“A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.”

― George Bernard Shaw

THE BATTLE BEGINS AGAIN

In 1973, Abortion became legal in the United States. Generations of women have grown into their reproductive lives since that time. These women have come to regard access to abortion services as the norm. They've never worried that an unintended pregnancy would mean no option to choose what path their life would take. This has been the gift of Roe v Wade.

When Candace De Puy and I wrote our book, The Healing Choice, we interviewed hundreds of women, many of whom found themselves pregnant before abortion was legal. For them, an unwanted pregnancy was a full-on crisis. How would they secure a safe abortion? Who would they turn to? Would they leave their state or the country? Would it be a back alley abortion? Would it be a coat hanger abortion on the kitchen table? Would they even survive it?

Now, once again, we are facing a wake-up-call. Once again, our government, run largely by men, is interfering with our reproductive lives by attempting to withhold, control and dictate how women will take charge of their bodies. By turning the clock back on both our birth control options and our right to obtain safe and legal abortions, politicians are inserting themselves into the private lives of women . . . and of men as well. For every pregnant woman, there is a man, perhaps a very good man, whose life will be changed depending upon whether birth control or access to safe abortion services are available.

If you are not alarmed, you should be. Just the notion that this conversation is happening, must get your attention. This discussion is not about rich women versus poor women. This is about all women. Your body has, once again, become the possession of men in power.

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You Are Your Home.........

The Cactus Wren is the State Bird of Arizona, where I live.   At 7 to 9 inches tall, he (or she) is the largest Wren in the United States.   He's a very handsome bird, decorated in fancy stripes and speckles and with a sleek body and a pointy hunter's beak.   He's also very noisy, with a kind of char-char-char-char call rather than a sweet song.   So, it's nice that he's so pretty......

I discovered the Wren's nest before I met the bird.  [See nest below.]  It was impressive! Snuggled and stuffed into the arms of a Jumping Cholla cactus, I wasn't sure how this delicate birdie had managed to craft an amazing nest without impaling himself on the cactus needles.  But, obviously, he had done so and, with his mate, lived to raise a family who had survived growing up in a home wedged into a pin cushion.  Amazing.

A few days after I spotted the nest, I went back with my camera.   I walked right up to the obviously abandoned nest to take a picture when, suddenly, and I mean SUDDENLY, a Wren popped out and gave me what can only be described as "the look."  I jumped back and kinda shrieked.  He cut out and flew to a tree across the street from which he proceeded to lecture me, "char-char-char-char," until I took my picture and backed off.    

I became attached to this little Wren after that first encounter.   

The Cactus Wren doesn't abandon her (or his) home after the kids have gone.  It's built to last for more than a season, unlike some other birds who craft disposable nests which look like the kids have trashed it and moved out.  The Cactus Wren's nest is sturdy and engineered for another brood, or just to be a secure place for hanging out.   To me, the Wren expressed a real pride of ownership.  

I've lived in many homes since leaving my family home.   I've tried to make each one a nest, (even when doing so with meager funds) a place where the inside felt safe from the outside.   Over the years, I've discovered that this urge says something about me.  I've also learned that how each one of us creates, shapes and defines our living space says something about who we are at a given moment in time.  If we reflect back upon where and how we've lived, we can catch a glimpse of where we've been and where we are now, and of who we've been and who we've become.  And with this perspective on our history, we can chart a course forward with insight and wisdom.  Hopefully, along the way, our nests improve, becoming more sturdy . . . as we do.

I like that the Cactus Wren takes the idea of home seriously.   He or she is one solid dude or dudette.  

Magic Time......

Through the gate in my yard sits this little sprite.   He knows that, just on the other side of the fence is a feeder, always filled, always ready.    He doesn't fly away while I'm taking his portrait.   I wonder if he knows that I'm the one supplying him with nectar.   I wonder if he has been watching me in the garden as carefully as I've been watching him.   Maybe we've forged a relationship in secret.

It takes a while to build trust.  It can't be rushed.   Friendships happen slowly over time.  And then, like magic, we can be together and neither of us flies away.  

A summer monsoon......She's a comin'!

The air is pure velvet. A whisper of thunder, and sparks of electricity dance across the sky. The wind is moving the clouds in.  We sit outside . . . wondering . . . where have the wild animals gone for safety?  Now, waiting for the blessed rain to kiss the desert.  It is only excitement and calm.  

NOW IT'S UP TO YOU AND ME

America was forged by men and women who voiced their convictions and beliefs.   No pussy footing.  No beating around the bush.   These were tough folks who fought for their principles and ethics.  And, when they had won, they drafted a document which eloquently represented the ideology which became our country.   Their words were carefully and deliberately chosen.   Their language was sophisticated and elegant.   No tweets.

We’ve come a long way since then.   We’ve become a generation of softies.  Rather than state our strongly held convictions in civilized words as befitting a country that supposedly believes in education and intellect, we do the opposite.   We stand back and watch as Trump mocks, bullies, antagonizes, hurls insults and pulverizes the dignity of our country.  He acts in ways we would never ever tolerate from our children. 

We know that Donald Trump isn’t well.  We know that he is mentally unstable.   This isn’t a political statement and it’s not an opinion.  I, and 3,000 other mental health practitioners, made this pronouncement and signed our names to a manifesto.   Some went on to diagnose him and were accused of being unprofessional, rather than being thanked for sharing their years of knowledge and clinical expertise.

In a dysfunctional family, the least healthy person sets the tone.  Typically, everyone adjusts to their dance because it just feels easier.   But, over time, the family begins to feel sick, on edge, exhausted and fearful.  Sound familiar?   In a sick family, the members speak in bizarrely protective terms we call Denial.  They cover for the ill person.  They explain away his behavior.   They don’t look at the forest, they focus on each tree as a little event which isn’t a big deal.   But, when put together, all those little trees create a forest of diseased thinking which can lead to dangerous outcomes.  

As we slog forward into this presidency, and as Trump’s mean spirited, deregulated, unhinged nastiness continues, more people are coming out of denial.  They’re worried that this unstable behavior is actually who Trump REALLY is.   He’s not a man off his A-Game simply because he is not a career politician.   No.  He’s not on his A-Game because he has no A-Game.   And he never did.

All one has to do is go back over Trump’s work and social history to see that he has always been unstable.  The facts have never been hidden.   It’s just that millions of voters made excuses for Trump because they fell in love with the idea of him and forgot the truth about him.   And now, this sick person holds the greatest position of power over our collective American family.  

Just as in a sick family, worried voters, journalists and politicians have been censoring themselves rather than authentically addressing and vocalizing their concerns.  Yes, they may be discretely talking behind closed doors.  But what good is that?   Some of us might be  sending texts and tweets, but that’s mere venting.  That’s not building reasoned arguments.  It’s emotional blurting towards nothing.  We didn’t learn that strategy from our Founding Fathers, that’s for sure.

As much as we point the finger at Trump, we need take a serious look at our own conspiratorial actions.   Haven’t we, in our silence, become part of the problem?  Haven’t we suppressed our ethics?  Haven’t we lost our courage?  Will we look back in four years with shame as we realize that we stood silently by and betrayed our convictions, beliefs and mental health?

Our current American family has a father figure who is suffering from mental illness.   We can (1) decide to protect our daddy and hope he will get his shit together, or (2) we can take action, knowing that a diseased parent will leave us kids feeling beat up, embarrassed, ashamed and even put us in harms way.   If we opt for #2, we must break our personal silence.   Remember, secrecy is the hallmark of the dysfunctional family.  If you think watching a damaged family go down in flames is terrifying,  consider the results as a country suffers abuse at the hands of a deranged president/father. 

If you are waiting for Trump to change, fuggedaboutit.  Too late.   He’s proven that.   The “experts” thought that he would rise to the job.  No way.  Take it from a therapist, people change who are highly motivated to change.  That’s not this guy.

We need to find our guts and harness the energy and mission of our founding “good” fathers and mothers, the ones who tried to build a functional family called America.   Only by letting our communal denial fall away, will we muster our courage and find our voices. Then we will see this American family change.

You think your voice doesn’t matter?   Think again.

 

 

 

5:00am

The desert sun is up at 5 am.  BRIGHT!  Shining.  Blue blue blue sky.  I look at the clock, expecting to see 7:30.   But it's not 7:30 or 6:30!  Even the dogs are confused since we've moved here.  The early daybreak has thrown off our inner clocks, especially our pee and poop clocks.  The insistent ["GET UP!"] morning light gets us all started.   And, once we are up, we are up for the day.  

The morning wake up call of the desert is nature's way of taking care of us.   Come mid-afternoon, it will be too hot for any out-of-doors activity.   So, life begins early.  Really early.   Harnessed and leashed up, we all head out for a walk.

Life on the arroyo is not dried up and dead.   This is a different kind of desert.   It's home to birds and snakes, Javelina (kind of big stinky pigs), coyote, desert deer and jack rabbit.   Walking the path at daybreak is a feast of smells for our citified dogs.   Stepping out the front door, noses go up, twitching and inhaling a nightlife of activity they missed out on.  Stepping onto the path that runs along the arroyo, snouts hit the ground, breathing in the dung, hoof and paw tracks of the midnight traffic.   Maybe they feel their ancient wolf DNA and yearn to be prowling with their wild kinfolk . . . but then, on our way back home,  our fierce domesticated mutts remember their yummy snacks and squishy beds inside the house.  

Late last night I sat on the patio.   I could hear the rustling of critters.  With dog-ish curiosity,  I scooted inside to snatch my flashlight, wanting to call out, "Who goes there!?" --- like I'm the guard of a medieval castle.   But no glistening eyes, no shadows of beasts, no one looking back at me, only silence . . . until I sit back down.   Then, again, the rustling.   Then, again, flashlight on. Then, again, silence.   "Okay," I told  the mysterious ones, "I get it.  It's your time to prowl and my time to floss."  

Nature has her clock.   If we pay attention and let her guide us, we fall into her perfect order.   The sun comes up, and we move with it.   The sun goes down and, as we creep into bed, another world comes alive, a world we are not meant to be a part of.   It takes so little to read nature's map.   Nature doesn't hide her agenda, not like people do.   She's utterly transparent.   A lesson there.  

 

Jack Rabbit

We were in the process of moving into our desert house last week.  Unpacking boxes. . . endlessly.   Feeling excited and feeling pissed because that’s what moving is.  

“Get out of here!  Go away!! Scat!”   Looking out the window I saw him, hightailing it out of the neighbor’s yard.   He was three times bigger than your fuzzy Peter Rabbit style bunny and had a hop like a rabbit long jumper.    

“Come here, quick!”  I yelled across the house.   Elliot came running, as if he didn’t have a bad back, probably afraid that I had dropped a box on my foot or, worse yet, on the dog.  “Look at that!  What the hell is that?”  

“Jeez, that rabbit needs a saddle!” he said.  

We decided that this handsome, lanky, lean critter was a Jackrabbit. Obviously, he had been grazing on the neighbor’s potted flowers and was caught, red pawed, in the act.   I immediately loved him for his raw chutzpah.  

Each day over the last week I kept an eye out for him, catching a glimpse every now and then.    It never occurred to me that there might be more than one giant rabbit.   Instead, I chose (and have continued) to imagine that there’s one special “Jack” roaming in the scrub outside my back door. 

Yesterday afternoon Jack was back.  Preoccupied with his search for nibbles, he didn’t hear me whisper (actually plead) “Please just stay!,” while I ran for my camera.   By the time I got back, Jack had made his way several yards down the path and was busy munching beneath one of the lacy desert trees, which bring shade to the arroyo. 

Unfazed, he sat and had his lunch.  I watched, keeping a respectful distance, aware that Jack had worked hard to find this restaurant.   I felt like a lucky paparazzo and, oddly, he reminded me of Madonna. . .slightly austere, with a haughty vibe and great muscle tone. 

I am a scientific thinker, but I’m also deeply sentimental, and I willingly float down rivers of mystery and wonder.   I believe that animals invite us into their world and, when they do and when we accept the invitation, we are likely to experience something rare, nearly mystical.    

I have told Jack not to plan on eating my flowers.   But I have silently let him know, in pure rabbit talk, that I am happy to provide lettuce. . .if he’ll accept my invitation.  

FINDING COMMUNITY

Walk down this road and you’ll find yourself on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT).  If you’re game for the whole 2,659 mile hike, you can hoof it from the U.S. border with Mexico all the way to Canada.   Reese Witherspoon pretended to do it in the movie Wild, based on Cheryl Strayed’s real life slog. 

I got to know the PCT travelers when I lived in the mountain town of Idyllwild, the first stop where the PCT’s can pick up mail, have a shower, collapse in a real bed and either head home doing the hike-of-shame or revive and trek on.  

I became pretty good at telling the newbie hikers from the pros.  They'd descend upon the town in the spring, like exotic migrating butterflies whose colorful wings were replaced with bright scarves and parkas, knit caps and sun hats.  And, like newly hatched butterflies, some were energetic and buoyant as they drifted around, while others were pathetically saggy, hardly any flutter left in them at all. 

The hikers would usually hang out for a few days before heading out again.  They'd converge at one of the local coffee houses in the morning, carbo loading and chugging coffee, wearing Patagonia or North Face for utilitarian purposes rather than for style, like me.  (This actually made me feel self-conscious.  Wearing “new” mountain gear in the mountains is an immediate impostor-poser giveaway to real sports folk.  It’s like wearing an Armani suit to a weenie roast.)

Watching the hiker gangs reminded me of being a kid at camp, bonding with strangers through a common experience.  They were insiders in the same club.  They were inclusive.  Age, race, skill didn’t seem to matter.  Instead, dedication to a shared goal was numero uno.  How they offered an “all-for-one and one-for-all” kind of support was something to envy.   Watching it made me sad.

In childhood, groups come together in good spirit as part of daily life:  scouts and sports teams in the park, slumber party pals and tree house club buddies.    But for adults?  Not so much.

If you think you’ve changed since you were a kid hanging out with your buds, you’re wrong.   And you know it.  You can feel it.  Most adults I know are hungry for contact.  You’re the same, just bigger.  You still want to be with your peeps, relishing the unmistakable feeling of being totally understood. 

Those experiences come out of groups.  In adulthood, people sometime secure that bond through hardship.  Alcoholics Anonymous, cancer support or grief groups offer an essential nest for healing in the presence of others just like us.  

But the kind of coming together I’m talking about is the kind we knew as little squirts.   It’s the kind the Pacific Crest Trailers share.   And, it’s the kind which science has suggested will make us live longer and healthier lives.

Journalist and author Dan Buettner wrote about the Blue Zones, areas on the planet where people live to advanced age in astonishingly good mental and physical health.   “Community,” according to Buettner, is one the 9 elements supporting this super duper quality of life.   He found that people who thrive in their older years have daily contact with others.   They might be friends, grandchildren, people in one’s village, town or city.   And it’s more than stimulation, it’s the experience of mattering, being “a part of,” belonging, feeling valued.  

I’ve recently moved to a new community.  I’m on the hunt for a vital group hang with my peeps.  I’m starting with, no pun intended, Sunday morning bird watching.      

 

 

 

 

 

Horizon Line

I commute to work by plane.  No, not as a pilot.   As a weekly passenger from Arizona to California on Southwest Airlines.   It’s ridiculous.   I know it’s ridiculous because, when I tell people, they stare at me like “Are you out of your mind?!” or they say “Are you out of your mind?!”   

I don’t like flying.   

Like so many adults, I remember the crazy thrill of airplane trips as a kid.   Looking out of the window, amazed by what I saw from way, way, way, up in the air.  Lakes and farm grids, mountains and city lights.   Flight wasn’t dangerous to my 8 year old self.  Being in a little tube in the sky, soaring above the planet, was magical, not maniacal!

Somewhere in my 4th decade, probably when I began to feel existential about life (that I didn’t just have a reproductive clock,  I also had a life clock), the idea of soaring above the planet in a tube seemed really stupid…but also essential if one needed to get from geographic Point A to Point B over a long distance and quickly.    

I refused to become a neurotic non-flyer, one of those people who never traveled because they were too freaked out to fly.   My best solution was to get a window seat so I could control the shades.   I would settle into my seat and close the shades, so I didn’t have to deal with the reality of the space between the plane and the earth … otherwise known as death.   I could lull myself into temporary denial and even enjoy the free juice and twelve free peanuts.  

Today was a typical flight day.   I grabbed my window seat, buckled up,  popped in my earbuds and set up my Podcasts.   I closed the shades and my eyes.  Ready to relax.    Then, making it’s way through the protective shield of my earbuds, like the distant voice of the nurse waking you from the comfort of twilight sleep after a colonoscopy,  I heard:  “Excuse me. Ummm.  Excuse me.”    I opened my eyes, uncorked one ear and opened one eye.  “Could you please open the shades?  I feel better if I can see the horizon line.”

She was 19 years old, sweet, proper and vocal about the fear we both shared, but with a totally different coping strategy.   

I immediately responded like a caring mother and, with total confidence, said,  “Oh, of course!”   I flipped open the shades with a fake casual flick of the wrist as if I’d made a mistake by closing them.  Now we could both gaze out the windows to the horizon line and, from my seat, to the ground way, way, way, below.  My fellow traveler sat back with a nervous exhale.  I gave her a reassuring smile and a maternal arm squeeze which seemed to say, “I’ll take care of you.”   

What was I thinking?!  I could hear snotty brain voices firmly refusing her request.  “Sorry, I was here first.”  “Sorry, I prefer the shades down.”   “Sorry, I want to sleep.”   “It’s Southwest Airlines, get another seat!”  But that’s not me.  I’m a habitual helper by default and a therapist by trade.  A lethal combo plate.   Plus,  I had no bad excuse nor good excuse.  Shades up or shades down, reality was reality, and a little window wasn’t changing the facts:  (1) tube high in the sky (2) earth below.   

Flying together towards some certain or uncertain fate, we began to share.  (Conversation also kept me from looking out the window.)  My companion was just starting out on her journey in life.   She was a freshman in college, far from home and just finding her way.   She explained that she had long suffered from anxiety but was doing a pretty good job at managing it.  Flying, she explained, was scary.  (I nodded.)   She liked to keep an eye on the horizon line to let her know that things were level, stable, heading in the right direction.   No head-in-the-sand style for this kid.  She was dealing with her anxiety head on.  She was doing exactly what I’d coach any client to do…..step up and face the fear.

We both turned back into our worlds, she to her iPad and games and I to my earbuds.   I sat in silence, listening to nothing, just thinking.   I thought about centuries of travelers moving toward a destination and guided by the sun, the constellations, by landmarks on a distant horizon line.  My little buddy was an able explorer of the outer and inner worlds.

The shades were not coming down, so I looked out,  all the way home.    

 

Chalk

“For in every adult there dwells the child that was, and in every child there lies the adult that will be.” 

― John Connolly

I happened upon an unintentional gift today. Someone's heart and joy, left for me right there, on the sidewalk. I remember my own bucket of chalks. Is it too late to indulge again?

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These Boots

“Walking through life, we spend most of our energy choosing the right shoes.” 

― Ljupka Cvetanova

I grew up riding horses.  
The first one was a pony. Charlie. He was my buddy, even tho' he tossed me on my butt dozens of times.
The second one was a rescued circus horse named Boots. He was going to be dog food until my dad saved him at an auction. I loved him more than the pony. He was a beautiful palomino. We spent hours together. He moved me through my rugged teen years with care and snorts....

Then I left home for college.

In my living room is the saddle from those days. It sits, like a piece of art and heart, along with several bridles. 

Today, unplanned, I bought boots.  
I tried on 30 pairs. I chose classic cowgirl boots. 
Clearly, my feet are looking for a horse.....because they remember that kind of happy.

 

 

Heart, Mind and Immigration

Months ago, before the election but after Trump was nominated, I began to post about his mental instability. Pro-Trumpers were angry. They pounded their fists with the "But Hillary is worse!" argument. Some accused me of being a negligent therapist when I labeled Trump as pathological, as a narcissist, even a sociopath. They thought I was out of line because I hadn't seen him as a client in my office. I'm sure that if I agreed that Hillary was evil, they'd have applauded my insight, my wisdom, my clinical expertise. I thought: These folks are fighting to secure their denial; They think he's a super hero; They don't get that he's only saying what he needs to say in order to exercise the art of the manipulative deal.

This week, a psychotherapist and educator at Johns Hopkins University Medical School, John D. Gartner, bravely stepped into the debate, claiming that Trump was, yes, a Narcissistic Personality and unfit to be president. He ran down the diagnostic points and made his case. He also did the most courageous thing. He blasted through the ethical roadblocks suggesting that he should not voice his professional opinion about someone who is not a client. He did exactly what I had done. The difference? He had a lot more to lose because, no doubt, someone actually on the Trump team would get wind of his claims. And Dr. Gartner, more than anyone else, knows what being on the receiving end of narcissistic rage could look like.

In the face of watching this pathological car crash, I've held up pretty well. Over many years I've developed the tough therapist shell needed to witness pain and suffering but not fall apart. But today was different for me. Today Trump assaulted immigrants and refugees wanting to enter the United States and my heart broke. Actually, my heart shattered. I didn't cry. I didn't sink to my knees. I didn't rage. It was worse. I felt terrible, horrible sadness. At dinner I turned to my husband and said, "Trump is evil. He has no capacity for empathy. He is living in his gold tower, untouched and unphased by suffering. He has no concern that there are people who have lost their parents, their children, their husbands and wives, their limbs. They've lost their homes. They've lost their country. They've witness people being tortured. And he doesn't care because his brain is damaged beyond repair. He is unable to love and that makes him only dangerous."

My grandparents came through Ellis Island in New York in the early 1900's as immigrants from Russia and Poland. They left more than oppression. Like so many of today's refugees, they fled their homes leaving everything behind to save their lives. Had they not had this opportunity, my own dear parents would never have met. To which I say, thank God for immigration!

My mother, who was born in 1919, told me this story. When she was five years old, she went with her father to meet a brother of his who had finally made it out of Russia and was coming to join the family. An immigrant couldn't enter the United States without someone to sponsor them and assume financial responsibility until they could make their own way. So, in order to enter the country, someone had to be there to greet them or they would simply and swiftly be sent back to the land they'd fought to leave. My grandfather was sponsoring his dear brother.

On this joyful day when my mother and her father arrived at the dock to meet the brother, my grandfather also noticed that there was a family, a mother and father and two children, who seemed very distressed. Apparently, their sponsor had not shown up and they were facing the terrifying reality of a long voyage back to Russia where their fate as Jews was....well, you know. My mom recalled that Grandpa immediately stepped in and assumed responsibility for them. When she asked her father about this he said, "This is what you do for others, just like someone once helped me. We cannot let them be sent back. They'll be killed.

Those people remained life long friends of my grandparents. They were forever grateful that, on one very important day, a total stranger stepped in, without being asked, and extended a hand which forever shaped their destiny. And he did it because he had a deep capacity for empathy and love.

For the record, I don't believe we will go down in flames. I believe we are being tested in ways we could have never ever imagined possible. And I believe we are rising to the challenge. In the face of narcissistic evil, people, like John D. Gartner, are making sacrifices because, if you are a person of heart and mind, like my grandpa, you do the right thing.