Life is No Brief Candle

I re-read Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw this past weekend, and in my notes was this beautiful quote by Shaw himself. Happy Labor Day Monday, let’s move to Spooky Season, shall we?

This is the true joy in life, being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; to be thoroughly worn out before being thrown on the scrap heap.

Being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole world and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it what I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live.

I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.

Sword Fight

Three equal length boxes arrived at the house last week. Narrow, about three feet long.

I pondered. Golf clubs?

They were addressed to my oldest, so I texted him from work.

Boxes for you at house.

Yes!  he texted, and he told me that they were birthday presents for himself and his brothers.

I was filled with dread. You don’t understand his style in gift giving. He gives things like Bernese puppies. Forts. Sprinkler systems. Trips to places like Auschwitz, and Machu Picchu. Gift cards for experiences like combing the cashmere off the bellies of Angora goats in the Himalayas. His gifts should come with things like warranties. Flight plans. Insurance policies.

When I arrived home, the outer boxes were on the floor, and one inner box.

Game of Thrones, the box said.

I called Tommy down, and he emerged off the stairs holding a sword. A real sword, the sharp kind that disembowels villains in Shakespearean tragedies.

I stared and asked.

But why? Why do you need that? What will you do with it?

He shrugged, and offered:

Hang it on my wall at school? Have a sword fight?

Jesus, I said. No. That’s a real sword.

He scoffed. That’s the point, Mom. This is a Game of Thrones sword. You wouldn’t understand.

Obviously not.

Then it was the night of our big family dinner at our favorite restaurant, and we were all gathered at the house. It was time for John to give his twin brother Dustin his sword. I wondered how it would go over, Mr. Conservative Hospital Corners getting a sword for his birthday. I hoped he didn’t hurt his brother’s feelings when he opened it.

When I heard him whoop and holler, I knew I still didn’t get it. I’ve never seen him happier with a gift in my life. They showed me some “Game of Thrones” video, some battle scene where some leader who doesn’t want to be a leader but who is a leader anyway charges thousands of barbarians all shooting arrows at him. He thinks he is alone, when he suddenly turns around, and realizes his own army has been behind him the whole time. He draws his sword.

The Sword. The one that they all now own, the sword they are whispering about. I hear only snippets of their conversation.

Fight…Yard…Cousins…Thanksgiving.

God, I hope they are going to use the swords to cut the turkey.

Thoughts on Purpose

Yes, I’m going to plagiarize again. Gimme a break, my semester is starting, and I’m up to my neck in clerical tasks. So here is a lovely quote from the late Mr. Wayne Dyer:

Somewhere, buried deep within each of us, is a call to purpose. It’s not always rational, not always clearly delineated, and sometimes even seemingly absurd, but the knowing is there. There’s a silent something within that intends you to express yourself. That something in your soul telling you to listen and connect through love, kindness, and receptivity to the power of intention. That silent inner knowing will never leave you alone. You may try to ignore it and pretend it doesn’t exist, but in honest, alone moments of contemplative communion with yourself, you sense the emptiness, waiting for you to fill it with your music. It wants you to take the risks involved, and to ignore your ego and the egos of others who tell you that an easier, safer, or more secure path is best for you.

Ironically, it’s not necessarily about performing a specific task or being in a certain occupation or living in a specific location. It’s about sharing yourself in a creative, loving way using the skills and interests that are inherently part of you. It can involve any activity: dancing, writing, healing, gardening, cooking, parenting, teaching, composing, singing, surfing- whatever. There’s no limit to this list. But everything on this list can be done to pump up your ego or to serve others.

Satisfying your ego ultimately means being unfulfilled and questioning your purpose. This is because your Source is egoless, and you’re attempting to connect to your Source, where your purpose originates. If the activities on the list are in service to others, you feel the bliss of purposeful living, while paradoxically attracting more of what you’d like to have in your life.

Sigh. Miss you.

5 Ugly Truths

Thank you to Mark Manson, the current reigning king of not giving a f***, for these five truths that he says are hard to hear:

  1.  At some point we must all admit the inevitable: life is short, not all of our dreams can come true, so we should carefully pick and choose what we have the best shot at and then commit.

2. We try things. Some of them go well. Some of them don’t. The point is to stick with the ones that go well and move on, not get upset about every little thing that didn’t go our way.

3. What we don’t realize is that there is a fine art of non-fuck-giving. People aren’t born not giving a fuck. Not giving a fuck must be honed over years of deliberate practice.

4. Finding meaning and purpose is not a five-day spa retreat. It’s a fucking hike through mud and shit with golf-ball sized hail pelting you in the face. And you have to love it. You have to laugh about it. To show the world your gleaming bruises and scars and say, “I stood for THIS.”

5. No one is going to stand up at your funeral and say, “He fucked like a wildebeest and had the best golf swing I’ve ever seen.” Life is about loving people, not impressing them.

And if #5 describes you even slightly, call me. Lol

Hoowah

The most hate mail I ever received as an op-ed writer for The Philadelphia Inquirer was when I said I liked the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

Yowza, did I get in trouble.

Getting to be a woman is such an honor, was my point. And I recently ran across the movie scene in “Scent of a Woman” that reminded me:

Al Pacino, playing that part, articulates it perfectly. So take it away, Al, I’m too hot to think and write.

(Oh, and a warning: this video has the “T” word, and the “P” word when referring to women. Don’t watch if easily offended. If you watch, and you get offended, you’re completely missing the point of the speech. You’ve been warned. Oh, and grow up. Sheesh).

Mas Jim

Busy week. Here’s another gem from my main man Jim Rohn:

Become a ghost for six months.

Make everything your fault.

Find the beast within you.

Throw yourself into the pain.

Cut out all the excuses.

Go all in on yourself.

Train like a warrior.

Work like a robot.

Eat like a king.

Reject vices.

Transform.

Upgrade.

Create.

Thrive.

Win.

You Had to Be There

My son and I went out for dinner and a horror flick last week. I guess I embarrassed him at the hibachi restaurant because I asked the server if we could order right away, rather than being forced to wait for the badly-dressed family “sitting” at our hibachi table to stop wandering through the restaurant while talking on their phones.

Who came up with these hibachi rules?

We got to the movie theater TOO early, a fact that he was quick to point out with the appropriate amount of dripping contempt for my earlier behavior. We got in line for snacks, and the rest of this post is about my humor breakdown. You know, when something strikes you as so funny, you just lose it, but no one else sees the humor.

Me (to young counter person): Small popcorn, a diet Coke, and Raisinets.

CP (gestures to shelf in back of me, filled with gummy candy): We don’t have Raisinets, just what’s on that shelf.

Me (scanning shelf): No chocolate at all?

CP: Just what’s on that shelf.

Me (points to Raisinets under counter glass): What about those?

CP: Those are just display.

Me: (Staring at them) You mean I can’t have them?

CP: I don’t think so.

Me: Why?

Son: Mom, stop.

Supervisor (walks up, overhears conversation): Oh, ma’am, those are like ten years old.

Me: (the laughter begins, because I’m starting to think of Seinfeld episode embedded below): I don’t care.

Supervisor: (Walking away sounding jaded, but she’s too young to be jaded, and this makes me laugh even harder) They’re probably the consistency of dust.

The humor of the situation really getting to me now, laughing hard, my son and people behind us getting annoyed.

Me: Can I please have them? I’ll take my chances.

CP: (looks down at glass counter) I don’t even know how to open it.

Me: (I’m laughing really hard now) Let’s crack it open, I have a multi-purpose tool in my purse.

Son: Why do you have that?

People behind us: (Making impatient snuffing sounds)

Me laughing harder, tears rolling down my face, my son finally breaking out in laughter, just from my amusement.

People behind us: Lady, you can’t have them. Move on with your life.

CP: (wishing he were dead, or better yet, that I was) Look, I’m sorry. It’s only my second day.

Can’t breathe now. Laughing as he hands us our snacks, laughing as I grab straws and napkins, laughing as I turn the wrong way towards the wrong theater, laughing as we enter the empty theater a half hour early.

Son: Gee, I’m glad you harassed that waitress at hibachi, so we could get here to an ice-cold movie theater a half hour early to do nothing.

Me: (Still laughing, walking towards good seats)

Son: Those aren’t our seats.

Me: Who cares?

Son: These are handicapped seats.

Me: No, they’re not (laughing through every syllable).

Son: Yes, they are. We’re up further.

Me: But I don’t have my glasses.

Son: (Considers) Fine, let’s see what happens, but we might be asked to move.

Me: (Laughing, laughing, laughing)

Son: Mother, calm down.

Me: I’m trying….

People begin filtering in, looking askance at me because I’m still laughing really hard….

At the end of the movie, as we filter out, I notice that our seats WERE handicapped accessible. Feeling shame, I look at my son.

Me: Now might be a good time to pretend to be handicapped.

Son: Is it gonna be me or you?

Me: (Laughter starts all over again)

(People staring at me oddly as they walk down the aisle).

Son: You. Definitely you.

It’s Hot

I recently had an intellectual discussion with a colleague concerning the recent heat wave and its connection to global warming, and he was so fascinated with my scientific acumen that he suggested I publish it here.

Him: It’s hot.

Me: It’s summer.

Him: I mean, really hot.

Me: That happens in summer.

Him: Phoenix is, like, 115 degrees.

Me: Oh yeah, it often gets hot in the desert in the summer.

Him: Babies and dogs are dying in overheated cars.

Me: It’s not a good idea to leave babies and dogs in hot cars. You know, it being summer and all.

Him: The secretary general of the World Meteorological Organization said, and I quote, “the extreme weather which has affected millions of people happened in July.”

Me: Well, July is part of summer. Summer gets hot.

Him: He said the world has entered what forecasters warn could be a “long period of exceptional warmth.”

Me: That’s usually June- August. Those are summer months.

Him: Supposedly untangling the specific factors behind this heat wave will take time.

Me: By that time, it should be cooler. Once summer is over.

Him: Scientists need to understand whether we’re going to be seeing this again next year, or 10 years from now.

Me: I think we will. Summer tends to happen once a year.

Him: It could make subtropical regions susceptible to greater heat and drought.

Me: Yeah, those regions get hotter than other areas in the summer.

Him: Once verdant Mesopotamia is running dry

Me: Excuse me?

Him: The Fertile Crescent is the cradle of civilization.

Me: So?

Him: The word itself, “Mesopotamia,” means “land between two rivers.” The rivers are drying up. People are moving away.

Me: They probably don’t like how hot it gets in the summer.

Him: The ocean in Florida is up to triple digits. People say it’s like swimming in soup.

Me: Yeah, Florida gets really hot, especially in the summer. Summer gets really hot. Summer is hot.

Him: I can’t talk to you.

Me: Have a good summer.

More Soop For You

I am honored to have another story in the Chicken Soup for the Soul Series that is available on all outlets today. Unfortunately, owing to my complete hopelessness and lack of interest and regard for all that is social media, I have lost the social media toolkit in my email. Sorry, Shelby. I mean well. A picture is at the bottom. On the upside, I will be doing book signings in several Philadelphia Barnes and Nobles’ in the fall, as requested. More on that.

Sound of Freedom

(While I will not remove what I say in this post about the movie “Barbie,” I will, however, concede that for some reason I can’t fathom, it’s trending, and people want to see it. Hey, I still have my Barbies from childhood in my attic- I love Barbie. But the movie looks…heinous. And I stand by that).

I’m trying to feel better.

I skipped church this morning in favor of a quiet walk in nature. Connected with all three of my sons. Cooked a little, listened to beautiful classical music, with a little Gershwin thrown in for good measure. Read some, planned a few trips, went on a boat ride.

But I don’t feel better. My appetite is gone, my heart flip-flopping around in my chest. I don’t feel better. But I will. Eventually.

I don’t know who is out there reading this, maybe no one. That’s not really why I write this blog anyway, not why I do anything, for that matter. But if you’re out there, I have a piece of advice for you:

Go see “Sound of Freedom.”

Please understand, I know those children. I worked in a youth shelter in an inner city where I witnessed human trafficking up close, and I counseled those children. So allow me to paraphrase what actor Jim Caviezel said in what I believe to be one of the most heart-rending scenes of the movie, as the camera simply pans in on a close-up of his face:

Watching this, doing this job, eats away at you, until you can’t function. You dream of these children. Their eyes haunt you, you worry yourself sick until you can’t eat or think of anything but them. It breaks you to pieces, and once you’re broken over these children, you never really get those pieces back.

That’s what it did to me. I can still see their eyes. Every day.

The pandemic took me away from the center, and I have not as of yet returned. Every day I wake up and consider emailing my supervisor to put me on the schedule. And every day, I ask myself:

Am I strong enough to go back? I honestly don’t know.

(Movie spoiler alert):

Imagine the following scenario:

A talent agent who attended your daughter’s school play the day before shows up at your door. “She has talent, real talent,” this beautiful, perfectly coiffed woman says to you in your living room, and of course, you agree. After all, she’s your talented beautiful daughter.

The woman hands you her business card. Glossy, beautifully embossed, just like her. We want to treat her to a professional photo shoot, she says. Then we’ll show the pictures to the right people. Your daughter is jumping up and down with excitement, what little girl wouldn’t? You decide it can’t hurt to let her get this free photo shoot.

You bring her to the location, and it looks great. Lots of happy kids, photographers, equipment and lights, food and drink, toys and music, just a great vibe all-around. You begin to walk onto the set, but the beautiful woman stops you.

No parents on set, she smiles. We want the children to act natural. Sorry. Pick-up is 7:00, sharp.

You and the other parents smile sheepishly at each other, feeling lucky that your brilliant children were chosen. You decide to run errands for a couple of hours since you can’t watch. You hug your daughter, and tell her to have fun.

You return to an empty building. No children, no photographers, just a dark, empty building. She’s gone. Just gone. Like she never existed. Because she and all of the other children were sold, in a matter of two hours, to the child sex traffic trade.

That’s the opening scene in the movie, “Sound of Freedom.”

You scoff. But that could never happen here, you say. Not in the United States.

Why not?

This post is not about child sex trafficking, a multi-billion-dollar industry. We know there are more slaves now than when slavery actually existed, and millions of those slaves are children. Our children. I don’t care where they live. They are all our children.

This post is about choice. Your choice to ignore that embarrassing pink horror of a movie “Barbie,” and give your money to “Sound of Freedom.” Maybe even scan the code at the end of the movie and donate a ticket to someone who can’t afford one.

In the movie the sound of freedom was music. Laughter. Singing. Dancing.

In real life, it’s something different for everyone. The sound of your boat lapping over the waves. Your flight to Paris taxiing down the runway. The clink of wine glasses in a five-star restaurant. The excited screams of your children at the waterpark.

Enjoy those freedoms. I’m going to enjoy the weekend sounds of my sons banging in and out of the house. Quiet music, cooking from scratch, hanging towels on the line.

But I have some soul searching to do. Because the backdrop of my life is always, and has always been, about children. And I think I need to go back and start helping again. And stop being a coward.

If haven’t already, see the movie. Cry, and let it break your heart. Then help. In that order. That’s the least any of us can do.