I Love Dark Chocolate, But I Prefer a Sweet Life

My husband just posted this quote on his Facebook page:

"Having faith in G-d means having faith in other people, and the measure of our righteousness lies in how many people we value, not in how many we condemn." Rabbi Sachs, Great Britain

I'll discuss faith in God in another post. Right now, I'd like to take a look at the end of the quote, 'how many people we value, not in how many we condemn.'

It's sort of a 'do you view the cup as half-empty, or half-full' type of thing, and I think
it's a good measure of a person's character, and a guideline for each of us to use as a springboard for self-evaluation.

Lately, I've been coming across articles, letters, and editorials in all sorts of forums and publications that talk about how good manners, graciousness, and respect seem be falling by the wayside. Some say it's a symptom of the failing economy, others attribute it to a lack of parenting skills, and others say it's yet another result of the 'me generation.'

People complain about fellow travelers who cut in line, throw tantrums when their demands and/or expectations aren't met, and who generally behave as if they are the only ones who matter at any moment.

I've read of incidents involving a shameless lack of respect and compassion for the very young, for the elderly, and for the infirm.

Personally, I've noticed an alarming rise in people on eBay who accompany unreasonable demands with threats of leaving bad feedback, or of filing falsified claims of bad or deceptive services to the eBay 'authorities.'

I shake my head at all of these, and wonder is it that people don't want to get along, or is it that they don' t know how to?

We've all interacted with people who seem bitter with the world, who just seem to be brimming with anger. Many years ago, I had a small blow up at a friend, and when I had finished my little tantrum, he calmly asked me, 'so, do you feel better now?'

Over the years, his words have often echoed in my head, and I used to work at moving to the 'feel better now' stage without needing to throw the tantrum first. But, a couple of years ago, I decided that I wanted to get to a place in life where I didn't need the anger at all.

It seemed like an impossible goal, but it turned out to be easier than I ever imagined.

For brevity's sake, I'll jot down a short list of how I maintain a state of calmness, happiness, and acceptance:

• I meditate daily, at least once a day, but if I feel under stress, I'll add another round or two. I've found that even just a few minutes of meditation is often all I need.
• I tell myself to smile! I walk around with a smile on my face (and in my heart), and a bounce to my step.
• I avoid people who have 'negative energy'- people who are always complaining, who can't or won't find a positive spin to a situation, or to life itself.
• I never hesitate to lend a helping hand, a kind word, or a hug of support.
  
• If I find myself in a difficult situation, I take a deep breath, brush off all negative thoughts, and then leap in to the challenge.

As I mentioned in a previous post, besides opening my eyes each morning with smiling expectations, I've experienced impressive improvements in my health, not only in my blood pressure, but also in every recent lab test.

I feel a sense of pity for people who can't shake off their anger and bitterness. I know men in their 60's who seem to revel in feelings of anger toward their parents. When I tried talking to them about it, asking them why at their age they didn't want to work through their feelings, they looked at me in confusion. They seemed to identify so strongly with that anger that they couldn't imagine separating from it.

I wonder: Are people who hold onto such intense anger toward another person expressing a sense of self anger? If you haven't found peace with yourself, can you feel peacefully toward another? (Yes- it seems like such 'psycho-pop', especially if that anger is being directed toward a parent. And if you groaned at that, just wait until you read my next paragraph..)

Taking a leap, and reflecting again on what I talked about in my 'Quest, and the Game of Life' post-

If on a personal level, we can't find peace within ourselves...if we can't show love and respect and compassion to others...if we approach life as a competition we have to win... then what chance is there for peace in the world?

Getting back to the quote from Rabbi Sachs, wouldn't it be lovely if we chose to speak highly of others, rather than to disparage them? When I was little, our rabbi's wife literally never had an unkind word about anyone. She could be talking about an extremely physically unattractive person, but by the way she described them, you would think they were a beauty queen. I had to grow up a bit to realize that she was talking about inner beauty, but I know that even at a young age I was in awe of the respect she showed for others. I'm still in awe of her, and every year, I strive harder to model even a small part of myself after her.

As my husband and daughter-in-law (and now myself) like to say, it's easy to be nice. And it makes a world of difference

Facebook Demons

I edited my Facebook profile a couple of days ago, and I’m surprised at how much better I feel. I’ve written about Facebook in a previous post- I mentioned how reaching out to former classmates had little appeal to me, mainly because I didn’t have fond memories of my school days.

When I signed up for Facebook, I listed my high school, and, as I wrote previously, did so with trepidation, concerned that I might be contacted by former classmates. A few did ask to add me as friends (one erroneously, it turns out!), and now one of them occasionally posts comments on my Facebook wall.

-Disclaimer/warning to that friend- Please do not take what I’m about to write personally. Well, I guess there’s no way you couldn’t take it personally, so let me rephrase that: Please understand that I’m writing about me, not you, and about my neurosis. I mean you no ill will.

What precipitated my revising my profile was a comment this friend wrote to an update I posted about how I had managed in a meeting I attended. Her comment was along the lines of that as she had known me since I was four years old, she had no doubt that I had managed quite well, and could do so under any similar circumstances.

You may be thinking, ‘What’s the big deal? So an old friend chuckled that you don’t seem to have changed much over the years.’

It turns out that it was a bit of an issue for me. Not that I’ve actively tried to change my personality, or to escape my past, but I found it irritating that someone I’ve had little contact with in over 40 years was making assumptions about me based on childhood interactions.

I mean- FORTY years! Are our adult personalities reflections of our personalities at the age of 4 or 14? Is there no room or hope for change and growth?

Why the heck was this bothering me so much?

I turned to my husband for advice and reflection.

“It’s simple,” he said. “It’s like why I always order vanilla ice cream- it brings back fond memories. Good memories make you want to seek out the past.”

“Aha!” (Yes, I actually said, ‘aha’!). “That’s a great way of explaining that I don’t seek out old classmates because I don’t have good school memories. But why am I having issues with her comment?”

“Because it is a bit ridiculous to think that you are the same person you were when you were a kid. And it’s presumptuous for someone to assume you are.”

[Um- wait. I think those were my words. I think what he said was that he could understand that I would be irritated that someone would assume that I hadn’t changed. He never actually said that I hadn’t changed, though ……]

After mulling it over for a couple more days, I finally decided that the only way I was going to get any peace over this was to delete the reference of my high school from my profile. Now I wouldn’t have to fret over old classmates finding me in a Facebook search.

Of course, it hasn’t put to rest the issue of why I took umbrage at her comment. But that’s OK. Reflection leads to growth and change. And that’s something I embrace.

Rest in Peace

My father is buried in a small cemetery in northern New Jersey, not far from the house where I grew up. The cemetery is off a busy street, surrounded on three sides by houses, stores, and office buildings. But even though it's not at all isolated, the minute you step through the gates of the cemetery, you are surrounded by quiet. The edges of the cemetery have been planted with trees and bushes, shielding it from view of the houses, and serving as a sound barrier from any street noise. His grave is shaded by a large tree, and the area beyond is dark and grassy.

Whenever I visit my father's grave, I feel like I'm standing alone in a forest. It's a lush sanctuary, and I find myself lingering, not rushing to step back through the gates and into my car.

My father died when I was seven, and he was in and out of the hospital for years before then, so I never really got to know him. Yet, I harbor fond memories of him, and carry pictures of him in my head. When I'm at his graveside, I talk to him a bit, wishing him well, and catch him up on my life. I'm not sure why I do it, but I find it comforting, and I in some way I guess finding that comfort allows me to feel a closeness to him that we never were able to share while he was alive.

Last year my mother passed away. She's buried in a cemetery at the entrance to Jerusalem, overlooking the main highway to Tel Aviv. I can see the cemetery from my terrace- it fills a mountainside, with graves painting the hilltop a soft beige. In recent years, the municipality has been building multi-level parking garage like structures to house the ever increasing numbers of newly departed.

It's a sanctuary of a different sort- there are still remnants of the forest that covered the mountain, and many of the older areas of the cemetery retain that forest feel, but most of the graves are atop hills or flat structures, with no trees to offer shelter from the blazing sun or biting wind. A faint roar of the highway is ever present, and there are always people in the cemetery, driving its twisting roads, in search of or returning from a loved one's grave.

Still, the cemetery offers its own feeling of solitude. Maybe it's the graves stretching on end, or the breathtaking views of the Jerusalem hills... or maybe it's a comfort in numbers that fills the flat, grave-filled expanses with a heavy silence.

The youngest of four children by several years, and the only daughter, I always had a close, intense relationship with my mother. We didn't always get along, but our love was deep, true, and loyal.
I married when I was 18, but my mother was always an integral part of my, my husband's, and my son's life. We opened our home to her without hesitation when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and cared for her for the last five years of her life.

My mom hasn't been gone long, so visits to her grave always make me cry. I miss her, and I find myself stroking her tombstone. I dawdle, not because of a lush sanctuary, but because I still long to hold her in my arms, to caress her hand, and to see her smiling eyes.

My memories of my father are fielded in a soft haze of long-ago. I remember him as a quiet man, his body wracked with pain, love for his children filling his life.

Memories of my mother, however, are filled with a bustling energy that seemed to have no end. My mother taught until she was 85, and recanted stories of her students for years after.

Through no plan, their resting places wound up reflecting their lives:

Visits to my father's grave are filled with quiet, broken only by the sound of birds in the trees, the paths to his graveside are of random stones laid in thick grass. One whispers there, understanding that a raised voice would be unforgivingly out of place.

My mother's grave is out in the open, views far and wide, the rush of sound and energy all around. People talk loudly, and fill the roads and paths. Death here is a part of life, not to be hidden or hushed.

What a wonderful gift, that they each rest in a place that will forever fill us with memories of how they lived their lives, and how they undoubtedly would want to be remembered.