands now. It will be edited, of course, but here’s the first section for your enjoyment – or whatever.

Of course, feedback will be greatly appreciated.

RIDING IN THE BACK SEAT

I’m riding in the back seat, but no one is driving the car. How is it there has been no fatal impact? Other vehicles scream by; fences bend as they barely avoid being hit; trees blow aside in panic; people fly about like cartoon characters. I’m glued to the right rear seat. No matter how hard I struggle I can’t make my arm reach far enough to push down on the brake in the front. Nor can I move my body into the front seat to take over the steering wheel and apply the brake. In fact, I can’t move at all. I save myself by waking up.

As bad as it is losing control of the car, it’s even worse on other occasions when I see it from outside bursting into bright red flames. I save myself by waking up.

I did wake up. Those dreams are emotion-free memories now, as are those of octagonal rooms filled with ancient debris. Over time I cleaned them out and created a bright, white, sun-lit, fragrantly airy space for myself. Even the dreams of a royal octagonal table standing atop long legs under which is rushing a brown, fetid stream are gone. The water was purified. The dream was no longer needed.

Most of us, I believe, have ridden in the back seat of a driverless car, eventually recovering to take over the direction of our own lives. Some of us have endured the passionate, fiery explosion of the vehicle that carries us through life. Many of us, I think, have discovered the bright new parts of ourselves after cleaning out the old, untended debris in our hidden rooms, or removed the personal pollution that contaminates our life energy.

Most of what I plan to say, however, is much less dreamlike. Besides being a psychologist who dreams, I am in many ways a walking history book. Some of you may find some glimmers of your own history in the snippets of stories I tell here. I know I’m writing this for my own family. I hope it will resonate with your memories and challenges.

FRONT SEAT DRIVING; BACK SEAT RIDING

I ride in the back seat as often as I can these days. I no longer enjoy driving. But I was excited about getting my driver’s license when I turned 16. By that time my father was out of the Ford (more about that later) and into a DeSoto, one of the first to have fluid drive. That was really nice for me – or maybe not so nice at all – because I never did learn to drive a “stick.” All I had to do was lift my foot off the accelerator and it would shift.

I liked the freedom and independence of driving, just like a real grown-up. Being a child always carried with it the sting of not being in charge of my own life, so my solo drive down the boulevard in Bristol, Connecticut, heading home to Forestville with my brand new license, confirmed my competent adult status.

It wasn’t long, though, before I went off to college, where we weren’t allowed cars (Yes! That’s really true), and then to graduate school in Boston, and who in her right mind would even want to drive in Boston? I walked. Occasionally I rode with Frances, an amazing driver who had controlled vehicles on the farm from the time she was 13. She understood that the rule in Boston driving is, “If you want to take that turn, take it. Somehow everyone else will get out of the way.”

In Johnson, Vermont, I walked to class, to the drugstore, to church, to bowling, and just for fun. That’s all there was to do there, except for an occasional trip into Burlington with Kate. I walked in Burlington, too, when I moved over to the University of Vermont.

END OF SAMPLE

RETREAT DAYS, MOURNING THE LOSS OF A FRIEND, END OF AN ERA, and WARNINGS

2010-02-13T15:36:00.000-08:00

RETREAT

This is a potpourri of things I’ve been storing up. Earlier this week, after a therapeutic conversation with my granddaughter, KJ Neun, I decided to take Thursday and Friday of this week as retreat-at-home days, letting friends know that I would be accepting no calls or interruptions. It was such a great thing to do that I’m planning a repeat next Thursday and Friday. It’s amazing what one can accomplish going from one thing to another with time completely under one’s control. I still don’t have my tax information gathered together, nor have I begun “Riding in the Back Seat,” but I can see my way clear. In fact, I can see the surface of my desks. I recommend it. Well, maybe it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it was what I needed right now.

MOURNING THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

I did take a call from my college roommate, though, and received the very sad news that one of the husbands in our college friends group died earlier this week. Hale and hearty, he went to the hospital three weeks ago with a mysterious blockage in the abdomen. And now he’s gone. Bob Christensen was one of those men who make one sort of tingle with delight. He had such a subtle sense of humor, sometimes evoking deep belly laughter. He and his wife Rennie were such a loving and caring couple. It was they who arranged our occasional mini-reunions at Craigville on Cape Cod. When I was on the east coast at holiday time, I got to enjoy New Year’s Eve with them and the other east-coasters. It was through Bob that I learned two things: (1) how vicious can be the treatment of a company’s most successful (highly paid) salesman when there is the decision to downsize, and (2) how a cool, calm, collected person turns a defeat into a victory. Bob went straight to the library and took out some books: “What Color is Your Parachute,” and a bunch of books on wood stoves, just ‘cause he was interested. His children are still running his very successful wood stove business. I’m having trouble writing this with tears in my eyes. We will miss him.

THE END OF AN ERA

Bob’s passing is the end of an era, and suddenly what started as a casual little fun booklet I was putting together after our last stay at Craigville has become a kind of testimonial to the joys of our retreats there. For the CCers who may be reading this, it will take time, but it will be coming. I’ve enlisted the aid of someone with a more appropriate Word program than mine. And she’s more talented too.

WARNING

The things I learn from working with clients! Maybe you knew this, but before you let someone move in with you, it would be smart to check local laws. When I read a recent article in the Psychotherapy Networker about adult children moving back home, they recommended telling them to leave if the situation became intolerable. (not, but the way, what they felt was the common situation.) A similar thing happened to a client of mine who let her adult offspring move in – with dog – and found her new home being trashed. But here’s the deal. She can’t just tell the person to get out. I’ve checked this with the local Sheriff who tells me similar laws exist almost everywhere. The law is that you cannot force someone to leave who has used your mailing address as his or her residence for a week. (Probably this varies in different venues.) My client has had to fill out a long form, paying a fee of – if I heard it correctly -- $320 for processing. Now she has to wait 30 days for a judge to decide whether to evict the person. One certainly hopes that not every kind person would be trapped in such a situation, but I think it’s a good idea to be aware.

And so ends my potpourri, with a final farewell to Bob Christensen.

KINDLE AND REASONS TO HOPE

2010-01-15T10:41:00.000-08:00

During Christmas-time in Williamsburg, my mind was brimming with blog ideas , a process which continued when I got home. But so many things intervened that I’ve pretty much forgotten what I wanted to say. Oh my, what precious gems may have been lost! Or maybe what icky dross you may have been spared.

At any rate, I’ll plunge in. I received a Kindle for Christmas. My family will tell you that my initial reaction was not enthusiastic. They could read my thoughts, “Oh my, why did they get me this. It doesn’t suit my way of reading, marking places in the book with sticky arrows and later using them as guides to type book notes into my computer. Now I’ll be holding a mechanical device which won’t accept sticky arrows.” And then I studied my new Kindle, and I love it. I don’t need sticky arrows, because I can just highlight interesting places – the ones that would have had the honor of a sticky – and the highlighted piece stays in my Kindle. Not only that, I can adjust the font. The fact is, given any ordinary publication, I can read it fine, but my eyes tend to get heavy and I get drowsy. With the larger font, that doesn’t happen. Hooray! And then the magical fact that I can order a book for $9.99 and as soon as I place my order, it’s on my Kindle, ready to read. My first order was for Greg Mortensen’s “Stones into Schools.” More on that later. My second order was based on Lisa’s recommendation, “Autobiography of a Yogi.” That was only $0.99, and in the search process I discovered that, if I wanted to, I could get Sherlock Holmes for $0.00. Yup! For nothing. Marketing …

Just for the fun of it I looked on the list of available books for my “Mrs. Job.” She wasn’t there. I knew there was an ISBN number for it as an e-book, so I contacted the powers that be at iUniverse and found I could get it listed for a $99.00 fee. I didn’t do that.

As for Greg Mortensen’s book – How happy I am that it was written and that I read it. What a beautiful example of fighting a war through waging education, and in the process responding to people’s real needs – not the ones we think they should have. I was also thrilled to discover that our military leaders were making “Three Cups of Tea” required reading for our troops. Sometimes I find reason to be hopeful.

The lesson is, I guess, if you can get someone else to pay for it, you can acquire books for lots less. I haven’t yet tried audio books, but it’s supposed to work.

And now I’m home, wearing my tire-tread shoes for the first time in several years. Bumpy ice is everywhere, and there’s no sign that Mrs. Job will hit the best-seller list so I can winter in Newtown in Williamsburg. But then, it was cold there too. I was fortunate flying on December 20 when Washington D.C. and other places were completely closed down because of the snow. My layover was in Atlanta – no visible snow – with ultimate arrival at Newport News – no measurable snow there either. Not like the arrival in Richmond that same day for Doug and KJ returning from the Galapagos. With nothing but their bare hands they had to dig their car out from under the snow. It didn’t seem to bother them much, though. The Galapagos trip is, apparently, magnificently worth any pain encountered on the return.

In Williamsburg, I gave a copy of Mrs. Job to Lisa’s neighbor, basically trapping her into reading it. I learned something from her reaction. She said she loved it, but she’d been scared to read it, ‘cause she thought it would be difficult academic stuff. So now I have to make sure that people know that it’s an easy-to-read love story.

The major thoughts today, after all this stuff I’ve been talking about, are for the folks in Haiti. The destruction is horrible, as is the aftermath. But I’m particularly horrified learning the history of why Haiti is such a poor country. Two factors stand out for me: (1) that the French basically raped the land way back when it was under their control, and (2) that the rebellion of the slaves, setting themselves free and driving the conquerors out, was met with boycotting by the major countries, including the U.S., who still held slaves and wanted not to support slave rebellions. Feel free to Google it and check out what I’ve said here. I hope something positive will come out of this awful event -- like the world pitching in to help the Haitians develop the kind of country and government they want.

I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t remember all the things I wanted to write about, because you must be suffering eye strain by now. Sorry …

My Christmas/holiday gift to myself and you

2009-12-17T12:59:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I challenged my son to a discussion in my effort to anticipate what I will see in twenty years when I look back on this period of time. I proposed that we can predict where we are going by the strength of the opposition. I don’t think I made myself really clear. But Dan Brown did, on page 409 of “The Symbol.” So this quote is my Christmas/holiday present to myself, as well as to any of you who tend, like me, to focus on the dark side of today’s events.

“Solomon let it sit for a long moment, then quietly said, ‘In closing, I should warn you that unveiling the truth is never easy. Throughout history, every period of enlightenment has been accompanied by darkness pushing in opposition. Such are the laws of nature and balance And if we look at the darkness growing in the world today, we have to realize that this means there is equal light growing. We are on the verge of a truly great period of illumination, and all of us – all of you – are profoundly blessed to be living through this pivotal moment of history. Of all the people who have ever lived, in all the eras in history … we are in that narrow window of time during which we will bear witness to our ultimate renaissance. After millennia of darkness, we will see our sciences, our minds, and even our religions unveil the truth.'”

Brown, Dan. (2009). The Lost Symbol. New York: Doubleday

ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO

2009-12-03T06:36:00.000-08:00

I realized recently that it was 100 years ago when my father, urged by his mother, came to the United States from Sweden at the age of 19. His mother never saw him again. My father-in-law was 19 when he came to the United States from Italy, pushed by his mother. His mother never saw him again. This was the country offering such opportunity that mothers were willing, even eager, to part with their sons.

My father, already speaking English with facility, came to Forestville, Connecticut, where there was an established Swedish community. His big brother had arrived before him and established a business. Dad rented a room at the home of August Anderson who had been instrumental in establishing the Lutheran Church in town. That’s where he met his future wife, my mother, Jennie Anderson. And it was in Forestville that they spent their lives.

My father-in-law moved to an established community of Italian immigrants, where he was introduced to his future wife, my mother-in-law, Antoinette Navarette. There was a ready market for his family trade, and he was working as a butcher almost as soon as he arrived.

Beyond this point my focus has to be on my father, because – probably for obvious reasons – I know more detail about his history in this country. But the similarity strikes me that communication and transportation were so limited early in the 20^th century that a move across the Atlantic was a very final split from home.

They were immigrants who did what immigrants do – join communities of people with similar background. In that sense, today’s newcomers experience similar situations. Do we tend to forget? My father-in-law learned to speak "American." It was essential for a businessman. My mother-in-law learned what English she needed to, but her life was oriented toward her siblings, all of whom spoke Italian, and toward her Roman Catholic Church which operated in Latin for most of her life. It made sense for her to retain Italian as her primary language. Do we forget those things when we criticize people today for not speaking unaccented American English? I am constantly impressed when I hear people from all parts of the world speaking perfect, often accented, English.

My father didn’t like being teased for his accent, so he took off for Upsala College in New Jersey (Lutheran, of course) for two years where he learned accounting and perfectly unaccented English. All that was left of his Swedish was a hint of lilt. One of his favorite language stories was of using the word “nuance,” evoking the comment from a U.S. native that he shouldn’t be using foreign words, whereupon he pulled out an English language dictionary to point out that “nuance” is a perfectly fine word.

What occupies my thoughts as I ruminate about this one hundred year anniversary is the changes that have occurred since Carl Gustafson arrived in Forestville. Two days ago, when we needed a flashlight, my companion pulled out her telephone and shone the light where needed. A week or so ago I asked my daughter what an “app” is. And I think I’m pretty much up on things with my Palm phone and complicated Word program! My Bluetooth has become a part of my left ear, and I have a total of four cordless phones in my home, all operating from one base. I’ll be setting up a small artificial Christmas tree with lights already embedded in it. I’ve done much of my Christmas shopping on line, which is where I check my accounts every day to keep track of bills automatically paid electronically.

Now for the contrast-in-brief. My parents dated in horse and buggy. For entertainment, they gathered around the piano with family and friends to sing hymns and enjoy homemade refreshments. (As a matter of fact, my best friend and I played that we had a radio where we could see a picture.) My Dad was enthusiastic when it was first possible to buy a shower mixer instead of two separate knobs to control hot and cold water. And when I first flew with my parents, we all dressed in our Sunday best. As Treasurer at the Bristol Brass Corporation, my Dad operated his adding machine by pulling a lever, and I don’t know that he ever drove with seat belts. He drove ten minutes to work at 8:00 a.m. every day from Monday to Friday, returning home at noon for a one-hour lunch break, and back to work from 1:00 to 5:00. Weekends belonged to home, family and church. OK, I hope you get the idea. (Oh, by the way, my father-in-law reminisced about the one-hour siesta at noon every work day in Italy.)

The other day a client was reporting to me about a job interview she’d been through. She was asked that standard question, “Where do you want to be in five years?” I always thought that was a stupid question, but today it seems downright idiotic. Who knows what the jobs will be in five years? How many apps will be added? What more will we be able to do without flying, or even driving, to the necessary conferences? Who knows how public transportation will have developed to increase access to work? Who knows?

And I guess that’s the theme we are learning to live with. “Who knows?”

That’s why I plan to hang around for another twenty years to get the clear view of looking back.

Gratitude

2009-11-27T10:00:00.000-08:00

The day after Thanksgiving, and I’m wrapped up in thoughts of gratitude. Start with my hosts, Jim and Carol Kane, and their other guest, Carolyn Bevan – a great group to be with, and especially ‘cause we were all willing to talk about our gratitude. I learned so much, especially the effects of survival and loss in the Vietnam War.

Next come my gratitude for my father and mother, and for the fact that I came along last, after my brother, Harvey – eleven years older – and my sister Thelma – eight years older. I know my parents struggled with the depression, but by the time I was aware, things had stabilized and I was spared the worry. My father was fortunate never to lose his job, though, as I understand it, he was paid in scrip for a while. I actually have a piece of that scrip in my “family” file. My father was a generous man, never concerned with accumulating money, but with using it wisely with unadvertised gifts to relatives and friends in need, and contributions to his church and other charities.

As I understand it, he would never have advanced as far as he did at the Bristol Brass if it had depended on him to argue for advancement. It was friends who threatened his bosses that my father might leave if he wasn’t recognized. He was valuable, and they promoted him.

I was the beneficiary of my parents’ belief in education, and their early feminism, when they paid my college expenses and my early years in graduate school. I might not have finished my Ph.D. after I was married if they had not subsidized me then. My appreciation for that also contributes to my annoyance when people who have been similarly fortunate claim that they have pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps and accuse others of being “lazy.”

My appreciation has to extend to the fact that I began my teaching career at a time when Southern Connecticut State University was hiring and paying. (It was Southern Connecticut State College at the time.) I was fortunate that I was promoted to Full Professor just before the state ran out of money and for years we had no new hires and few promotions.

I’m grateful, too, that, when I began my private practice later in my career, managed care had not yet taken over. And now I appreciate my father’s attitude toward money, which I hope I’ve inherited as I adapt to my small, outside-managed-care practice in Minnesota.

My parents chose to live in the not-so-grand suburb of Forestville rather than on the Hill in Bristol with the other “successful” businessmen. I assume it’s because the Gustafson and the Anderson families and Bethesda Lutheran Church were in Forestville. I’m glad they made that choice. All I had to do was cross over into an adjoining back yard to play with my friend Hallie. (Some people suspect our friendship was a model for Dara and Adah’s in “Mrs. Job.”) I’m grateful for the years we stayed connected, though apart, and I’m grateful now for the memories, and the fact that my daughter and I were there several years ago to help witness her move into the next stage of life’s journey – a peaceful move, thanks to Hospice.

I’m happy also that my cousin Eunice was nearby. I remember our playing pick-up sticks, going to Hammonasset State Park with Aunt Gerda and Uncle Everett, climbing in and out the driver’s side window of my father’s car, and being dressed in African clothing when the missionary came to speak. I’m happy I got to see her again in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania a few years ago before she moved on last year.

I guess I’d better stop for now, because the list could go on and on. Someday I’ll delve into all my friendships and mentors after Forestville.

Finally, though, I want to say how grateful I am to the folks who have read and studied “Mrs. Job,” and written reviews on amazon.com.

"HEALTH CARE" INSURANCE EXPERIENCE

2009-11-19T09:00:00.000-08:00

I just can’t help myself. I need to talk about my experience as a practicing psychologist dealing with insurance companies. I want to make it clear that this is just a report of my personal recollections of my experience as a provider.

Back in 1978 I completed all requirements to become a licensed psychologist in Connecticut. (Incidentally, In Connecticut, at least at that time, one could use the title “psychologist” only with a PhD or PsyD and the license to practice.) I began my private practice while still working at Southern Connecticut State University. I confess it was hectic. That’s when I learned a few lessons about controlling the schedule of my own life. But when I retired from SCSU in 1986, I was able to devote my time to my practice, and there were weeks when I saw as many as 30 people. I think I helped some of them.

I guess you might say those were my glory days. I set my own time, my own fee schedule, and kept my own records in keeping with the ethical standards as I understood them. Most of my clients were able to pay me full fee at the time of the session, and I provided them with a statement at the end of each month, which they could submit to their insurance company. So bookkeeping was quite easy. And it gave me leeway to see some folks at reduced rates as needed.

Then came managed care. I had to register as a provider with appropriate insurance companies. I abided by their rules, in most cases allowing me to see clients for six sessions without permission. I had to provide the appropriate paper work, accept co-pays, and wait for the balance of my payment. Needless to say, the billing process became much more complicated. I also became aware of what was going on in the offices of the doctors I visited for my own needs. They were hiring more and more people to handle the paper work.

What bothered me most, however, was the process my client and I had to go through to get permission to extend payment beyond the original six sessions. It was a balancing act, really, convincing the reviewers that we were making sufficient progress that it was worth the insurance reimbursement and that my client was still “sick” enough that it was worth continuing to pay. My personal ethics didn’t allow me to talk about my clients behind their backs, so we would spend a session figuring out the most honest presentation that would allow continuation of their coverage – basically losing a session when we might be working on their own growth. (By the way, I confess that in providing completed insurance forms under any circumstances I was buying – with a sense of moral conflict --into the whole “illness” model when I really felt that the folks who came to me were the healthiest who were willing to work at improving their own lives.) I was never happy with the loss of confidentiality.

I confess the people I interacted with at the insurance companies were very pleasant. I think they approved of the way I worked. I do not recall that any of my requests was turned down. I was also pretty sure that the people I dealt with were not licensed psychologists with training and experience similar to mine. It seemed, rather, that they were working with a list of acceptable responses. It was probably an advantage for the economy that their jobs were available, and I honestly respect them as people seriously and ethically doing their jobs.

When I was myself a client things were handled in the old fashioned, pre managed care way. I never felt that someone other than my therapist and I was in the room, looking over our shoulders. But when I applied for disability insurance from – believe it or not a Lutheran organization – they wanted to charge me extra because I had been in therapy. That in spite of the fact that I had never missed a day of work in my college career. (That’s another story, because the college president had made it clear he didn’t like hiring married women with children, so I had to “prove” myself by never getting sick. Even my children chose to save their sickness for school vacation.) Fortunately, I was able to get disability insurance through a company affiliated with my professional organization. (And none of my retirement money went to the care of that Lutheran organization – stubborn Swede, I guess.)

To summarize, in my experience, when insurance companies took over managing health care, there were losses to confidentiality, choice, efficacy, and efficiency.

Then I personally got old enough to be covered by Medicare. I have never had any problem choosing my own physician, though I fear the day may come when Medicare fees to providers fall so low that some health care providers will give up supplying care to Medicare patients. That’s a wrinkle in our system that can be cured.

When I moved to Minnesota, where I am also licensed to provide psychological services, I refused to have anything to do with managed care, which means that I now see only the bravest who realize that they are not really limited to the provider list supplied by their insurance company. For me, it means that my profession has changed – more emphasis on writing, though I do so enjoy working with the wonderful folks who give me the chance to work with them.

Why am I writing this today? Because I heard another speech yesterday claiming that a new health care system would deprive us of the “freedom of choice” that we have under our current system, not recognizing that we are currently expensively constrained not by government, but by a monolithic system that grew around us as we hardly noticed what was happening.

I want to repeat, I’m writing from my own experience. I am not a political scientist, or economist, or politician. I just want to share what I personally have seen.

Oh for the good old days of Dr. Frost. They will never return. But I do hope we will reach the point where our debate is honest and informed.

I found Reid’s, “The Healing of American” very helpful, on several issues, but apropos to the current topic, on the issue of choice in other countries with broader health care service than ours.

I hope the blog system will let this link go through, because you might be interested in seeing the reviews of his book.

http://www.amazon.com/review/R16SZ49JA9D9NM/ref=cm_cr_pr_viewpnt#R16SZ49JA9D9NM

I’d welcome comments on this blog.

2009-10-31T13:00:00.000-07:00

TURNING BACK THE TIME? (AND BUY MY BOOKS.)

I just re-read my last blog entry – 28 days ago, and it looks like “time” is still uppermost in my thoughts. Today, though, it is a bit more tangible. As many of you know, I have a watch fetish. I love my collection of colors and styles – even a belt with four watches on it. Guess what I’ll be doing this evening? (In between trick-or-treaters.) I’ll bet I’ll forget some of them when I’m in my turning-back-an-hour frenzy. That’s OK until the day comes that I innocently choose to wear one that’s been overlooked and arrive late at my destination.

It’s not just time-pieces, though, that have my attention. It’s time itself. I had a birthday this week. As usual, I’ve displayed my cards on my mantel, but some of them are upside down. What an unbelievable number on the front of them! – a little upside-down, tangible denial, can’t be too bad a thing.

On October 9, I did get to my high school reunion in Bristol, Connecticut, with a dear friend I hadn’t seen since 1952 (or was it 1951?). At any rate, it was before he collected shrapnel, deafness in one ear, reaction to Agent Orange, and a host of other souvenirs of Korea and Vietnam, and other stops along the career path. Strange it is to converge at this point to share stories of individual careers and families, and to be back home in the Bristol area. (I even got a photo of my mother’s one-room schoolhouse in Southington – kept forgetting to do that while I was living in the area.)

There were 81 people in attendance, 61 one of whom were classmates out of a graduating class of 210. On each table there was a three-page list of those who had moved on to whatever is the next phase in the journey. The “survivors” were obviously a hardy lot –a good-looking bunch. Because they are all local, they see each other often, so recognition was easy. Not so for Martin and me. It was only after our names were identified after the meal that people knew who we were. That part was particular fun.

There’s more about this going back in time stuff. Gail Collins was interviewed recently on Minnesota Public Radio. The name of her book is “When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to the Present.” I can hardly wait to read it, and to get to writing my own stories in “Riding in the Back Seat.” Remember when there were no women cops, or firefighters, or news anchors, or reporters? No? Just you wait for “Riding in the Back Seat,” or even to read Gail’s book.

It’s not going back that tends to keep me awake, though. It’s my fear that we won’t have health care for everyone this time around either. I’m enjoying T.R. Reid’s, “The Healing of America,” and wondering why we can’t just first accept the morality of health care for all, and then work out the methods by which we might reach the goal. I know. I’m an idealist. I guess if I haven’t lost it yet, I’ll probably keep that painful characteristic. But I wouldn’t part with it for anything.

Oh, one more point about this “time” thing. Recently I was asked to transmit some information via e-mail to surviving relatives on the Anderson (my mother’s) side and the Gustafson (my father’s side.) It went out to a total of seven addresses… a far cry from the big family Christmas parties. That’s what comes of being the youngest of the youngest, with cousins old enough to be my parents. Truly, I wouldn’t trade my spot with anyone, but maybe it will make for some fun reading when I get to my next project.

Finally, please remember that Mrs. Job and my forgiveness books are worth reading and selling. Try copying and pasting the following amazon.com link for the latest in my effort to get myself known “out there.”

http://www.amazon.com/Mona-Gustafson-Affinito/e/B002TXN8D2/ref=sr_tc_tag_2

TWENTY YEARS FROM NOW

2009-10-03T11:21:00.000-07:00

Many recent and anticipated events have me rooting around in my own view of my past, and how I have shared it with others. Probably most outstanding is the sense of being on a long journey, which, incidentally, I expect to continue for at least another 20 years. I anticipate that I’ll understand at that point the real meaning of what’s going on in our world right now. On a very personal level, I find myself ruthlessly throwing things away, with the thought that I want to leave a clean job behind for my children who will be at least 20 years older than they are now when they have to face that sorting. I am eternally grateful to my parents for doing me that same favor. How easy it was when my mother died. All I had to do was sign papers at the lawyers, give some of mother’s clothes away, and take home a little leather change purse while my brother claimed a clock. Everything else had been distributed to the folks mother cared about.

While I’m on the topic of my parents, I have come to appreciate ever more deeply the gift they gave me of kind discipline (teaching), love, medical and dental care, education, and belief in my abilities. My gratitude is enhanced by the memory of the little one-room house in Sweden where my paternal grandmother raised seven children of her own and two “adopted.” My parents really did realize the American dream through hard work, devotion to church and country, and to family.

How will I understand in the future what’s going on now? I revert to what I tell my clients. As they change and become healthier, their families and friends will do their darnedest to get them back to where they were before. People don’t like to see the system change; resistance is deep; the pull to return to the status quo is not cruelty, but nature. The fact is, as my clients ultimately realize, the strength of the backwards pull is directly related to the power of the forward movement. Resistance is a measure of success.

So, what started me on all this? Well, in August I attended the funeral of my former husband. (Today is the anniversary of our wedding on a beautiful, warm, colorful autumn day in Winooski, Vermont.) He has not been my husband since 1976, a fact which in a strange way enhances the backward look as I study our wedding pictures … not with sadness, but with a strong sense of the passing of time.

Then in September, I spent time in Maine and Cape Cod with friends from my freshman year at Connecticut College [for Women] and surviving spouses and partners. What a friendship! - sustained every two years with heart warming reunions as we see ourselves always the same and always changing.

And this month I’m going to my High School reunion in Bristol, Connecticut. I think there were 210 people in our graduating class, and I understand there will be 76 people in attendance at the reunion. I assume that number includes spouses and partners, so I can’t really say that we’ve been a bunch that survived, but clearly some of us did.

And what we did survive! We were old enough to appreciate the approaching end of WWII, singing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” before the beginning of every movie at the Bristol Theater. And we cried with joy when my brother and brother-in-law, along with all the rest, came home after the war’s end. Actually, my big brother and sister thought I was lucky to be setting out in a world where there would be no more war. Our High School chorus sang “One world, built on a firm foundation; one world no longer cursed by war.” We rejoiced in the story of our planes flying home over the Netherlands, seeing tulips spelling out “Thanks, Yanks.”

We had all pitched in with patriotic fervor, crunching cans, saving ration stamps, buying War Bonds, planting victory gardens. (I even served as an airplane spotter – ridiculous, given my vision), pulling down our black shades at night. My best friend and her father took turns touring our part of the town to be sure no light was showing through to guide enemy aircraft. We had been saving not only ourselves, but also a world that had invited us in to help. We may talk today about realizing that our future is global, but then, we really knew it.

Maybe it was just me, but I thought patriotism meant pulling together for our country and our world. Frankly, I’m shocked at people whose main focus is avoiding taxes. Oh, I’m not stupid, I know there are economists who feel the best way to heal the economy is by reducing taxes. I’m referring to the people who call in to talk shows to say they’ve worked hard to make their money and they shouldn’t have to share it.

It wasn’t long, however, before we were at it again. One of my best friends was off in Korea, fighting a war that never officially got that label.

And there was still the patriotism. President Eisenhower recognized the importance of improving our infrastructure, apparently because he saw how limited our military movement would be in case of an attack, so we had the development of a massive and successful interstate highway system. Looking forward …

I remember Eisenhower’s warning as he left office to beware the military/industrial complex. I carry with me this quote from him: “Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed.”

I remember as well the grammatical change to the pledge of allegiance during that time. I used to pledge allegiance to “one nation, indivisible” but then we were supposed to interrupt that dedication to indivisibility with the words “under God,” to set us apart from the avowed and enforced atheism of the Soviet Union. I didn’t know it would ultimately get redefined to mean that God favored our nation over all others …

Then the McCarthy era. I confess, I signed the loyalty oath in order to get my first job at Southern Connecticut Teacher’s College. (I advanced from a Teacher’s College to a State College to a State University without ever changing my job.)

Believe it or not, in the 60s Lou and I, when adding to our house, included a fall-out shelter in the basement. It turned out to be a great place for the neighborhood kids to play. During that time, I ceased to be “Dr. Affinito” to my students and became “Mona.” I didn’t resist the effort to remove elitism, but it did take me a while to recognize that I did know more about psychology than my students. That’s why I was there. And that’s why the semester with no grades was silly. And sad, too, was the elimination of the prom, ‘cause that was “elitist.” I do like it, though, that students today don’t need a “date” to attend and enjoy the prom.

More about the 60s, like the times I had to evacuate my office because of bomb threats, the grief of our own national guard killing students at Kent State University. And the pain of being in the apparent minority in opposing the Vietnam War.

OK. I’m focusing on the past. If any of this has relevance for today, I guess it will make sense when I do that anticipated looking back in twenty years.

Ecclesiastes, reading, demons, and ambiguity

2009-09-06T16:01:00.000-07:00

Something strange has been happening to me lately. I’ve been reading, even as I neglect other “work” I “should” be doing. I started with a really short little book, (83 pages): In Celebration of Wisdom: Life and Meaning in Job, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes” (2009), edited by Steven Schweitzer. I guess I chose it because it seems work-related. (Think “Mrs. Job”). But something on p. 71, in reference to Ecclesiastes 7:1-18, had the effect of setting me free (at least temporarily):

“Humans are capable of some wisdom, but perfection is beyond their reach. ‘Do not be too righteous’: Qoheleth uses irony to state that excess—even in the area of wisdom—is not a good thing, because it could become an obsession. Given this state of things, the best people can do is to try to acquire the wisdom available and enjoy life while it lasts, especially ‘in the day of prosperity.’ Writing with a subtlety and nuance that encourages us to live our lives fully, facing both good and ill, Qoheleth helps us find a paradoxically off-balance balance in life.”

Maybe it keyed into thoughts around Lou’s recent death, the shortness of life’s journey, and the limitations on what we can do with it. Whatever the process, I found myself perfectly comfortable sitting in the sunshine on my deck reading: Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford (Paperback - Oct 6, 2009). Fiction, its theme was based on the internment of Japanese citizens during WWII. I loved gobbling up the story, almost as I used to devour reading when I was a child. I also found my resident empathy creating pain over the violence done to these people, even as I admired their strength in maintaining their stalwart devotion to this country. I thought too of my frequent commentary these days that we won’t really understand what’s going on today until we look back in ten or twenty years. (And I do intend to be here to do just that.)

Then today I “yielded” again and finished reading General Tony Zinni and Tony Koltz, Leading the Charge: Leadership Lessons from the Battlefield to the Boardroom. I took away from that a lot of things, but in general the awareness that one cannot afford to be stuck in the ways of the past, or even the present, because the old rules don’t apply now, and most certainly won’t apply in the future. The best we can do (my words, not Zinni’s) is to tolerate the ambiguity and use it to feed our creativity-based activities.

There’s one last piece. The thoughts inspired by this morning’s sermon at Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church about the nature of our personal demons. I think I’ve identified a couple of mine. (1) allowing my empathy to become obsession; (2) that old “thing” that I can’t just sit and read until my “work” is done. And, of course, it is never done.

How should I title this blog? “True confessions?” Oh, but consider the ambiguity of the future. I might not agree with myself at all tomorrow.

Book Signing September 10, 2009

2009-09-03T07:05:00.000-07:00

On the happy side, I'm looking forward to a fun night and book signing at Lillian's in Excelsior, Minnesota. I'd like to attach the neat poster they created, but I can't figure out how to do it. So, here's the verbal description.

The special night is September 10, 2009, from 6:00 – 8:00 p.m. My book-signing will focus on Mrs. Job, but I’ll have my forgiveness books there too.

If you haven’t been there, you’ll love the handbags, scarves, and accessories at fabulous prices. I think it’s all a great way to yield to that Fall desire for something new. (And a great way for me to make people aware of my books.)

The invitation asks for an RSVP by September 8. My guess is that it would be best to leave the message at Lillian’s number: 952-474-3191.

I’m excited about this. I hope you will be too.

p.s. Please note it's Lillian's of Excelsior.

Remembering Lou Affinito one final time

2009-08-29T10:22:00.000-07:00

Lou Affinito died at 12:45 Sunday morning, August 23d, after a period of time at Connecticut Hospice. He ended his sojourn here on earth on the anniversary of his mother's death many years before. It was the end of a long battle that began around April 2008 when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. His wife, his children, and his family suffered with him through the long battle which was reportedly horrifyingly heart-rending toward the end. His wake was held in Hamden Connecticut on Monday the 24th, with hundreds of friends, families, fellow church members, and co-workers creating a constant four-hour stream of care and grief. His memorial Mass was celebrated at Ascension Church in Hamden on Tuesday, August 25th, with interment in West Haven in a mausoleum near his parents and his brother in law. Even his dear friend Frank Faggio rests there.

I knew then that Ted Kennedy would soon be following Lou in death. Kennedy had been diagnosed at about the same time as Lou with the same kind of tumor. And today I watched the Senator's funeral with rapt attention, feeling a strange kind of identification with those involved. One cannot help but notice that the tumor was no respecter of position. And I couldn't help but be aware that Mrs. Kennedy would confess, along with Lou's wife, that she is exhausted and bereft. The suffering has ended for Lou and for the Senator. The people left behind deserve and have my deepest sympathy.

Sabbath

2009-08-17T14:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve had it with empathy, sympathy, productivity, checking e-mail, responding to appeals, mistakes made with loving intentions, supportive phone calls, concern for the nations’ healthcare. What I really wanted today was just to lie on my couch and stare into space. But I went one better. I lay on my couch and read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. What a smart thing to do! It goes to my daughter next if she hasn’t already read it. I guess that’s what old-fashioned Sabbaths were all about.

Well, I did keep a mammogram appointment, and maybe tomorrow I’ll feel like doing stuff again. And wouldn’t it be lovely if someone, somewhere, spent an afternoon on the couch reading Mrs. Job?

Recalling Lou Affinito

2009-08-10T09:46:00.000-07:00

Up front I need to admit that I have not been Lou Affinito’s wife since 1976, and that I thoroughly like his current wife who had nothing to do with our splitting. But we had twenty years and two children together, and as Lou suffers his last days, the victim of an invasive brain tumor, I can’t help traveling back to our time together. Feeling the need to do something, I’m offering this tribute of sorts. I’ve carefully labeled it “Recalling Lou Affinito,” to make it clear that he is still fighting the battle of life.

It was 1953 at the University of Vermont. Genny, my colleague and apartment mate, and I had just attended a tea in honor of the artist daughter of the Psychology Department chair. At least, I think that’s what we had been doing. I am pretty sure I was wearing a black suit and a hat with a veil – and probably gloves. Genny introduced me to Lou who gave us a ride home from the grocery store. I was in Burlington, Vermont, but I knew at once that Lou was an “Italian” from New Haven – and I was a goner right from the beginning.

No, I’m not going to give the whole history – just some snippets. Like his 1949 Plymouth sedan. (OK, I may be wrong. Maybe it was a Dodge. Sadly I can’t verify it now with Lou.) But I do know it was black. Lou preferred black cars. And the heat in this one didn’t work, so, when we rode to and fro on school vacations from Burlington to Connecticut in the freezing cold, we’d open the windows wide and sing “In the Good Old Summertime.” That was the car that transported our several month’s supply of meat from his father’s store – and canned tomatoes, of course, and tomato paste and Ziti. I had never had so much fun with anyone as I did with Lou in our lighthearted dating days.

In 1955 my New Haven greenback shower paid the balance on our new 1955 Ford – actually blue with a white top, not black. One more point about cars. Lou had an ear and an eye for them. I’d drive in the driveway, go up the stairs to the kitchen, and find Lou waiting to tell me he could hear that we needed new shock absorbers. Or when he saw my new Chevy Monza, he knew immediately that it had the wrong left front tire – a fact denied by several “authorities” until I got to the owner of Partyka Chevrolet who immediately ordered that the “correct” tire be installed. OK, So much for cars.

More? There’s Lou, happy as a clam during the brief period when he enjoyed the freedom his pilot’s license gave him to fly a small plane. Lou coming home to play in the kiddie pool in the back yard with Doug and Lisa. Lou and our traditional visit to the drive-in movie on July 3d, complete with Dunkin’ Donuts. Lou basking in the family cookout in our back yard, complete with Bacci Ball for the men. (Losers couldn’t have a beer afterwards.) Lou thoroughly enjoying Frank Faggio’s Italian pastry at Lucibello’s. Lou’s devotion to his friends, and grief at their loss – Nicky Conte, Frank Faggio, cousin Al Altieri…

The nice thing about Word Documents is that I’ll be able to add more later, as it comes to me, but I can’t let this try go by without giving credit to his sayings;

Never force anything mechanical (saved me lots of damage)
The hard way is the easy way (comes to mind when I try to carry too many grocery bags at once.)
Turn a defeat into a victory. (I’ve thought of using this as a book title.)

Thanks for letting me share these thoughts with you.

Remembering "Letters from Jenny."

2009-07-25T11:38:00.000-07:00

Back in my early teaching days I came across a book called "Letters from Jenny." As I recall, it was a collection of letters written by an aging woman to her son's friend. What's that got to do with anything? Well, some time ago I started a document called, "Mona's aging diary." I thought it would be interesting for my survivors to observe the changes as they occur. Of course, I expected it to be boring, since I plan to hang around for another twenty-five years at least. (My children are kind enough not to reveal their horror when I say that.) And what does that have to do with this blog? Well, point number one, I realized I don't need that document, 'cause this blog serves the purpose I intended for my "aging diary."

And these days, I'm quite wrapped up in reviewing my life. So many things have provoked that. One is the fact that my former husband is suffering from a terminal brain tumor. I have no direct contact with him about that, which proves to be frustrating, but I do get the news from my son and daughter and friends in New Haven. Do I need to say more? The purpose of life is farther toward the forefront of my thoughts than usual. To summarize, it becomes even more real that our journey here is limited, as is the time for us to be making our [hopefully helpful] mark on the world. The funny thing is, given those thoughts, I find myself doing things like getting rid of unnecessary paper, and even books, in my study. It seems like I'm doing anything to avoid getting down to writing. I think maybe I'm in a waiting mode.

There's another reason I'm thinking these thoughts. Walter Cronkite. All the reviews of his life bring back memories of so many major events that have occurred during mine. I won't bore you with all the images and emotions that come to mind. Just this -- with every one of those crises I lost sleep over the direction we could or could not be taking as a nation and as a people, and guess what -- we (including me) are still here. So many of those things I've lived through make sense in the backwards view. Now I try to hang on to the patience to realize that wherever we're going (with my little bit of help, I hope) will make sense twenty years from now when I look back.

Those thoughts of patient confidence that there is a purpose evolving, along with acupuncture, keep me sleeping pretty soundly. And verging on getting back to writing "Riding in the Back Seat."

If only more people would discover Mrs. Job. Those who do read her, are almost lavish in their praise. (Try "Mrs. Job." You might like her.) There, I even got in my marketing licks.

2009-07-11T07:22:00.000-07:00

What a wonderful cruise to the Baltics! I've been back since July 2, and it's taken me this long to get back in the groove. Oh, I've done what I really had to do, like reminding people of our up-coming JustFaith+ meeting at church on July 14, but for the rest, what I have really wanted to do was win the lottery so I could then just hang out and read. The lottery hasn't materialized, though, and I am beginning to feel the energy again. I have Dr. Dimitri Didaskalou to thank for that. He is the acupuncturist on the Eurodam (Holland America). I've been afraid to say it out loud, fearing some kind of jinxing phenomenon, but today I'm feeling confident enough to come out with it. Yes, on shipboard it cost top dollar, but I do believe my three acupuncture sessions have freed me of my insomnia. And if for some reason it doesn't hold, I am confident I can go to a local acupuncturist and get a booster pin.

I need energy, 'cause I've got to keep following up on the press releases about Mrs. Job. I really want people to know about her. I continue to get really nice compliments from people who have read her, and I know of book clubs and bible study groups who will be exploring her in the Fall. But nothing will happen if I don't get on the marketing stick.

I'm pleased to have had a couple of requests to do interviews on "When to Forgive." Of course I don't see clearly, but as far as I'm concerned, it is one of the best books on forgiveness, incorporating so much of what people have said and researched. I believe, also, that my book is the only one that has a chapter on "The Case Against Forgiving." I keep hoping...

As for the cruise. There are some highlights. First, I think I bored Doug to the point of exasperation in Copenhagen and Stockholm with "I have a picture of that." The fact is, much is still the same as it was in 1955 when I made the trip to Sweden and Denmark with my folks the summer before I got married. It's not really surprising that buildings survive, like the stock exchange in Copenhagen. What did surprise and please me was the fact that the Nordiska Companiet is still one of the largest (or the largest) department stores in Sweden. That's where I bought my stainless steel flatware in 1955. Unlike Dayton's in Minnesota, or G. Fox & Company in Hartford, Connecticut, that store has not disappeared into another name. It's hard to explain, but it gave me that accordion feeling -- so far away and yet so near.

We saw some stunning palaces. I was particularly interested in the enthusiasm with which the Russians showed off those remnants of the Czars. I also boringly repeated my travel theme -- "You've seen one palace; you've seen them all." It strikes me that, with all the beautiful things in the palaces, its occupants must not even have known what they really had. I can't imagine how, even if they spent a day going from room to room, they could finger or eye every one of the beautiful things on display. By contrast, I was warmed and thrilled by the visit to Sibelius's home in Finland. It was a very nice wood structure on a lovely lake. What I loved about it was that he and his wife lived there, raised a family, supported each other, even as he wrote his beautiful music. I don't know any other way to say it, except it felt so "real." I had the same feeling when we visited the home of the Finnish artist Hekka Halonen. (Wikipedia says his name is "Pekka.") I confess I had never heard of him, but again I had that feeling of real people expressing their talent in a beautiful lake atmosphere.

The visit to Estonia was one we had eagerly anticipated, having seen the DVD on the Estonian people's winning their freedom from the Soviets without violence, but through song. It was impossible not to be moved by the visit to the music shell where some 5000 people had dared defiantly to sing their national music at the once-every-five years festival.

Of course, the cruise in general was sheer luxury -- the kind of thing that makes me aware of how very fortunate I am, and how I wish life would improve for all the suffering people in the world. And I didn't even spend all of my $20 gambling money set aside for the cruise. With Doug teaching me how to play poker (on the machine), and the ups and downs of fortune, I had fun winning up to $13.50, ultimately losing it after several days of gambling fun, spending only $5.00 of the $20.00.

I want to do it again. Somehow I've got to see Italy. After all, the Italian heritage has enriched my own Swedish heritage, and made my children 50% Italian.

Thanks for listening/reading. I wish for all of us continued energy to do what we can to make the world a better place.

Oh, and I'd love to see some comments.

WHAT MRS. JOB LOVES TO SEE!

2009-06-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

I'm including a couple of e-mails I received recently, just because I want to share my joy, and of course I'd like to hear more good stuff from some of you.

"I got Mrs. Job from Amazon and started reading it yesterday...and couldn't stop until I finished today. What a wonderful story! I wrote this review, which I just posted on both Amazon and Barnes and Noble. 'I enjoyed Mrs. Job on its own merits as fine historical fiction, but throughout my reading I was drawn by its wonderful potential as a companion work to the Book of Job. As a public high school English teacher who has taught the Bible as literature in Advanced Placement classes, having students read Dr. Affinito’s treatment of the life of Job’s wife before embarking on the Biblical work would serve to humanize and contextualize Job’s story, expanding it beyond what students sometimes narrowly perceive as a tale of unfathomable suffering. Through the author’s vivid prose, readers come to know Job the Edomite man, the loving husband and father, the “dissident,” through the eyes, and senses, of his wife who is, in every way, his life’s partner. In the tradition of the day, theirs is an arranged marriage, but one that grows into great love and mutual respect. No shrinking violet she, Dara questions what he does not, she rails against that which he accepts. The foundation of this interplay and conflict serves to more richly illustrate Job’s character (and faith) during his later trials. I parenthesize “faith” because, while the story’s characters are Biblical in origin, the story itself is timeless: Dara’s evolution as a person and the great joys and profound sorrows that punctuate her life resonate through the ages.'"

******************************************************

"I finally finished reading Mrs. Job last week and have been waiting for it all to settle in before writing you, somewhat like a taste of something you love and it takes time to savor. I had no idea you could write so beautifully! A few things I especially appreciated were: your description of feelings of a maturing young girl; the relationship of two very close friends who even though separated never lose their bond and the concept of hospitality among nomads which, it never occurred to me before, is necessary for their very survival. The characterization of both Job and Dara as really strong individuals really makes the whole story very uplifting, even with all the suffering."

Now for some blatant marketing: A signed copy of Mrs. Job can be ordered by way of my e-mail, for one. forgivenessoptions@earthlink.net

IT'S REALLY ALL ABOUT CONTROL

2009-06-04T11:57:00.000-07:00

As far as I know, I'm the only one who has a chapter on the "Case Against Forgiveness" in my book (When to Forgive). One big piece of that is my objection to the shaming effect on the part of well-meaning people, religious and otherwise, who urge forgiveness on people who have experienced an offense. It's also based on the observation that there may be other routes to relief and health. That's why I resisted the publisher's efforts to title my book something like "The Miracle of Forgiveness," because I felt the most important factor was having a choice.

At a recent conference, I found some validation for my belief that forgiveness (deciding not to punish) is not necessarily the only road to wholeness. The presenter was talking about his work with brain-injured people. Toward the end, he provided evidence of two cases of productive psychological resolution even though the physical disability was permanent. I found myself automatically assuming that each of them had forgiven the attackers who caused their severe brain damage. But when I questioned the speaker after the presentation, he told me that neither one of them had given up on anger and seeking punishment for the perpetrators. I hesitate in saying this, because I know this is a complex issue that does require a whole chapter, but I do want to jump off from this with some of my thoughts about control.

I've come to believe that being in control of oneself is the bottom-line essential for all therapy or other routes to healthful resolution of hurt from any source. Life's attacks disorient and disorganize us so that, in a real sense, we are not all together. Putting it this way is not very professional. but I think the key is pulling it all back together under our own control. (Notice that what I'm saying has nothing to do with controlling others, except in the sense of taking back control from those who are hurting you.) Quite literally pulling oneself together provides the energy to be happy, even joyful, and productive.

That means accepting the twelve-step goal of distinguishing between that which we can control and that which we can't and taking appropriate action on that distinction. The gift that forgiveness gives us is point number one on the bookmark in the previous blog: "As long as you can't forgive them, they are in control of your life." But that "can't forgive them" piece is complex. I think what it refers to is obsession with the anger and sense of unfairness, along with an impotent desire to get back at the offender. It was possible for the two people referred to by the conference speaker to regain potency by placing the anger energy in a reasonable place, fighting for legal justice. Life regained its order. I think that's what wholeness is all about. Just for the fun of it, look back on the items in the previous blog and look for the element of self-control in each. I'd love to hear comments and responses on these roughly conveyed thoughts.

THE POWER OF A BOOKMARK

2009-06-04T11:16:00.000-07:00

This really is a bookmark, but I had to cut it into two segments in order to upload it. And I did want you to see it, to go with the story I have to tell.

Recently a local business man called me into his office as I passed by to tell me the effect of the bookmark on his life. Flying from Minnesota to the east coast for his mother's funeral, he was troubled by the negativity of the emotions he harbored toward her. To distract himself he was trying to read a book (not one of mine), but what caught his eye was the bookmark I had given him. He wanted me to know that by the end of the flight, after contemplating its words, he was calm and comfortable about his mother. Forgiveness had happened.

UPDATE ON MRS. JOB

2009-05-14T13:25:00.001-07:00

This is sort of an afterthought. I tried to attach it to the "Riding in the Back Seat" blog, but my skills are lacking, and this photo kept showing up where it shouldn't be in that blog.

Just for a quick catch-you-up. She's doing pretty well locally. I've been told of book groups that have chosen her, and Bible study groups that are going to study her. I certainly don't need to tell you how exciting that is for me.

I've also had word from folks around the country who are recommending her to friends. Now, that's really exciting!

What I don't know is how she's doing out there in cyberspace. I guess I have to wait another month to get that information.

And here's some neat stuff I've been sharing with people as I follow up on press releases iUniverse has sent out:

I've been receiving some very positive responses as, for example, this one from David Burrell, Professor of Ethics, Notre Dame University and Uganda Martyrs University: "A lovely book: and a brilliant ploy - to contrast her relation to her friends with that of Job with his! Says something, perhaps, about women friends, no? Not always, I realize, of course, but here it so deftly fleshes out the story. At the beginning, I was worried, for the initial pages seem 'over-written,' in the sense that 'adjectives piled up can weaken the noun.' But, when you hit your narrative stride, all that evaporated. Thank you for such a lovely rendition."

Or this, from Pastor Brenda Legred of Mount Calvary Lutheran Church in Excelsior, Minnesota: "I just finished Mrs. Job and loved it! The dialogue is so real and so beautiful. The depth of relationships is profound. Thank you for gifting this book to the world."

And Sandy Rothschiller's original response, shortened later to fit the blurb on the back cover. "I don't just like this book. I love it. I could hardly wait to get back to the beautifully drawn, timeless characters. Dora is my friend. I know her. I am her. Even as I felt Dara's struggles, her sadness, and her joy, I relived the color, feel, and smell of the desert as I experienced it when I lived there. The life of the Edomites, so well-researched, is impressive as is the Biblical insight, so much more accurate than many books of this genre and so informed by the author's deep spirituality. More than that, this is the gripping story of a woman's love for her husband as they share great blessings and terrible trials. Placed in ancient times, yet it is today's love story. Reverend Sandy Rothschiller, ELCA Pastor and theologian.

These reactions to Mrs. Job do, of course, delight me, and, to tell the truth, I'm happy to be consumed by "Mrs. Job" and "Riding in the Back Seat" because, if I didn't have my mind thus occupied, it would be too easy to get depressed about all the negative stuff that's going on in the world.

RIDING IN THE BACK SEAT

2009-05-14T13:11:00.001-07:00

This is not the photo of a tragedy, but our Doug and Lisa in 1963, riding in the back seat of our '61 Chevy impala en route to our cabin in Vermont.

I couldn't decide which of my many projects to focus on here, so I chose the easy way -- just letting you in on what I'm working on. This photo is, in my imagination, the cover for "Riding in the Back Seat" which currently is just a thought on the tip of my brain and the edge of my typing fingers. Being very brave and lazy all at the same time, here it is. I'd much rather have the critiques at this point rather than later.

RIDING IN THE BACK SEAT

I’m riding in the back seat, but no one is driving the car. How is it there has been no fatal impact? Other vehicles scream by; fences bend as they barely avoid being hit; trees blow aside in panic; people fly about like cartoon characters. I’m glued to the right rear seat. No matter how hard I struggle I can’t make my arm reach far enough to push down on the brake in the front. In fact, I can’t move it at all. Nor can I move my body into the front seat to take over the steering wheel and apply the brake. I save myself by waking up.

As bad as it is losing control of the car, it’s even worse on other occasions when I see it from outside bursting into bright red flames. I save myself by waking up.

What I plan to say, however, is much less dreamlike. Besides being a psychologist who dreams, I am in many ways a walking history book. Some of you may find some glimmers of your own history in the stories I tell here. For now, let’s get back to riding in the back seat.

My first back-seat memory probably occurred when I was about 8 years old, or maybe I was 4. The fact is, memory is extremely fragile. Maybe it didn’t happen at all, and probably it didn’t happen the way I think. My father was, of course, driving, and we had been someplace fun. I assume there was an older sibling in the front passenger seat. In fact, both my big brother and my big sister might have been sitting in front, because there was room for three grown-ups in that seat before the drive shaft raised a bump in the middle.

I’m willing to bet that my friend Hallie was in the back with me, because most of the time fun things were shared with her. I was kneeling on the back seat, looking out the rear window when my father had to stop quickly and I was thrown back against the front seat. I knew my back was broken. Fortunately what we “know” is often wrong, as it was then. But I recall being very worried – I think we all were – about getting home and telling my mother what had happened.

Kneeling in the back seat? No seat belts? How could my father have allowed such careless behavior?! I was about four (or maybe eight) years old, remember? Some twenty-or-so years later, in 1956, I was involved as a Graduate Assistant in a weekend working retreat at Osgood Hill. At lunch at the retreat I sat next to a man who had done research on those relatively new car safety aids -- seat belts that fastened across the lap. He was convinced by the data that they saved lives. The general public was still pretty resistant. But he convinced me.

Still, in March, 1958, in a blizzard, as Lou drove me home from the hospital with our newborn Douglas wrapped up in my arms, there was no thought of a secure seat for him. I’m pretty sure no one yet had thoughts of marketing such a protective contraption for newborns. On later trips, though, we did enjoy the convenience of Doug’s car bed, which hung precariously behind us, slung over the front seat by a couple of hangers. (By the way, his crib at home wouldn’t meet today’s required narrow space between slats.) As Doug developed enough to sit up by himself, I remember driving with him sitting next to me in his car seat – just that, a little seat hanging by a couple of hooks over the back of the front seat. Some twenty-two months later, Lisa inherited those comforts.

Lisa remembers seeing, when she was older, seat belts hanging in our garage, to be installed if we chose to do it. Somehow, we did have seatbelts in our ’61 Chevy Impala. They can be seen in the cover photo of those two patient travelers putting up with the long trip to Vermont. They learned early on that the best way to put up with such tedium was to play for a while with the toys that were currently in favor, and then drop off to sleep.

It’s probably clear by now that riding in the car is my metaphor of choice for the joys, hazards, and responsibilities of varying degrees of control over our/my life’s direction. I hope you’ll experience little bolts of memory as you read my snippets. I’ve chosen to make them little fragments so you can pick and choose as you make your way through them. Besides, to be honest, that’s the way they come back to me in the middle of the night – or even while I’m driving/riding in the car.

Sympathy For Theater Folks

2009-04-21T09:16:00.000-07:00

I always did sympathize with theater folks, but now I really empathize. Imagine spending months creating and rehearsing a show, with the nervous anticipation of opening night, only to have it panned and closed down in a couple of weeks. What solid personalities it must take to survive that attack on one's creativity and self-esteem. Oh sure, it's really bad for the pocketbook as well, but imagine the takedown as your own creative blood, sweat, tears, and anticipation are dumped (and dumped on).

I guess it takes the same kind of personal strength to be a successful politician. The public, like theater audiences, feel perfectly free to attack with destructive words. I really wonder, in a very personal sense, what it takes to keep on.

Or, on a more life-threatening level, what does it take to be Morris Deese of the Southern Poverty Law Center and have your life constantly threatened because of your dedicated fight against hate and the crimes that attach to it. In fact, I also admire the strength of the people who work to protect women's health at Planned Parenthood. And I know I haven't listed everyone, but I hope you get the idea.

So, why the empathy? Well, here's the story. Several people (I swear it's more than 7) have told me they ordered Mrs. Job on line. And when I follow the ranking for Mrs. Job at barnesandnoble.com, her numbers look a heck of a lot better than my forgiveness books, which pretty much hold up the bottom of the scale. But when I called iUniverse, I was told that a total of 7 books had been sold between amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, and orders from bookstores. The downer didn't last too long, maybe because Mrs. Job isn't my whole life, but I did get cranky and depressed for a few days. Then I decided that maybe sales records get delayed. I still also keep checking amazon.com for reviews people have told me they would write. Oh, is that using hope as a cure?

Whatever, I have really come to appreciate people who live with this kind of exposure to negative responses to their work.

I guess my better mood now can also be attributed to the fact that I think I have pretty much mastered my new Palm/Verizon phone. Whew! And the emergencies that came up with my billing program, costing a couple of hours of telephone time, and other computer related problems, have been resolved -- at least for the moment.

So now I'm free to do other stuff, like write this blog, and follow up on the 186 press releases sent out by iUniverse re Mrs. Job. I also plan today to check on the possibility of getting a tote bag with a photo of Mrs. Job's cover on it. I've already updated my brochures. I read somewhere that a best-selling author, on being asked what it takes to be a best-selling author, responded, "You have to be the best seller."

Thanks for listening.

Author's postpartum depression?

2009-03-28T15:16:00.000-07:00

I diagnosed it last Thursday when I returned from my early morning visit to Curves, ate breakfast, and went back to bed. Fortunately I remembered I had a client coming, so I was showered and dressed in time to see her. So, is there such a thing as author's postpartum depression?

I guess publishing a book, apparently especially a book of fiction, is like giving birth to a child. You just want everyone to tell you it's the most beautiful baby that was ever born -- well, at least among the most beautiful. And the truth is, she has received some really nice complements. Take what Pastor Brenda Legred had to say, for example. I quote, with her permission, "I just finished Mrs. Job and loved it! The dialogue is so real and so beautiful. The depth of relationships is profound. Thank you for gifting this book to the world!" And she didn't have to send me that e-mail. I have to admit, though, that she is herself a walking halo.

But then there's the woman who planned to refer to Mrs. Job, even read some parts from it, when she did devotions at a friend's shower. She actually requested some to take along to sell to others. Or there's the friend who bought five copies to give for gifts and took some along to sell. So, that's pretty good, right? And I had a really good time at a book sale as part of a program at Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church up the hill from me here in Chaska. And some books even sold. So, why am I so greedy?

People ask me how sales are going, and I have to answer that I don't know. Locally Mrs. Job is certainly not being rejected, and I guess I won't know about the rest of the world until I get a quarterly statement in April. And I hope people will catch on that Mrs. Job is a good read -- not a religious document. And I certainly won't sell a lot if I don't get on with the marketing. But I hope my royalty check is a little larger than the $1.69 I received recently for "Forgiving One Page at a Time."

Ah, marketing! iUniverse has sent out 186 press releases to media sources. Now I'm supposed to follow up with phone calls. Ooh! That does feel overwhelming. Not that I haven't done anything about it. The publishers of my forgiveness books have agreed that they will send copies to media sources if requested, so now it's my job to make sure I mention them as well as Mrs. Job when I make those calls.

How did I get here anyway? I'm a college professor, a therapist. How did I get into this author business? But that's what makes life so delightful, isn't it. We just don't know where our callings will lead us. And I am having fun.

But tomorrow I'm off to enjoy my son and my granddaughter, music of the Minnetonka Choral Society, dinner out, and a trip to St. Olaf to return KJ to school after her Spring break with her mom and dad.

Life is good. I have my work cut out for me. I doubt that I'll be heading for bed again during the day. But I will go for afternoon naps on my black leather couch.

Thanks for listening/reading... I'll keep you posted.

Mona

2009-03-05T12:46:00.000-08:00

I'm really doubtful that what I say today will be interesting to most of you. Mostly it's about frustration with Facebook and trying very hard to market Mrs. Job, but there is also the hope for progress with the Chaska Restorative Practices Action Group.

What about facebook? Well, apparently in transferring from Tiger to Leopard on my Mac I've created a problem that the automated facebook creature out there simply can't deal with. When I try to log on, it tells me I've got the wrong password, so I click on "get a new password." Then it tells me my e-mail isn't registered, so I try to register it, and it tells me I can't do that because I'm already registered. With the help of my Mac guru, I've tried all kinds of things. If I want to keep my old computer around just for the sake of facebook, then I could get by. But for obvious reasons I don't want to do that. I'm still hoping for a solution. I do not like to be trapped in a catch-22.

And about marketing Mrs. Job. I've done lots of things, but didn't get to others yet, like visiting the local bookstores to ask about book signings.

Pastor Gordon Stewart of Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church up the hill from me here in Chaska has scheduled a book signing for March 20 for me, along with Dr. Jan Adams of Maria's Children International who will tell the story of the woman in Moscow whose curiosity about the children in Orphanage #113 led to the arts rehabilitation program for warehoused children left by the roadside as useless to society. The wonderful paintings of Maria's Children now line the walls of Shepherd of the Hill and will be there for viewing and for purchase. I think I'll be with inspiring company.

I've done some really bold things, like e-mailing Krista Tippett of MPR in the hope she might be interested in an interview, offering to do a book signing while on the Baltic cruise this summer with Holland America Line, sending a copy of Mrs. Job to a theologian who has written a book on why the Book of Job tells us nothing about the problem of suffering, and stuff like that. Not surprisingly I've received no responses, but the worst that can happen is no response. I had intended to send a copy to Garrison Keillor, and I will in the future, but right now I don't want to intrude on his grief over the accidental death of his brother.

Just a few minutes ago I received the copy of the book I discovered on Amazon.com, "Meet Mrs. Job" by Carolyn L. Reynolds. I guess I'll have to forgive myself for not finding it earlier, since it was published in 2003. Glancing at it, I see she was on the same wavelength as I am. I'll write a review on Amazon.com. At least I can give it that appreciation.

As for the Chaska Restorative Practices Action Group, I feel like a very small part of a very ambitious project beginning in November with an all-day workshop. The ultimate goal is to bring restorative practices to our community. What a wonderful alternative to the expensive punitive procedures our society seems to be so enamored with now.

Finally, for any of you who get wrapped up in computer-related stuff, I hope you can sympathize with all it takes to bring my records into sync with the new formats required. The most fun, though, is my birthday present which I had requested last year from Doug and Lisa. It wasn't available for the Mac until recently, but now I have it. That's why I went from Tiger to Leopard, 'cause my new toy demands it. It's a Livescribe Pulse Pen -- really fun. As I take notes on the appropriate paper it also records the meeting. Then, when I go back to write the minutes. I can tap on particular words and it plays back to me what was said. I used it on Tuesday at our JustFaith+ meeting at Mount Calvary Lutheran Church. The minutes I managed to put together using it are probably the most complete I've yet come up with.

OK. At least I didn't neglect my blog today.

Oh yes, I wish I knew who Mary is who has made such kind comments

Mrs. Job makes her debut

2009-02-16T12:07:00.000-08:00

She's looking good -- in both hard cover and soft cover. She's now available on

http://www.amazon.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com

http://www.iUniverse.com

She should be coming up soon on Border's books.

or at your bookstore.

I like her a lot. I hope you will too. If you do, it would be great if you would write a review on amazon.com, or one of the other sites.

My cousin Eunice died on January 31

2009-02-14T09:17:00.000-08:00

Eunice died on January 31. 2009 in Bethlehem, PA. Her children notified me by e-mail. I had met one of her daughters, but her other children were known to my only by her reports. I last saw Eunice a few years ago when I attended a restorative practices weekend in Bethlehem. (For some stupid reason it took me a while to catch on to the reason why everyone called it the Christmas town.) She treated me like royalty, hiring someone to drive me into the city each day from her home. We had a great time together. Funny how little difference years make, and it had been years since we saw each other.

Eunie was tethered to oxygen in her front hall, but it didn't slow her down much. She even had a tidy carrying case so she could take her oxygen with her when she went out. At bedtime she carried the "tether" up to her bedroom. Every morning she spent time on her stationary bike before heading downstairs. There she spent the day in a sunny bright room that had been added on to the original house. Her office/home base was a table provided with everything she needed to stay in communication with people and to do her work for her Lutheran church. She did have a helper who shopped, cleaned, and cooked for her. (At least, that's my understanding of how things were.)

Eunie's red hair and freckles never disappeared, advertising the Irish side of her heritage. To me, she was my younger cousin, but not by much. Back in Forestville we enjoyed a large Anderson family -- playing pick-up-sticks at Aunt Gerda and Uncle Everett's -- enjoying weekend camping with them at Hammonasett State Park (my spelling may be wrong) -- getting special treatment at church when missionaries came and dressed us up in native costume -- helping to fill the home of Grandma and Grandpa Anderson at Christmas time. Grandma knit each of her grandchildren a pair of mittens every year, and each of her children had a lovely quilt made by her own hands. We played with my neighbor and best friend Hallie who predeceased Eunice by several years. But Forestville sent its people out far and wide, so at one point there were twenty-five years between times that Eunie and I saw each other. I surprised my self with the burst of tears when I heard she had died.

There weren't many people for me to notify when I got the news: my sister Thelma, My cousin Joy, my niece Nancy, and Hallie's widower, Murph. And there is Eunie's big brother in Florida to whom I wrote a sympathy note. We/I used to be part of a big family. I tell people that, being the youngest of the youngest, most of my cousins were old enough to be my parents, and they are long gone. Actually, I am the youngest of the youngest on the Gustafson side, but Eunie and her mother were the youngest on the Anderson side. This is not a sad story. I'm so happy to have been part of that bunch of Swedish Lutherans. Maybe there is other nourishment that's better, but the strength of a large caring group of relatives certainly ranks high.

Eunie did believe she would be joining her husband and all her family and friends. I hope she's having a wonderful reunion, free of the need for the oxygen tether.

How short is the time!

2009-01-25T13:14:00.000-08:00

The long pause is only partly inertia. I thought every day that I'd be announcing the debut of "Mrs. Job" but little glitches keep coming up -- some annoying, like the proof reader's efforts to get "Ph.D." changed to "PhD". Confusion has ensued on the covers (hard and soft). And I've [re]learned something about myself. I tried so hard to figure out what I should do about the cover errors until -- ah-ha -- I realized it wasn't in my court, but in theirs, because they hadn't applied the corrections I'd agreed to. So, here I am, waiting.

In the meantime, I realized the other night, as I watched the young lady directing the Orchestra of the Enlightenment, how really short are our productive years. Every once in a while I see a "Want Ad" for some form of psychological work or teaching and think, "Oh, I'd like to do that." And then I wake up to the facts. I don't even want full-time work any more. But it reminds me of my father during his last year in the nursing home, actually wasting away with cancer, suggesting to my mother that they should buy a little house for themselves, small enough so the care of the house wouldn't be too heavy. And that reminds me of my mother in the nursing home, looking at herself in the mirror and seeing the beautiful young blonde my father married. I like that thought. I hope I keep seeing someone attractive in the mirror. I have changed my goal, though. Now I just want to look dignified and welcoming. What did I say about our productive years?

And let me add a bit about patience. Finally rejoicing in the new administration after weeks - months - of stress in the campaign, I realize how important it is to wait -- and work. Do you remember when we thought the atomic bomb would take us all out? Or the Korean war? Or the Cuban missile crisis? Or being kept out of our offices at school because of a bomb threat? Or the horror of brave people being killed marching for peace and justice? Or Vietnam? Or the sadness and anxiety over the invasion of Iraq? Or Darfur? Or -- ! If you remember those things, then you can add to the list. And we fortunate ones are still here. Amazing!

I'll be back soon, I hope, with a "Mrs. Job" announcement. In the meantime, those are my thoughts. Feel free to add them to my "Aging Diary." And please, feel free to comment.

No "Aging Diary"

2009-01-11T16:31:00.000-08:00

Some time ago I started a document I called "Aging Diary" because I thought that after I die at the age of 104 it might be interesting for geriatric students to observe the process of cognitive/verbal change. The problem is that I never seem to find time to write in it. I'm too busy with working on all the issues I care about. I guess that means that this blog becomes the equivalent of my "aging diary." -- somewhat more public than I had planned, but...

Aside from the fact that "Mrs. Job" is uppermost in my mind, I find myself thinking about some colleagues from my years at Southern Connecticut State University who write me that they have decided to leave their social action projects to their children and just relax and enjoy retirement. In the same "bubble" I think about a colleague who has moved on from her life's journey, no longer here to stay in e-mail contact. Then there are those friends and colleagues from so many sources who strike me with awe in all that they do. Sometimes I think I want just to throw it all in, relax, read, and take it easy. Then I realize I really need to feel at the end of each day that I've really "done something." I suppose this is the problem of retirement. When do we do it? My hope is that I will know when the time has come, just as I knew when the time had come to give up teaching at the Adler Graduate School.

I need to see clients. I need to advise on thesis projects. I need to work for restorative justice. I need to work on "Riding in the Back Seat," (my next writing project). I need to continue working with the wonderful folks at JustFaith+. I need to support (mostly financially) the causes of health and homes for all, end of war (dare I believe?), the termination of torture, the opportunity for everyone to live to their fullest (aha - now education comes up), equal rights, respect for all races, religions, and ethnic groups, family connections and strength, oh, and so much more. Thank goodness for the folks who need only my regular (and not very large) financial support. Because the fact is (note this in the aging diary) that I don't have the energy I once had. And I do look forward to letting my mind go numb at 9:00 Central Time with some CSI program or other, with it's fake blood and promise of a clear solution at the end.

My thoughts are a-buzz now with plans for marketing "Mrs. Job." But that's for tomorrow.

Mrs. Job's coming out appearance

2009-01-05T10:06:00.000-08:00

Today I approved the cover for Mrs. Job. Finding no photo of a woman of her period who even began to convey her personality as I know it, we decided to go with an acacia tree. Elaine Ward of iUniverse did a fantastic job, patiently meeting the requests of my "good-artistically-eyed" daughter, Lisa. I tried to post a photo of it on Facebook, but I guess is must be in the wrong format. I'd have it on my web site, but that program doesn't like my Mac, so I have to wait for someone with a PC to help me get that accomplished.

Anyway, she's ready. I hope she'll be really productive after her debut.

Travel Woes and Pleasures

2009-01-05T09:39:00.000-08:00

I have taken it as a personal affront that Northwest merged with Delta. I think I can understand the need to charge for luggage, but the rest of it was not so great. Back in the old days when I purchased a flight through Northwest all I had to do was click on the link they sent to my e-mail 24 hours before flight time and, with no problem, I could check my seat assignment and check in. Not so this December 16. It took me an hour finally to get the Delta confirmation number which was different from the one I'd received from Northwest. Part of the problem was that they insisted my first name is not "Mona." It turns out my first name was "Monagms." Now just try to pronounce that. The lovely man at the curbside check-in tried, with a smile. Of course, it was an amalgam of "Mona," plus the middle initial "G" plus my "title" - Ms. Sometimes when I'm required, against my will, to give a title, I'll use Dr., but I certainly don't want anyone in a medical emergency on the plane to think I can help. Maybe someone can explain to me why I can't just be Mona G. Affinito. Oh well.

I won't go into more detail -- boring. Suffice it to say that there was no "uniformed representative at the end of the jetway" as promised, and making connections was -- shall we say -- not terribly successful. Those reps I did find were hassled, overworked, and -- understandably -- cranky. Twice my luggage trailed me by a day, and once I stayed overnight in Atlanta at Days Inn. (Well, that was a computer problem at Atlanta airport.) But here's the good part: I met Ed (A real southern gentleman who hadn't lost his manners, though he had lost his accent) and Ankie, trying to get back home to Amsterdam. Days Inn provided their van to drive us to "Joe's" where we enjoyed a bottle of wine, purchased, chosen, and served by Ed, as well as a first course of Calamari. The burgers were dutch treat, and the company delightful. I didn't get more detailed information about Ed and Ankie, but I did give them my card, asking that they look for Mrs. Job. To Ed and Ankie, if you do happen to see this, please let me know. You were such a pleasure in an island of annoyance.

I want also to say that the passengers were, though tired and frustrated, a really patient lot. And my return trip from Portland, Maine to Minneapolis was a delight, thanks to the very pleasant Northwest agent who lengthened the time spent at the Detroit airport between legs of the flight. And I do love the tunnel there.

Oh, by the way. Delta still served peanuts and pretzels.

Williamsburg was a great Christmas experience with family, and Portland was a wonderful place to welcome in the New Year with friends from (gulp) as far back as 1947.

All in all, TGIJ. January and February, cold and snowy as they are, provide a great opportunity to settle in and catch up -- or even get projects going.

Mrs. Job's cover

2008-12-20T10:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was all wrapped up in holiday, but Lisa would probably tell you I've been even more wrapped up in Mrs. Job. It's cover design time, and I had a very specific vision in mind. The caves of Petra were to be in the background, representing her early years as a nomad. In the foreground was to be a beautiful, regal Mrs. Job with long, flowing, royal purple sleeves. Try as we might, however, the designer and I couldn't come up with it. So, time to change my set, I decided on an acacia tree. They are really lovely and flowing, at least some of them are, so I hope in 5 or 10 days to see her final work-up.

Now back to decorating and anticipating.

Holidays Again -- Amazing -- Part Two

2008-12-19T15:17:00.000-08:00

PLEASE READ PART ONE (BELOW) FIRST
And then there were the Anderson Christmases, not always right on the Eve or the day, because there was a fairly large family to get together -- a logistical challenge. I don't think we ate a full meal at Grandma and Grandpa's, but whatever it was, it was Swedish. Everything about family Christmas was Swedish. Even the Lutheran church service was Swedish in my early years.

Christmas morning, however, was definitely American. Presents galore, or at least it seemed so to me, and opened one at a time, with full appreciation and thank yous to the donors. Then Hallie came over to see what I had received before I went through our adjoining back yards to see hers.

Later, as grandparents and first-born uncles aged and died, and as siblings married and had children, Christmases were celebrated in my home, my mother carrying on the smorgasbord tradition.

And I dated. Once I didn't make it home in time to help my father with the Christmas tree. I still suffer guilt.

Married in 1955, I carried on the smorgasbord tradition in my home, though not always so genuinely Swedish and not always right on the Eve or day. Oh, I did that the first couple of years -- Gustafsons on Christmas Eve and Affinitos on Christmas day, but it wasn't long before my family agreed to come a week or so before the 25th. And the Affinito celebrations were as close to Italian as I could make them.

Christmas Eve usually involved my going to my church -- Lutheran -- to sing in the choir, while Doug and Lisa went with their Dad to Catholic Mass. It was usually a long mass. I guess the Priest really wanted to take advantage of the size of the Christmas crowd. For me, it meant lots of time to wrap stocking stuffers before they got home.And our children had a very American Christmas morning, after we had paid a tradition visit to Mrs. Mirto. (I brought along one present for each of our children to open while we were there.)

My children learned about Santa Claus the same way I had -- my brother as Santa. But they loved Harvey as much as I, so it was OK that he was Santa. Well, I guess to be honest I should say that they suspected something was up even before Harvey's appearance confirmed it.

And so Christmas traditions change. Later tonight, if all goes as planned, Doug (my son, Lisa's brother) and KJ (Lisa's daughter -- senior at St. Olaf) will arrive in Williamsburg, VA to pick up on our new traditions. Doug and Lisa's children -- no longer children -- will make gingerbread cookies. On Christmas Eve Doug will make two different kinds of soup, and on Christmas day we'll have steak and chicken, and still an American slow exchange of gifts, though many fewer this year. Everyone feels the pinch.

And I'll bore everyone by saying, "I can't believe I've made it to another healthy Christmas. How blessed I am!"

And how spoiled I am. I do so wish everyone could enjoy their version of holiday celebration in peace instead of hunger and fear. I do so hope that we are edging closer to the day.

Holidays again -- amazing -- part one

2008-12-19T14:12:00.000-08:00

Every year I am amazed to have made it to another happy, healthy holiday season. Oh, the truth is they haven't all been happy. Nothing was happy around the time that my marriage ended -- way back in 1976. But my Christmas memories encompass so many years that a couple of not-so-great ones fade into the background. And even in those years the celebrations were good and complete. I was still carrying on the family tradition of Christmas Eve smorgasbords at that time. That went on until the Christmas after my brother's son committed suicide just around Thanksgiving time.

The year of the suicide my brother called me on December 11th, the day of his birthday, to say that he had received the final "gift" from his son -- his ashes. We tried to maintain the Christmas tradition that year, but anyone could have told us the pall would be too great.

After that, for a while before I moved from Connecticut to Minnesota, I enjoyed presenting a modified smorgasbord for my women colleagues/friends at Southern Connecticut State University. They were such a blessing. I miss that group. I miss the non-Christmas memory of the time I hosted a tupperware party for that group and we got really silly/giddy fighting for a little plastic pill container. I still have mine.

But my memories carry me back much farther (further?) than that. I was pretty much the youngest of the youngest on both sides of my family. My cousin Eunice on the Anderson side was about six months younger. But you get the picture. I was really special. And how special those Christmases were! My father's oldest brother and his wife had acquired a lovely Victorian house by working for it. The stories vary, but I think the correct one is that they had worked as butler and maid for the family who owned it, with the deal that it would be theirs when the owners died. However it happened, it was a fantastic Christmas house. Christmas Eve found some 22 or more of us around a huge smorgasbord. I don't think I enjoyed it much, because I couldn't wait to go into the parlor to sit around the tree and anticipate the ho-ho-ho of Santa Claus. And he did come -- year after year. Somewhere around when I was 8 years old, my brother, eleven years older than I, stood in for my cousin. Harvey couldn't see very well without his glasses, so he needed my help reading the tags. I guess it was time anyway, but there was no way I could believe in Santa Claus after getting up that close. I didn't tell my parents until the next year, though, because I didn't want them to feel bad.

That was Christmas Eve with the Gustafsons. And now I have to leave this to go on to a newer Christmas tradition -- helping my daughter get her house ready for the family coming together for another annual celebration. I'll be back.

Happy Holidays, and Why I've Been Remiss

2008-12-07T07:09:00.000-08:00

Yes, this is a wish for happy holidays. But first let me apologize that I haven't even looked at my own blog since I last posted, and steer you to a couple of interesting comments on previous blogs. I don't know how to reply to them directly. Maybe somebody out there can teach me a better response to those kind people, because this time I'm going to come right out and ask for comments. I'd like to suggest that what Marina had to say is especially potent given that she is a practicing psychologist in Minnesota who carries with her the experience of growing up in Russia.

And now to "Happy Holidays." Yes, Happy Holidays. I'm happy when someone wishes me a Merry Christmas, though I do think "Happy Christmas," or "Blessed Christmas" or "Peaceful Christmas" might be more appropriate. But I do mean "Happy Holidays." Basically, this is a holiday celebrating the winter solstice, and how I do look forward to the days getting longer. But I want to make the point that I wish happiness for everyone as you celebrate this season within whatever context, faith, or non-faith is right for you. And, though I don't think I'm too good at it, I am in my own urgent way praying for peace, the end of poverty, care for this world with which we have been gifted, a growth of true liberty in our own beloved country, an end to torture and genocide, and the termination of the kind of greed that allows a man to be trampled to death in the search of bargains. I am offended by those who would exclude anyone but "Christians" from this hopeful time. There, I've had my say on that one.

Now on to my request. Please accept this as a holiday card from me. You're on this list because you are important to me, and I wish I could do what I did back in the old days. I mean, the days when I had lots of energy, so I could be finishing up a teaching semester, preparing a sensational (I hope) Christmas celebration for my family, including choosing and buying presents, baking lots of cookies, planning and ultimately preparing feasts served on china, sterling, and silver, practicing Christmas music with the choir, and attending special celebrations. Then I used to have Christmas cards out pretty much at Thanksgiving time, with a complete 3x5 card record reminding me to forget no one. Of course, each greeting card was addressed individually, including a hand-written return address, each envelope licked closed (probably with a damp sponge), and stamped in the same licking way. The total used to add up to over 100.

Little by little, always with a terrible feeling of remorse, I have removed the names of friends who are no longer alive to receive the cards. But mostly, little by little, that young energy has dissipated, or maybe I've just become wrapped up in other things. or maybe I'm just more in tune with the tools of our current time. At any rate, I do feel a little guilty, but I'm not sending out individual cards except to people I can't reach through the internet.

Some of those who will be getting hand-written holiday cards from me are people on Amnesty International's list if prisoners of conscience. We'll be doing a Write-a-Thon at Mount Calvary on December 14. I don't know if we'll have 5 people or 100 writing. I'm hoping for the 100. As with everything else, much will depend on the quality of the marketing. I think we have some good people doing some fantastic work on that.

Which takes me neatly, I think, into a bit of what else I've been doing. The Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church up the street from me has an awesome pastor who really gets things done! There are now in the little church a couple of empty rooms, vacated by a nursery school. Pastor Gordon Stewart has proposed developing some kind of restorative justice service for the community, headquartered in those rooms. We have a team ready to go on firming up a plan. You might, by the way, want to visit their web site. I think you'll still find there photos of the beautiful, indeed awesome, paintings done by He Qi, a famous Chinese Artist who was hosted at a reception there this past Friday.

At Mount Calvary, I'm getting a bit re-energized for our JustFaith+ group now that we have two fantastic new pastors bringing our pastoral staff up to five. (Obviously Mt. Calvary is quite a bit larger than Shepherd on the Hill.) The Amnesty International Write-a-thon is our first venture out of (my) approximate doldrums.

And then there are all the holiday pleasures. I'm beginning to get tired with all the activity, delightful as it is. On Thursday Doug (my son), Kirsti (my St. Olaf senior granddaughter) and I attended the St. Olaf Holiday Festival. Back in Connecticut I never imagined a school with so many students in so many large choruses with such beautiful voices. I especially love that the whole program proceeds without applause until the very end. (I really hate the disruption of applause in any situation.) And I like that it all goes on with no intermission. (I get cranky and irritable about intermissions, too.) St. Olaf is, after all, an ELCA school with a huge Norwegian influence. (ELCA = Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.) Therefore, there are lots of Norwegian sweaters in the huge audience. Best of all, they have the audience sing some of the songs, specifying which verses should be sung only by women, or only by men, or by all. And no one of those thousands ever sings when they shouldn't. How's that for an ethnic characteristic? (And my heritage is Swedish. To the Norwegians in Minnesota, that's a significant difference -- makes me a bit lower class...)

Yesterday there were the Augsburg choirs in Vespers at Central Lutheran Church. For this Forestville, Connecticut provincial the Cathedral is like visiting Europe. Well, it is like a European cathedral. The Auggies were equally as impressive as the Olies (oops! I may be spelling those wrong.)

This afternoon Doug and I will see and hear the Vocal Essence "welcome Christmas" program and then run over to the Xcel center to meet Kirsti and our friend Carolyn to hear the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Whew!

I don't like the snow coming down, though. I don't look forward to driving to Doug's in my little Acura for which I failed to get the new tires that are needed. Twice already this season I have skidded into an intersection (actually blaming those darned anti-lock brakes as well as the tires.) Fortunately no one was coming the other way at the time.

In the meantime, I've been totally consumed with the latest stages in the development of Mrs. Job. I have received the copy-editing review of the book and spent a couple of days going through it. It has to be done according to the Chicago Manual of Style so the copy-editing was really valuable. Of course, I really liked that the copy editor had very positive things to say about Mrs. Job, and most of the corrections were commas and semi-colons. She had a little trouble, even though I had warned her, with the "G" or "g" in "-od" depending on whether Mrs. Job was accepting Job's god as one among many or as the one true God. Ah-ha, have I tempted you to read the book when it finally comes out?

The copy-editing used a Word function I didn't even know I had. Click a blue arrow and it takes you to the next comment/correction. Click the check mark if you approve. Click the red x if you don't, then fix it and click the check mark. Amazing. Not like the days of stamp-licking.

Next we work on blurbs etc. for the back cover, proof-reading (I really can't imagine what that involves after the copy-editing,) and finally the cover. I'm really anxious to see what they do with that.

So, again I say HAPPY HOLIDAYS.

Karl Jung, King Lear, Mrs. Job, Mrs. Chapman, and the California fire

2008-11-20T12:27:00.000-08:00

I'm starting over again on this one. Lost my first try. And wouldn't you know it, 'cause that's basically my theme. Jung's "opposites." I'm sure it's not the way he would say it, but every once in a while I/we just have to yield to the opposite. Lately, that's what's been going on for me. I just want to retreat into passively reading and pull away from all that socially conscious activity. Oh, I can't really do that, and I have been following through on things that have already captured me. There's doing my share to get the write-a-thon going at church for Amnesty International, and a bit of follow through on our intention to establish some kind of restorative justice program at the Presbyterian church up the street from me. And meetings with students whose theses I'm advising.

Of course, I can't leave Mrs. Job behind. Right now (for a price) someone at iUniverse is examining her carefully to be sure she conforms to Chicago style. Next (for a fee) someone else will proofread her. I don't know how long it will take before I get feedback on that. Something in me -- perfectionism? the need to be right? -- had me going through her several times with a fine-toothed comb before sending her off on that next adventure. Not too bright, huh? I suppose it's like cleaning the house before the cleaning crew comes to be sure they don't find too much dirt, hoping, on the other hand, that they'll find something, so the money isn't paid out in vain. The next phase will be covers, front and back, and marketing. I've collected some really nice blurbs for that back cover. When will she be available for purchase? I don't know. Next time I'll be more knowledgeable about the process.

And why mention King Lear? Back when I was a Sophomore at Connecticut College (for Women, way back then) I got a B+ on my King Lear paper in the Shakespeare course, with the suggestion that I should become a Psychology major. I've never been sure whether that was a subtle put-down, but whatever, a psychologist I am and have been. But now, in pulling back, I've tried to act out the dream of sitting in a comfortable chair, reading for the fun of it. Of course, the first thing I do is fall asleep, but waking I have been doing some reading. I've have found that I can use Amazon.com's wish list to keep track of what I'm interested in getting to, and it does pay off for them, as in the gift certificate I got for my birthday. So, of the three I received recently, the first I opened was Paul Brians' Common Errors in English Usage. Amazingly, I didn't fall asleep. Instead, I spent an hour reading through from "a" through "d" of what is intended to be a reference book. I guess that's what happens when you've been raised in a family where dinner table conversation was about the use of language (along with some religion and a smattering of politics.) So, I'm thinking. maybe I am at heart an English major. But then I started in on Foster's How to Read Novels Like a Professor, and found myself reading only the first sentence of each paragraph. So much for being mis-directed by my Shakespeare teacher.

About Mrs. Chapman? -- My landlady when I taught at the University of Vermont and dated Lou. In fact, she was one of the three non-family members at our little wedding. Somehow I thought she would go on forever being my Vermont friend, but on October 23 she died at home at the age of 100 after a brief illness of three weeks. I miss her.

Life is a journey, and I feel a little sad about the fact that my parents will never get to see the DVD my son-in-law is putting together of photos from the 1955 trip I took with them to Sweden and Denmark, complete with reading from my mother's diary. Sometimes I wish I believed they were still watching my life here.

And the California fires? I'm happy to say that my friend in Santa Barbara escaped damage to her home, though it hit pretty close to her.

Oh yes, How is it that I have this time to retreat from the world? It turns out that one of the first places people save money when there's a downturn in the economy is on "luxuries" like visits to a psychologist. Here's where one of Lou's sayings comes into play. "Turn a Defeat into a Victory." And so, I'll enjoy this down time before the holidays arrive.

A Wave of Calm

2008-11-03T14:55:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is the day. You who know me well are aware that I've been pretty neurotic about this whole thing. I don't know when anything has seemed more important to me than this election. I really believe it is a major determinant of our nation's direction. But today, listening in the car to the CD of Friedmans "Hot, Flat, and Crowded," I realized that the direction for the future is inevitable no matter who's elected. In focusing on reducing our addiction to oil - which we have no choice but to do - we'll be tapping into all the other important issues: climate change, rational foreign relations, potential for peaceful solutions, economic growth and justice, poverty reduction, and even women's protection. Did I miss anything?

And listening to discussions on public radio, it seems clear that real gaps in our education system have been revealed in the work-up to these elections. I mean -- real gaps, not just passing standardized tests. Out of that recognition I hope there will come some real solutions. I think of my brilliant CC classmates who couldn't share their knowledge in the public schools because they hadn't taken "methods" courses. People like them could contribute so much! I know, 'cause I remember finding excitement in American History sitting in the sand at Ocean Beach learning from my friend Justine. And when it comes to college, call me old fashioned, but I powerlessly rebelled during my teaching career as the curriculum moved away from basics during the first two years and into premature (I thought) commitment to a major. Oh,oh. I could go on...

There's more on the positive side: what excitement this campaign period has engendered! It's been awful, but the excitement and commitment in itself is a blessing.

Oh, let's not forget Tina Fay. Think what it will do for Tina's career if Palin is elected. I'm glad for Tina, though, that she has so much talent, 'cause I'm not voting for her Palin future.

In the meantime, I'll keep plugging away at what I do. That includes scraping, scouring, and scrubbing at Lisa and Jan's lovely new/old home in Williamsburg, VA, last week and getting Mrs. Job ready for the next round.

All in all, life is good. And thanks for all of you who continue to accept this blog from me.

But I am very sad that Obama's grandmother didn't survive to see the outcome of this election. Sometimes life has strange timing.

I'm excited about "Mrs. Job"

2008-10-23T13:47:00.000-07:00

OK, I'm claiming bragging rights, but I'm flying high about the publisher's evaluation of Mrs. Job: "This is a wonderful and unique presentation that should find a strong audience. This reviewer has never seen a work based on the perspective of Job's wife despite the myriad of studies completed on the life of Job. The way the author portrays her and Job in relation to her is fascinating and engaging." Oh, and there's more: "It's easy to feel an emotional connection to Dara and to Job; the author's professed love for both characters is evident and readers will share that feeling. Overall the characters are wonderfully crafted and believable."

Please forgive me while I preen. (or is that reserved only for male birds.)

And speaking of forgiveness, I just got word of good stuff that came of someone's reading "Forgiving One Page at a Time." Real forgiveness followed as the person described "I got it. It's really down to earth and practical, and I got it."

OK. Now back to preparing for whatever comes of November 4.

6% for the governor

2008-10-19T07:59:00.000-07:00

I finished my purchase and the salesperson added, "and 6% for the governor." How hard would it be to speak the truth: "6% for the health, safety, and well-being of our community?" Call me naive, but I wonder where the money to repair the collapsed 35W bridge or to prevent further collapse is supposed to come from? Or the money for the police and fire vehicles I hear regularly sirening their way north or south on highway 41 visible from my kitchen window. Or support of our schools which should be the best we can offer our children. Or keeping our land free of pollution. Or solutions to the problems of homelessness and starvation.

Maybe it's because I've been around so long, but I can remember when we pulled together as a community to make life better for all of us. Did it take the horror of WWII to do that, following up on the disaster of the "great" depression? Do we have some kind of objection to peaceful progress?

'Nuff said for today.

I'm excited about "Mrs. Job"

2008-10-16T06:23:00.000-07:00

I found a clergy person willing to read my Mrs. Job manuscript. I admit, I was excited and scared. After all, she is steeped in Biblical history. She could have nicely told me that I had strayed too far from the Biblical source, or from the reality of life in the desert, or that the writing was dull. Instead, she called to tell me that she didn't just like it; she loved it. She said more good stuff, but I don't know that it's appropriate to repeat that until she puts it in writing herself. She said she'll write a blurb for me for the back cover.

Based on a recent e-mail, I should soon be receiving the editorial evaluation from iUniverse, the publisher. That might turn out to be a downer. Who knows? But for now I'm going to bask in the pleasure.

Thinking About the Day of my Birth

2008-10-16T06:00:00.001-07:00

OK. I can't pass myself off as 65 any more. (As if I ever could once I passed 66) But I feel an intense need to be open about my birthday coming up on October 28. Among other things, I find myself thinking a lot about my mother as an intensely pregnant woman anxious to get me out into the world. My big sister points out that Mother was carrying me in an optimistic time. The family's new home in Forestville, Connecticut, was being completed and would be ready to occupy a month after my birth. The headlines in the New York Herald Tribune were: "Briand Takes Post As Socialists Join Radical in Cabinet. (That was referring to French politics); "Connecticut Tariff Lobby Called Greedy;" "Scientist Checks Cancer Cells After Growth in Living Tissues;" "Coudert Puts 337 Murders Up to Banton: 190 Slayings Last Year Without Penalty in Manhattan Alone, Says opponent of Justice Grain;" "LaGuardia Trend Spurs Republican Final-Week Drive." Oh, and by the way, a lesser headline was, "Mussolini Calls Fascism Perfect at Celebration."

The next day, October 29, 1929, the major headline was "Stocks Decline Heavily, Erasing All Year's Gains; Buying Near, Say Banks." And then the sub-headlines, "Market Support Ready, Bankers' Meeting Hears," and under that, "Heavy Purchasing by Investment Trusts Expected to Stabilize Stock Values Is View of Spokesman After Session in Morgan Office."

Been there? Done that? It's feeling almost spooky.

Friends and the Bright Shadow

2008-09-30T07:56:00.000-07:00

I have just had such a wonderful conversation with my friend Edie Crawford in Connecticut that my thoughts are tumbling all over themselves. Edie is the kind of friend who looks at her phone ID and answers with a hearty "Mona , my dear." Now mind you, it's been two or three years since we last talked, but it might have been yesterday. I called with a question about the Shadow as it relates to the current election process, and ended up with wonderful insights into therapy, and just plain living. Edie is my Jungian guru, but she says she's moved on to an appreciation of Behavior Therapy.

Here's the wonderful new emphasis she shared -- the "Bright Shadow." I love it, because it legitimizes my focus on reaching for the positive in every client. The Shadow, if you've forgotten, is that unconscious collection of stuff we don't want to admit into consciousness. Traditionally we tend to think of it as evil or, for some, the metaphorical devil. The typical therapy of the past, Edie points out, has tended to strengthen that negative side as people are encouraged to keep reaching for and talking about what has gone wrong in their lives, so often developing the witch side of mothers, and/or the negativity of fathers.

But, she suggests, for many, if not most, of us, what we've submerged is our positive side -- the positive Shadow -- the "Bright Shadow." (I can't help being aware specifically of my own Swedish Lutheran background which discourages "bragging about" the good in ourselves and encourages the admission of sin.) Traditional therapy has not only discouraged the emergence of the "Bright Shadow," but has actually empowered the forces that repress it. Here's where appreciation of the behaviorist approach comes in. What we've been doing is building up the part of the brain that supports the negative view of ourselves and our lives. To put it differently, we've been encouraged to conserve and strengthen our old fashioned brain waves. The key then, becomes helping to remove the blockages that prevent seeing our positives. Edie says she has become very straightforward about that. Just realize when you start going over what you regret doing, or the pain that's been inflicted by others, that you are strengthening a part of yourself that you'd do better to weaken.

Edie pointed out the connection of the "Bright Shadow" to my forgiveness work. Especially when it comes to self-forgiveness, be aware that on the other side of regret is its opposite, optimistic hope. That seems to me to be a key, just to know that the opposite of regret is there for you to draw on, and you'll make the job easier by making the effort to stop rehearsing the negative. Edie and I have both been through divorce, so she referred to the tendency which we shared, at one point, to suddenly think, as we went through our day, "What did I do wrong that I didn't save the marriage?" or the tendency as parents to think "What damage did I cause my children with the way I parented them?" Stop and take yourself to the positive side -- the good times, the good things you tried, the good efforts you made.

OK. Just a sampler. We can certainly do this as we look at other people who distress and annoy us -- maybe especially during this pre-election time. What is the good side? ( Polyanna? I never did understand why people were so opposed to her. )