This week I learned that our brains are wired for survival, not happiness. What difference does that make? It’s like spending your life wearing a life vest and treading water versus zooming around in a motor boat with a glass of wine. And does that mean that all those bright balls of joy wired for happiness and not survival became dinosaur snacks? It gets crazier. I attended a zoom on Tuesday hosted by the very talented Mary Clark with integrative medical doctor and psychotherapist Raquelina Luna. In launching the English edition of her book The Path to your R.E.A.L. Health , Dr. Luna discussed how stress and trauma become actually encoded in the DNA of subsequent generations (not making this up). So on my Dad’s side, his being orphaned by age 19 would probably count as trauma, and I’m sure there’s more (one ancestor dying in New Orleans while fighting for the North) but nothing else is known because with the death of his parents, there was a death of family history. On Mom’s side, we have her dad being first generation American, losing two brothers as a kid (one hit by a trolley in front of his eyes), and her mom, also first generation, being raised in an orphanage from the age of 2 because her mother died in childbirth. Then, these grandparents reach adulthood only to barely eke through the Great Depression, after which Grandpa left for Northern Africa and Italy to fight in WWII. And that’s just the ancestors I know of. Are you aware of the stress and trauma in your DNA? How, I wonder, will our kids internalize living through a pandemic that has claimed over two million lives in the past year? As if to showcase how this bleak biology plays out, all three kids had epic meltdowns this week. In search of coping mechanisms for ourselves and the kids, Jory and I zoomed a Tony Robbins’ program and learned that we each set internal thermostats for different elements in our lives. It’s the levels at which we feel comfortable and safe in things like finances, weight, stress level, mood, career, travel, etc. So say (hypothetically), my internal weight thermostat is set at 145 pounds. If I get up to, say 155 pounds (which, hypothetically, one could easily do during a pandemic), I would feel sluggish, heavy and be motivated to lose the weight (which I hypothetically did). What’s interesting is that if I get down to a trim 135 pounds, unless I consciously reset my thermostat, I will invariably gain the ten pounds back, but no more, in a matter of months to return to my comfort level. Another example: most people who win the lottery are back to their prior financial status within five years without consciously trying to be. With our DNA carrying stress and trauma and our brains wired for basic survival, is it a wonder most of us set a low internal thermostat without even realizing it? This week, I learned about three tools that keep our thermostats at their current level (or not): our language, our focus and our energy/physicality. Point in case: One daughter melted down because she says no one likes her, including herself. I felt like I was looking into a mirror and seeing myself at her age. I asked her to be specific: write a list of what she doesn’t like about herself. It was heartbreaking: Everything from “I don’t like that I can’t keep a growth mindset” to “I don’t like my stomach”…(at the age of 10?!?!) As you can imagine, her self talk is harsh and negative. To raise our thermostat, the stories we tell ourselves, both about ourselves and each other, must encourage, like giving water to a parched soul. “You’re in the wrong movie,” I told her. “Let’s write down the things you do like about yourself!” It’s not about peppy affirmations (that we don’t really believe but wish we could) but finding the small truths we do believe and then continually reminding ourselves of them. Her meltdowns actually stopped once we started having her tell us three things she loves about herself (and why) every morning upon rising, and three things at night. As if the kids sensed Jory and I were raising our personal thermostats and felt uncomfortable with the change, our other daughter broke down over her perfectly average report card on Wednesday (with high grades in art). She focused on how she’s not achieving high grades, not liking remote learning, misses living in LA. Turns out, the second thing that sets our thermostat is what we focus on. Do we look at what we can or can’t control? The past or the present? Glass half-empty or half-full? For every lack this daughter hones in on, we are having her come up with another thing she appreciates, loves, or is grateful for. For every thing she can’t control, she has to come up with something she can change. To complete the trifecta this week, our four-year old had epic meltdowns for no apparent reason, other than fatigue. Cue the third tool for setting the thermostat: physicality. Get the body at an optimal level through sleep, exercise, and diet so our energy is high and our mind better connected to our body. While using the tools of language, focus and physicality to raise our thermostat, we still need an overall compelling future, something that motivates us, or it all falls apart. For me, it’s getting a book published. For Jory it’s securing a client base. Happily, our kids also have inspiring plans: one wants to be a Senator, one a Unicorn and one a firefighter. When asked about her plans to be a unicorn, my 8 year old looked me in the eye and simply said, “Unicorns are awesome. I am awesome. Therefore, I am a Unicorn”. It’s finally warming up around here, brain, DNA and all….
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“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time” - Maya Angelou. Angelou’s profound words have saved me a lot of time, grief and drama. I don’t see them as judgmental as much as observational and respectful. Her advice guided my actions in 2016, when Donald Trump was campaigning. Trump's lies, misogyny, racism, narcissism, blatant disregard for science, education, the environment & our institutions were all on display during his campaign. Therefore, I boycotted his inauguration, and took my six-year old daughter to the Women’s March in downtown Los Angeles on January 21, sign in our hands and pussy hats on our heads. Never having marched before, I feared violence, and my husband shared that concern, suggesting I leave our kindergartner with him at home. I was firm: “When Lillie Grace is 80, and the Trump presidency is considered one of the worst in our nation’s history, I want her to remember that she publicly opposed it from Day One. If it gets too violent, we’ll come home.” It was an epic (and peaceful) day, one I will remember for the rest of my life with fondness and pride. Had I known how magical the experience would be, I would have insisted that Jory come with 4-year old Ali and 6-month old Tyler. But fear and common sense prevailed: Ali was prone to complaining about fatigue after five minutes of walking, and Tyler required a battery of diapers, wipes, bottles, and pacifiers to go anywhere. So it is a powerful memory that Lillie Grace and I share with a few million people around the world. A photo of us in our pussy hats has been my Facebook profile picture as a form of quiet resistance as long as Trump was in the White House. However, I didn’t attend any of the subsequent marches in the following years, because after its initial euphoria subsided, I was disappointed to discover that our march, the biggest in the history of Los Angeles, a world-wide phenomenon, had changed exactly nothing. It wasn’t until Wednesday that I realized I’ve been holding my breath for the last four years, wearing a mantle of shame and apology. I’ve felt helpless. I stopped reading/watching/listening to the news, only following Dan Rather’s News & Guts updates on Facebook. The news made me too angry, and increased my despondency. On Wednesday, I finally exhaled. I so hungered to hear a leader embrace inclusion, unity, hope and renewal that I took both my girls out of school for the occasion. Biden’s deep compassion is one that emanates from someone familiar with suffering. Like his hero Lincoln, he has buried two of his children, which gave both of these leaders another perspective. Biden pledged to put his very soul in to his work, like great artists do, and this very act inspires, both him and those around him. Like Lincoln, Biden is familiar with failure, and thus has learned to take ego out of the equation. He has much to teach us as we work to rebuild, to end our uncivil war. Like Lincoln, Biden is inheriting a terrible mess. Like Lincoln, he leads by example, and seeks to save the Union. Problems can be opportunities, after all. It just depends on the stories we tell ourselves about them. Biden's brilliant inaugural speech was a call to action, the urgency of which was belied by his calm and modest demeanor. He implored us to “add our own work and our prayers to the unfolding story of our nation”. What can that look like for each one of us? How can we, through our own personal gifts, efforts and grace enhance our country in our time? Although Biden is humble, let us not miss his call. As we each become our best selves, our country cannot help but reflect that. Let's sit with his words: “Don’t tell me things can’t change…Let our story tell ages yet to come that we answered the call of history. We met the moment.” What can each of us do, teach our kids to do, to add beauty and grace to this horrible and terrific moment in history... for our family...our community...our country? Four years later, a new profile picture. (I'll soon replace it with one with Ali, Ty or Jory - no favoritism!) Sparkle, Sprinkle, Unicorn and Cupcake (names that would make Holden puke). Today, we hit a new milestone: 2 million coronavirus deaths worldwide. CNN says this is like 10 of the world’s largest commercial jets packed with passengers are falling out of the sky every day for an entire year. Although aware of this mounting death toll, I develop an odd fascination with visiting the ducks in the pond behind our house, which is only matched by the euphoria of my 4-year old son Tyler, who joins me. We sneak into the golf course, with offerings of old Cheerios, bread crusts, leftover croissants (of which there are many, as Jory and I have gone keto this month). Tyler’s wonder is contagious: on future trips his older sisters join us. Ali soon has named her favorites (“Sparkle, Sprinkle, Unicorn and Cupcake” in case you were wondering.) But where, I wonder, is this excitement over ducks coming from on my part?? At times, there are literally over a hundred ducks littering the golf course with green poop, which can carry disease (like histoplasmosis). I have no history with ducks to speak of, and while we’ve anthropomorphized them into cute silly relatives of Donald’s, apparently they can be quite vicious toward each other. I watch the ducks navigate the half-frozen lake under a clear blue sky. Tyler asks where the penguins are. Funny how the mind works. With a sudden surge of joy, an answer pops up to a long ago similar question from someone far away. I realize why the ducks have become so important to me in this season of loss. “Here they are Holden. I found them!” I announce, my confused kids just staring at me. When I first read the oft-banned Catcher in the Rye in Mr. Kite’s class, I was Holden Caulfield’s age, and was knocked out by his boldness, and his terrific and funny as hell observations. (For example: “I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot.”) The second time I read Holden’s account was while tutoring, about 25 years later, and as I helped my student unearth what Holden was rambling on about, I literally had to fight back tears. Funny how it's an entirely different experience reading a book years later as a different person. It is like this, I suspect, when reuniting with real friends, not just the ones nerds like me create out of books. In any case, when I met (for a second time) this lost and lonely privileged boy bravely trying to navigate life after the premature death of his little brother (also named Allie), he broke my heart. Of course this book was written by a G.I. who had just survived World War II. Holden’s grief that his life will never be as whole or as carefree as before is true to anyone who has suffered loss. (How lucky I was to be naïve enough to not empathize with any of that in my first reading). Holden literally fears growing out of his childhood because that means leaving Allie behind. As a friend of mine who tragically lost her 5th grade daughter last year recently wrote to me, “I am at war with time, because every day carries her a little further away from me.” Holden becomes obsessed with finding out what happens to the ducks at Central Park during winter because the ducks, a symbol of innocence, personify Holden’s need to know that change isn’t permanent (oops), and that survival is possible even in the harshest environment (only if you bend, dear boy). Trying to find a loop-hole in this crappy change business, after asking his “phony professor” and then two bewildered NYC drivers in their “vomity cabs” if they know what happens to the ducks, a drunk Holden searches the half-frozen goddam lagoon hoping “they might be asleep near the edge of the water, near the grass and all”. He finds no ducks, though almost falls in the icy pond. No kidding. I remember wondering, when I read the book as a teenager, “So where do the ducks go, for cryin’ out loud?” (And now I know: apparently to Albuquerque.) But change, I’ve learned, is permanent. For example, dear Holden, even though those city ducks may look the same to you, many are the offspring of those from the summer before, and more importantly, the New Yorkers enjoying them (even you) will have somehow changed from the previous year, whether they are aware of this or not. A global pandemic is a constant reminder of how fleeting life is, with change our only constant. Here’s the thing Holden, you're right: people die, some way before they're old. Marriages fail. Deals collapse through no fault of your own. The phone doesn’t ring when you want it to, and sometimes you don’t get chosen when you deserve to be. There’s sickness, and strokes, and decline. Tyler’s school sent out an email this week that a boy in kindergarten lost his dad to COVID on Monday. It’s not what any of us signed up for. No one escapes unscathed, for cryin’ out loud. So take a breath, Kiddo. If we are engaged in life, suffering strips us raw, takes away that luxury of looking like we have it all together, or, as you more accurately say, being phony. It’s part of the deal of being human. But the other part, which enables us to cope with all this serious crap, is mindful celebration. Here’s a snippet, Holden, of what I celebrated this week, because I could. Does it resonate with you? Vulnerable phone calls with besties, January birthdays, a new moon seminar, Jory’s new client, my friend Hilary’s admission to a prestigious photo workshop, writing, daily progress in meditations & workouts (and accountability for both with friends trying to do the same), Jory's amazing grilled salmon, registering for my upcoming Amherst class wine tasting, rich dark chocolate, my kids’ excitement at trying out new food in their free school lunches, my breathtaking book (Liz Gilbert’s Big Magic), our enjoyment of our new family TV comedy (Ted Lasso), feeling the winter sun warm my face while feeding the ducks, then later set with an astonishing splash of orange and purple. The hour and a half soul-cleansing call from Ali's Godmother Maddy, the addictive song Ty and I learned this week and sing to each other by Christina Perri, the joy in reading a fable about a roadrunner every day to Lillie Grace, and about a dragon to Ali. These gems sparkled joy into my life this week because I noticed them as such. It kills me to think that if you were real, you’d already be in your 80s. And hopefully you learned enough of this so you’re not some reclusive crotchedy old man mumbling to yourself like your late author, or still in some institution because you never learned to accept or honor these small moments of beauty. Because Holden, the only BIG consolation is that as we inevitably change, our emotional winter cannot last forever. Neither can this pandemic. And we're all in it. Together. I hope you see that Nature is our best teacher. Spring always comes after winter. Growth is always an option for we who remain. I’m not sayin’ it’s easy, but even the goddam ducks find their way, for cryin’ out loud. I’m enjoying them, peacefully swimming on the frigid pond outside my window right now. I’m tellin’ ya like it is. I swear. Lillie Grace (10) was riveted to the Congressional speakers on TV Wednesday night. Ali (8) casually watched while she colored on her iPad, and Tyler (4) danced around the room. “Remember this failed coup, kids”, I told them, “because you will be reading about it in your high school government class in a few years.” Ali wanted to know two things: Is this a revolution and are they coming to New Mexico? A revolution, I explain, is brought about by masses of people seeking basic social, economic, and political change. But a coup is a change in power from the top (in this case President Trump) to result in the abrupt replacement of leading government personnel (incumbent Biden and his impending cabinet). It took Acting Secretary of Defense Christopher Miller (after consulting Pence, not Trump) to call out the DC National Guard, then governors of Virginia, Maryland and NJ to send additional troops to restore order. (Yes, up until Wednesday, Trump served as Commander-in-Chief of the DC National Guard, but no longer). That’s proof the government recognized it as a coup. (An aside, note how lax law enforcement was here compared to their reaction to peaceful protests over Black Lives Matter or the environment). Both revolutions and coups are characterized by violence, destruction of property, looting and sometimes death (as in this case). This was, incidentally the first time since 1814 that our Capitol was stormed. That’s astounding. I mean, even in the midst of our Civil War, when the South declared itself a foreign nation (no snide comments, now) our Capitol was safe. Many are calling January 6, 2021 a day of infamy. But I disagree. To say that would imply it took most of us by surprise, like Pearl Harbor or 9/11. If anything, we’re looking at a presidency of infamy, not a day. (even more will come out after he leaves office – mark my words). Ironically, Trump’s swan song is that albeit deeply flawed, America is ALREADY great, and has been since its inception. January 6, 2021 will be seen as one of the brightest days in our nation’s history, because despite the onslaught, our Institutions stand. No single force can topple our Constitution. No megalomaniac can prevail. No fake news or lies or blackmail or money can triumph over We the People. Hell, Trump and his thugs could only at best delay Congress and its count of the electoral vote. That’s a great country. Trump says (to the surprise of no one) that he won’t be attending his successor’s inauguration. He’s the first president not to do so in 152 years, when fellow impeached president Andrew Johnson skipped out on acknowledging his successor. Birds of a feather… I mean, the impeached Clinton had the decency to attend his successor’s inauguration, even when Clinton’s vice-president won the popular vote but the Supreme Court voted 5-4 to give the election to his rival. That’s respect for our Constitution. Other outgoing Presidents not to attend inaugurations are, in what became a family tradition, the Adams men. However, although John didn’t attend Jefferson’s inauguration, his willingness to peacefully leave the White House was the talk of capitals all over Europe. It marked the first time the presidency transitioned to a new political party, and Adams left the White House at 4AM to ensure there would be NO inter-party violence. Around the world, people hailed it as unprecedented, astonishing. This failed coup will be Trump’s legacy: the first president to try to overthrow our Constitution so he could stay in power. If anything else, along with corruption, his presidency will also be noted for not making his top priority a pandemic killing 4,000 Americans a day at this point. Trump is Nero, golfing with his golden clubs while America burns: COVID has infected 21.7 MILLION citizens so far. That's more American deaths from COVID than from World War II, Viet Nam or World War I. Why isn’t he talking about this every day? In no way do I mean to imply that this corrupt narcissist will go peacefully in to the night, or that his thugs will cease their violence. I just believe he will not win. But enough about him. The last time our Capitol was invaded, we emerged with this ingenuity: “O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave…O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave”. What art, what innovation will this disgraceful incident now inspire among we free and we brave? Everyone says they're ready for 2020 and its challenges to be history. We are all wishing each other a better 2021, as if turning the calendar page will change life. Yet life does not respond to our time. Let’s not forget the beautiful silver linings of 2020 and be grateful. With all the suffering (so much suffering!), death (so much death!), unemployment and financial stress and missed traditions, there blossomed moments of joy, growth, and creativity if we were open to them. Births, weddings, new careers, new homes, new friendships, new jobs, new opportunities, new hobbies graced us. What I am feeling has been said best by a poet, of course. The 13th century poet Rumi: This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight. The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in. Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond. Let’s raise a glass to 2021. To Growth. Deeper connections. Inspired and meaningful pursuits. To being alive. Feeling it all. Savoring the time we have here, now, with each other. Really seeing and appreciating each other whether on zoom, email, phone, text or in person. To laughing. To crying. With Gratitude. Happy New Year. |
AuthorSteph: friend, writer, wife, mother, sister, daughter, lover of life, and of chocolate. Archives
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