The Rivers Flow Blog

Shouldas

2012-02-08T11:31:00.000-05:00

I lashed out at Maya this morning. I feel horrible. But I'm not surprised by it. We were trying to get out the door to get her to school and she was not listening to me. This is not the first time that she has not listened and it will certainly not be the last. And I am sure it will not be the last time that I yell at her for not listening.

But I know that the anger I displayed this morning is displaced. I know that the real reason I became upset is the fact that we had to put our cat, Aurora, down on Monday. She was nineteen years old. Yes, I know: she had a good life, we had a good run together, her quality of life was not what it was, she's in a better space--I know that all of those words are said from a good place. And I agree with them, at least, intellectually.

But I am mad. I am mad that I probably did not give Aurora all the attention she deserved. I am mad that we brought a dog into the house that probably upset her on some level. But most importantly, I am mad that I am reminded of our lives when we first got her.

We were living in a tiny studio on 90th and Park in the city. The four of us-- two humans and two cats. Then we moved to a larger apartment, collected another cat, and then to our first house where we added Maya, and then to a larger house where we added two goldfish and another car. And life slowly began to get more complex, more costly, more stressful. Oil bills, sump pumps, fallen trees, flooded basements, new gutters...

And so, as I mourn the loss of my buddy, I also mourn the loss of simplicity. When and how did we decide that bigger would make us happier? That more things would put wider smiles on our faces? I wrote earlier that one of the reasons we purchased this house was that we were at risk of losing Maya and that we could not imagine staying in a house where we would pass an empty bedroom that at one magical time housed her crib, a hand-painted dresser and the home-made drapes (yes, I make drapes). It would be too painful a life. So in a scared, panicked, seemingly preventive measure, we moved.

So here we are today. The three of us are intact, more or less. Our cats, Tiger, Anna and Aurora are gone. The goldfish have been replaced several times over. Sarah, Maya's dog, is now part of this household. But today there is a deafening emptiness that I am experiencing. We've lost something. Maybe we lost it long ago and I am now just feeling it as I realize that this is the first time since college that I have not had a cat rubbing up against my legs.

That constant connection of having a cat was a link to my past--the good and the not-so-good. But it connects me to a time that was just a little easier. A studio apartment; a new baby that was not yet affected by her parents fighting absent "relatives" for her right to stay in her new stable, loving home; a time that 911 was just an emergency call and not something more chaotic and sinister. And I want it back. And that is why I am mad--I am thinking right now of the "shouldas."

We should have stayed in the old house. I should have done things differently with my practice and my work. I should have made more progress in my writing. I should have worked harder at being a better dad and husband. I should have....

But what is that going to get me right now? Not a thing. Because when I am able to get out of my way, I know that we made choices. In the moment, we thought they were the best possible--and at the time, they probably were.

But those choices have expired. You know, the funny thing about being a therapist is that those around me think that I should always have my clinical hat on as I go through my life. I am always amazed at that. I have gotten so much grief over the years from certain circles complaining that I did not respond in a way that they would expect from a therapist. Really? If I had my therapist hat on 24/7, I would be in a home drooling, eating my toenails and knocking my head on the toilet.

Nope, I am a flawed, sometimes overly-emotional human being. But in this body is a heart and mind that wants to desperately hang on to some youthful innocence and pleasure. And that means to live more simply.

I used to be in retail when I first came to New York. After several years of doing this work and after several years of having a fairly chaotic and painful personal life, I decided that I needed to get out of my head (again--a recurring theme here) and begin volunteering. I found refuge at the Manhattan Center for Living, an organization dedicated to helping those living with HIV/AIDS and other life-challenging diseases. MCFL was founded by Marianne Williamson, who continues to be a source of strength and support for me. I will bastardize and summarize her message in one word: LOVE. It is that simple.

And that is the word I need to keep close to me today as I experience this deafening emptiness. I don't need to fill this void with a new TV, a new driveway, a new Mac, or even a cat. No, this needs to be filled with a greater appreciation for the two most important people in my life, who tolerate my over-emotional moments and my OCD as I sometimes put life aside to finish the laundry and organize a closet. It needs to be filled with an even greater appreciation for my mom who continues to be my biggest cheerleader. It means remembering and appreciating those members of my life who are no longer with me. It means paring down on what is not working, what is not adding value. It means getting in touch more frequently with the guy who is writing what you are now reading.

So, as I mourn for Aurora and I find myself tearing up and breaking down through these days that follow, I do need to thank her for reminding me that my life is full, and that I can reclaim that Jeff that lived for 5 years at 121 East 90th Street, NYC.

The framed needlepoint pictured was made for us by my stepmom, Barb. It as been with us for as long as I can remember. I cannot tell you today how I feel about that--is it true? Is it not? Right now, I don't know--the answer will eventually appear, I suppose. I want to fully believe that I can find my "home" again without a cat rubbing up against my legs. But that, my friends, is all part of the process.

And if I can do this, so can you.

HOW NOT TO QUIT A JOB

2011-10-09T16:57:00.001-04:00

I would love to know what goes through her mind. She is dismissed from class, she walks outside with her teacher and her classmates, and is greeted not by her Dads, but by her sitter.

Is there a letdown? A sense of being abandoned? A sense that she is not loved enough to warrant her parents picking her up? Madyson’s mom is here, Ethan’s dad is there....

Last week was rough. She cried one night at bedtime saying that she is the only one in her class who has a sitter picking her up. Now, I doubt very much if every child is being picked up by a parent. Most families have both parents working--especially in this town where the property values have sunk and the taxes remain so high. But this town is also a depressed one where it is quite possible that some of the families are affected by the economy and unemployment.

She is fortunate in that she has dads who are employed and busy. Probably too busy. And who, she feels, may have more of an allegiance to their jobs in New York, than to their lives in Plainfield, New Jersey.

She has had sitters since she came home from UMDNJ hospital when she was 6 weeks old. How many have entered her life? Too many. Some stay for a year and move on, some last a few weeks like this last one.

Hello,

I'm writing to let you know that today was was my last day and I will no longer be able to work for you.

I think Maya needs to be in the care of someone who is specialized in childhood behavior. She has a great many issues that need professional help and I am not qualified to give her that. She is very disrespectful, rude, angry, disobedient, and extremely confrontational.

I also believe, from what I have seen, that her difficulty with reading and comprehension stems from more than ADD/ADHD, and that she has other learning disabilities.

I thank you for the opportunity and I wish you the best in finding someone who fits your family well.

Autumn

This is an email I woke up to Saturday morning. It was sent at midnight.

What Autumn fails to acknowledge, is her role in all of this. Maya is 8--she is a kid who is strong-willed, knows what she wants and will try to manipulate a situation to get what she wants. Pretty typical. But she is also a child when she feels a connection, will be your best friend and love you unconditionally.

It is a shame that Autumn did not have the insight to see this. She was told in the beginning that there would be testing behaviors--she said that she understood. She was told that it would be challenging in the beginning. She said that she understood. She was told that we wanted to be kept in the loop regarding any behavior issues or struggles she was enduring. She reported nightly that things were “fine.” I actually came home early on Friday (her secret last day of work) and, again, things were “fine.”

Autumn is 18. Friends and family alike have said, “What do you expect?” She does not go to college, has no aspirations of going to college. I looked beyond that and felt that perhaps her youth and energy would work well with Maya. I looked beyond her piercings and the fact that she and her girlfriend participated in the Slut Walk a few weeks back in New York--it was a good cause!

You know, Autumn, my daughter may have some feelings because she would rather be with her Dads at night rather than with a stranger. That does not warrant a college degree--just some compassion and empathy. It also gets frustrating for her as well as us that caregivers who “promise” to stay don’t. I get it--life happens, people need to move on. But if you are going to work with kids, be true to your word.

Several years ago, my first job out of grad school, I was a Case Manager at Jersey City Medical Center. My initial role there was working with adults who were living with HIV/AIDS. A position in the Children’s Clinic opened up and was offerred to me. I was forewarned by my bosses that if I took it, then I needed to commit to it for a while. These kids were sick, their parents were traumatized.

I did not stay. It was not a good fit. While I loved working with the kids, the politics of the hospital and the job itself were wearing me down. I gave my notice. My bosses were furious. I did not get it at first--turnover was high, I was just another going through that revolving door. What’s the big deal?

But it was a big deal. Because I did matter to those kids. I was more than a worker. I was Mr. Jeff. I was the guy who helped them navigate the system, help them out with their medical appointments, make them laugh. I didn’t get that until I became a parent--and even then, I sometimes forget.

But on a night when my girl is crying because her Dads are not home and she is being cared for by a “stranger”, my role in all of this is crystal clear.

You know, Autumn, I am angry, too. I am angry that I cannot put my daughter down to sleep each night and be there like my parents were there for me. But right now, we are doing the best we can.

"I now hasten my good by picturing it."

2011-10-05T12:19:00.003-04:00

These words were spoken by Catherine Ponder in a 1972 lecture that was recorded and that I have been listening to on my Audible Iphone app. Ponder has been a powerful force for decades in the areas of prosperity and healing and her many books can be found on Amazon.

I began reading Ponder on my recent vacation. I had gone through a somewhat difficult summer emotionally and financially and reading her words gave me the shot in the arm that I needed in that moment. Reading does that for me. Does it do that as well for you?

I think I have mentioned in the past my love for anything Erma Bombeck has written. Her way of combining both humor and humanity inspire me. If you take a look at my nightstand, you will find dog-eared copies of several of her books. I will often grab one before heading off to sleep, open a book to any page and just start reading. I find myself smiling or laughing at the same passages--the familiarity is comforting. I'll do the same thing in the morning--it's my little jolt of humor in the a.m.

Words can do that. Words can comfort and inspire. Our words are filled with power. Ponder says, Our words are charged with prospering power." And they are. I try, I really do, to create a world for myself that is positive, prosperous and rich. Some days are better than others.

My challenge is the morning. I used to be a typical morning person--I would get up, make the coffee and several times a week go for a run. But with the stress of the summer, the vacation, Maya starting a new school this year, our cat, Anna, passing away, and a new puppy (yes--why not add a little more chaos??)--I have found MANY reasons why I cannot possible take better care of myself physically.

The power of words. As I look at what I have just typed, I realize that this is all fixable. None of this is a permanent problem. "I now hasten my good through picturing it." The change that has occurred over this summer is over. It is over. I am now in a new space today. A prosperous space today. Ponder says that we need to give ourselves prosperous words every day--even if we don't believe it in the beginning. Eventually we will. We will.

I picture myself getting up in the morning, throwing on some running clothes, my sneakers, grabbing my Ipod. Before I head out, I throw on the coffeemaker, grab Sarah (our dog), and take her with me for a brief run. And I look forward to getting some exercise, improving my physical and emotional well-being, and looking healthier. And Sarah gets her exercise for the day as well. It's a win-win for all.

What do you like to read? Or watch? Or listen to? What inspires you? Find something if you don't have it. It's shitty to feel shitty. You have a choice here. Hasten your good. Do it now.

Anna

2011-07-25T14:48:00.000-04:00

Anna“Come on, Jeff—pull it together.”
Was that me?
Did I just speak out loud, by myself, in my kitchen?
Yes, I did.
At my feet lies our cat, Anna. A once-frisky devil of a calico. It was not unlike her to jump on the kitchen counter and drag off steak, chicken, and other assorted goodies that we were preparing to make for our dinner. But now, I have just gotten off the phone with the vet. We have a 10:40am appointment Tuesday the 26th of July to euthanize her. I have just spent 30-some odd minutes googling to see if Maya should be there. As I expected, everyone has differing opinions.

I found Anna on a bitter cold rainy evening in early 2001 when we were living in Jersey City. We rented a garage space from a guy around the corner. As I pulled the Jeep in, I caught glimpse of a tiny, frail-looking kitten. I ran back to our apartment and grabbed a green recycling bin in the hope that I could rescue her. Keep in mind that we already had 2 cats at home who were perfectly content with the arrangement and I do not think that they wanted their space further cramped. But, I am a sucker for at-risk animals and I am going to honestly say that I did not take Tiger and Aurora’s feelings into account. Approaching this kitten carefully, who had now found refuge in a box full of damp newspapers, I was able to scoop her into the green bin and run home. She was terrified. I felt her little body jumping up wildly trying to escape. She continued this as I raced into my building, up the stairs and released her in our bathroom. I have never seen a cat jump as high as this one was. Nor make the sounds that she was. I had a few moments of terror, thinking that maybe she was rabid, or psychotic, but with some food and water, she slowly settled down. And after the initial vet visits, including spay that had to be done twice, she slowly began to trust her new surroundings and Aurora and Tiger grudgingly welcomed her into the fold.

The incident is lovingly referred to as “The escape.” We were moving from our apartment in JC to a home in Plainfield. The cats were in the bathroom, locked away. The movers were instructed not to open the door. There was even a note on the door. A big note. Of course, one of them opened the door. Anna bolted out of the bathroom, down the hall, out of the apartment door, down the stairs and onto the street. I was on the street and saw her race around the corner. “If I lose her, I am fucked.” Those were my thoughts at the time. And so began my amazing chase through the neighborhood. Clearly she forgot that she almost perished when she lived out in the streets. After about an hour or so of chasing her through numerous yards in the neighborhood on a sweltering August afternoon, I felt that I finally had my chance of getting her. She was resting under a rose bush. I got on my stomach, crawled slowly toward her, and grabbed her. And instantly experienced pain that cannot be translated into words. The hind legs flailing wildly, scratching my forearms drawing immense amounts of blood. Her teeth grabbing my thumbs and fingers, trying desperately to get out of my grip. Oh, and there was the rose bush. That fucking rose bush. I was eventually able to grab her by the scruff, which calmed both of us. Walking back to the apartment, bleeding, dirty and sweaty, holding a tiny kitten by the neck, it reminded me of the end of one of those Mel Gibson style Apocalypse movies. I had “won”. But Anna continued to have the adventurer in her. While she never escaped into the wilds of the suburbs, she did get herself stuck in various crawl spaces around the house resulting in unique challenges to rescuing her.

But these little episodes pale in comparison with my endless memories of her and Maya together. Maya’s first task in the morning has been to track Anna down and carry her through the house, hugging and kissing her. Anna has enjoyed being Maya’s rag doll—they are quite the team. They have breakfast and dinner together, they are together as we watch Modern Family, they sleep together.
We lost Tiger a few years ago. Maya and Tiger were close, but I feel that Maya and Anna kind of grew up together. And as I feel mortality being more of a presence in my life these days, this appointment tomorrow is really so much more than my pet being euthanized. It’s a call to make these days and these relationships mean more.

I’ve been on edge a bit more over the last few days. And I give myself permission to be this way. I know it won’t last. I know I will “pull it together.” But this cat has tugged at my heartstrings for over 10 years. And I know she has impacted my daughter more than she can or chooses to verbalize.
I’ve been trying, gently, to talk to her about this. It’s hard—“Dada, she’ll get better.”
“You know, babe, she’s not going to get better. Her little body cannot fight this disease anymore. No medicine can help her now. We need to understand that she can’t live this way anymore. Her little legs cannot hold her up. She’s whimpering, her eyes look so sad. So we’ve made a decision—the doctor can give Anna a special shot that will help her die peacefully. She won’t be in this pain anymore. And we will be able to say goodbye to Anna in our own way. And we can be together as a family when this happens. It’ll be okay. She will be at peace. She won’t be sad anymore. Does this make sense to you?”
We haven’t had this conversation yet. We may say all of this to her, we may say some of it. But it’s gonna be hard. But it will bring us all even closer. With all the sadness that death brings, it also brings us opportunities to come closer.
Thanks, Anna. I do love you. We all do.

Happy Pride Month! ...for some.

2011-06-12T20:54:00.000-04:00

Well, it's June in New York and this great city is covered in rainbows. And for the most part, it's really a non-event. The way it should be......but elsewhere....

(can you hear the ominous music?)

In the Great City of Richmond:

"The Federal Reserve Bank of Richmond ran a rainbow flag up its flagpole last week and has been hearing about it ever since.
From conservative groups who are outraged. From gay rights groups who are pleased. And from state lawmakers on both sides who just cannot seem to stop talking about it.
The bank unfurled the flag on June 1, at the request of a group of gay and lesbian employees in honor of gay pride month.
One day later, Bob Marshall, a Republican in the House of Delegates and an outspoken opponent on gay rights issues, was moved to write a letter to the bank's president, saying that the flag was inappropriate for a quasi-governmental entity.

"Dear President [Jeffrey M.] Lacker," wrote state Delegate Bob Marshall, "Flying the homosexual flag just under the American flag outside Richmond's Federal Reserve Bank building is a serious deficiency of judgment by your organization."

Gay and lesbian "behavior," he wrote, "undermines the American economy, shortens lives, adds significantly to illness, increases health costs, promotes venereal diseases," among other things."

(for more of the story, click here http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/11/us/11flag.html)

Oh, Bob, get a life. Go to the movies. Stop watching Sarah, and Glenn and Ann, and Pat and....my God--there's so many. Get yourself educated. Get a date.

So, let me lose myself in Lady Gaga for a moment:

I'm beautiful in my way
‘Cause God makes no mistakes
I'm on the right track, baby
I was born this way.

This is all kind of cool. Although 70% of The Rivers Flow practice serves the GLBT community, I've had so many straight clients reference this song in their sessions with me, underscoring the fact that this message is , indeed, universal. And that gives me a smile.

Part of the challenge with serving the LGBT community is having a clinical staff that understands, empathizes and identifies with the struggle, the process, the journey and has an idea of how the story should end. We can look at the Bob Marshalls' of the world and shake our heads with amazement and disgust.

But, unfortunately, there is at least 1 Bob in every GLBT client. Someone who said ‘you weren't good enough, smart enough, normal enough.' And as clinicians, it is our job to reign Bob in, take away his power, and help our clients understand that God (or some other entity) makes no mistakes.

But that Bob sometimes lingers like a pesky fly buzzing around your head on a hot, humid New York City afternoon.

I've had my Bob moments. Those days when I don't feel as confident, as sure of myself, as emboldened. And this could be related to lack of sleep, exercise, or some stress in my relationships--personal or professional. Or maybe I'm just not regular.

But like an actor, we sometimes need to act "as if". There are those days when I need to fight and force myself to show up. It's not easy, it can be exhausting, but it's worth it in the end. So if it is forcing myself to go for a run, or a hard workout, or have a quiet moment to lessen the noise in my head, I will do it.

And for me, music is the perfect remedy. It may not be a Lady Gaga song, it may be a Motown song, it maybe (forgive me) a showtune. Whatever, genre or artist, if I find something to connect with that will lift me up, give me some confidence and hope, then I know I will be okay.

Now, as far as Bob goes--there's always going to be a Bob. And I don't know if that is necessarily a bad thing. If it weren't for Bob, then would we ever feel fully empowered? Would we keep fighting? Or would we get lazy?

I don't know.

Happy Pride. Be safe. Be well.

Words for thought : "How does religion play into your personal or professional therapy? We love religion in therapy, but how do we love religion when we, or our clients, blame -- "God."

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A little Twitter never hurts, does it?

2011-03-06T10:56:00.002-05:00

I haven't created a post in quite a while. Mark O'Connell has written several thought-provoking pieces over the last few months. There have been many times that I have thought, "Oh, that would make for interesting reading." But the idea, unfortunately, never made it to my laptop screen. So here goes several months of built-up thoughts, ideas, and maybe a touch of angst.

I have become a devotee of Twitter ever since the Tahrir Square uprisings in Cairo. I followed these heroes as they steadfastly refused to allow an autocratic ruler to remain in power. I marveled at their tenacity, their bravery, their love for their homeland. As a result, I now am following the additional protests in Libya, Iran, Yemen, and the others. It is inspiring, yet frightening.

I look to Wisconsin, to Ohio where union rights are being challenged. I look to Texas and many other states where a woman's right to choose is being more and more restricted. I look to the Congress where the President's attempt to scrap the DOMA is, naturally, being vigorously challenged by the right. I look to so many states where funding for those less privileged are being cut to the bone.

It is no news to you that our access to information is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because we can get answers and viewpoints within seconds. A curse because if we just keep taking in all of this information through a little screen, our level of hope can begin to fade away. We need human interaction. We need laughter, activity, love, touch, and yes, tears.

I left my computer yesterday and went for a run in the morning. I played with my daughter in the afternoon. I went for a walk around the neighborhood with my family at dusk. And the three of us cuddled up on the couch last night and watched movies together.

Twitter has its place. But I cannot let it re-place those things that are precious to me.

The Power: The Voice

2010-10-30T07:43:00.000-04:00

I have had many people tell me over the years that when confronted with some sort of crisis or dilemma, my voice pops into their head.

I'm sorry, but WHAT?
When I first heard this, I admit to being shocked--what am I saying that is so profound to be creeping into their lives outside of therapy?
Then I felt flattered. Why shouldn’t my voice be present? At times, I can say some pretty good things in session!!
And then I realized this has nothing at all to do with me.

We all have them. Those voices that enter the fray, suggesting that we can or cannot do something. The Critic who pops up and suggests that you really aren’t that great a candidate for the new job. The Critic who says that he really didn’t enjoy the date. The Critic who says that this holiday season is going to be just as miserable as the last one.

Hey, shut up!

There is a movement in the therapy world called Internal Family Systems. In a nutshell, we can look at the Individual as a sum of the parts: The Critic, The Nurturer, the Pragmatist, and so on. By identifying the various parts that comprise us (and we can determine for ourselves how we want to label these parts of us!), we can make conscious, rational decisions as to who we want to be in charge. For many of us, especially those who have a Wounded Child as part of the mix (and who doesn’t?), we may have been allowing the kid to “drive the car” for most of our lives. IFS says, “Hey kid--not so fast. Let Jeff, the adult, take over. I appreciate all you have done for me thus far, but this is my road trip now. Let’s work on getting you healed. In addition, let’s identify what parts are working together as a team, and which little rebels are being, well, rebellious and not helpful.” This is 1 way for us to begin healing.

There have been many times, past and present, where others’ voices have come to me at critical times. Here are a few:

The voice of my Human Behavior professor in Grad School: “The first and foremost role of the social worker is to instill hope.”

The voice of my first therapist, an analyst: “Jeff, you just need to forgive your father--he is just not emotionally capable.”

The voice of my father, a few months before he died: “Jeff, I know that I have not always been the best dad, but I do want you to know that I love you.”

The voice of my daughter, “Dada, I love you.”

I hold these close--these sustain me. There are others, of course, that pop up here and there throughout my days and weeks. And they show up when I need them most: when I am feeling challenged--emotionally, physically, spiritually; when I may be having a blue day; when I am feeling frustrated professionally or personally. Sometimes I need to rally myself to bring the voices up to consciousness, and other times they appear freely. But they do show up.

It is so important to show up. So if my voice should show up in another’s internal dialogue, then I applaud the person for allowing another point of view or belief to enter their sphere. I challenge you to do the same with those in your lives. You do not have to be a therapist--you just need to display kindness, compassion and the willingness to take a moment for someone else.

In a political season that has been ravaged by shortsightedness, ignorance and hate, it is time to display our best to those in our worlds and trust that the goodness will spread. Don’t let the outside voices contaminate the beauty we all have to offer, regardless of our differences. And maybe we will begin to value our differences rather than denigrating them. Maybe. Hopefully.

I HATE YOU--AGAIN AND AGAIN

2010-09-09T15:34:00.000-04:00

A while back, I wrote a blog on hate. I guess, then, it’s appropriate at this time to do another since some politicals and the media seem to be spreading the hate message even more. Let’s consider:
The building of new mosques in Tennessee and New York.
The planned burning of the Quran on September 11th.
The attack on all things Muslim.
The attack on all things gay.
The attack on all things left-of-center.
The attack on all things right-of-center.
                                           The attack on eggs.

It’s just endless. I guess the positive out of all of this is that eventually, ALL of us will find ourselves in some group that is being targeted to hate. And then, we will be at peace. But until then, let’s examine the origins of all of this.

Part 1: What’s it like to be not liked?

There was this kid who sat behind me in 7th grade homeroom who did not like me. He used to wet his forefinger and middle finger and whack me on the back of the neck with his wet, slimy, skinny digits. I do not know why he did it. I do not know why he did not like me. We had gone to to totally different grade schools--this was our first year in junior high. Why did he want to spoil it for me?

Part 2: Why should we care?

7th grade is such an awkward time. We want to be liked, we want to fit in. To be targeted in such a visible manner made me appear weak and vulnerable. I was not a fighter, in fact, I was a pretty shy kid. I am sure I asked him to stop and I am sure he responded by coating his hands with even more saliva. I did not go to the teacher because I did not want to appear weak and vulnerable and be considered a tattler. So, I suffered in silence until he eventually grew tired of my non-responses.   But throughout the entire time he was slapping the back of my neck, I just kept thinking, “All I want is to be liked.”

Part 3: Repercussions

Two students were shot the first day of school in Detroit at Mumford High School. I am not sure if police have discovered a motive, but safe to say, someone had a grudge. And a gun.

Part 4: Prevention

I love the cartoon The Berenstain Bears that appears on PBSKids Sprout network. It’s a family of bears that is presented with a conflict and, by the end of the show, thanks usually in part to the guidance and wisdom of the parents and/or the entire family working together, the crisis is resolved.   It speaks a wonderful message.

I was reading a Bears’ book to Maya the other night and the notion of gratitude came up. The idea that even though we may live in a world where some people are spewing out some pretty vile things about others, if we are able to bring the focus down to the micro level and be grateful for each other, the family unit, the fact that we have food and shelter and a car and the ability to go to school--that goes a pretty long way.

And if we are able to be grateful that we can love and accept others with little or no judgement--well, that goes even further.

And if we can do that, then we won’t need to burn Qurans, or trash others whose lifestyles/political convictions do not mesh with our own.

Can’t you just hear the quiet?

Hair.

2010-08-15T19:55:00.003-04:00

So, my hair was growing a bit on the sides that I did not like. So I went into my cabinet in the bathroom and took out my electric clippers and started shearing.

Well, if you were a client of mine last Wednesday, you would have seen some pretty messed up patches on the side of my head. Or maybe not--I worked very hard to try to keep my head faced forward. How screwy is that??

I am not a hairstylist/barber. I am a therapist. I know (intellectually) that I have limitations. But still, with those electric clippers in my hand, I was powerful.

Or so I thought.

I looked at myself in the mirror--with another mirror at a screwy angle--and I knew that I messed up my hair. It was beyond embarrassing. There was a strip on both sides of my scalp that were sheared and were uneven. And there was a patch on the right side of my scalp that was virtually naked---come on, Jeff--you can’t get a haircut from a professional?

So I went to Great Clips on University, confessd my sins and asked for forgiveness. The woman cutting my hair jokingly asked me if I was trying to take away her job--I replied that I was not.

But as she was repairing me, I was laughing. None of this was life threatening--it was just hair. How stuck do we get on appearances? When I was with my clients that day were they concerned that I could not deliver because I had a patch missing from the side of my scalp? Doubtful.

But was I concerned that I could not deliver? Maybe.

Everything is fixable.

Rejoice.

2010-08-15T19:13:00.000-04:00

I am ashamed of myself.

Today is August 15, 2010. This is a special day for my family and we forgot.

This is the day we picked up our daughter, Maya, from UMDNJ Hospital and welcomed her into our family. Or, rather, she welcomed us.

Why or how could we forget? Because of the chaos surrounding her adoption, which I have already written about. That’s how I reason this. Not a great excuse.

How often do we forget those special dates because of outside interferences? The first time we met? The first date? The first time we made love? The first time we said “I love you”?

Don’t let the craziness of the world get in the way of your joy. If there is a date that resonates with you, then CELEBRATE it! You don’t have to have a significant other, or have a child--if this is the day you gave up smoking or drinking, or if this is the day you said to yourself that you would treat yourself better, then rejoice.

Rejoice. It’s a pretty cool feeling.

A Deer, A Bunny, and a Squirrel

2010-06-10T05:45:00.007-04:00

I had a very long day ahead of me this past Tuesday. I was also feeling a bit off as I headed off to work, as I had decided over the weekend to try to curb my caffeine intake. In the midst of the thoughts of my day and how I was trying to not think of turning back to go home and grab a cup of coffee. a mother deer along with her baby crossed the road in front of me.
“Wow, that was nice,” I thought. A quarter of a mile up the road, I had to slow for a bunny rabbit, and probably a little less then that, a squirrel.

And yesterday, I had the entire day off to spend with Maya and my Mom who is visiting and it rained.

So what does all of this mean?

I suppose the first instance suggests that we need to notice and appreciate the small stuff around us. Do you ever just walk around and take a look at kids, at pets, at the street vendors, at people resting and conversing on the benches? It is a beautiful vacation for all of us to get out of our heads from time to time and see the vibrancy that is around us. And if you feel that you cannot be a part of that, I say to you: “Nonsense! What makes them any different than you?”

I work with so many people who are experiencing some harrowing circumstances right now. We can work with the harrowing, but we also need to know that there is also something on the other side of the harrowing--there is LIFE. Unfortunately, some of those people want to stay on that harrowing side until the clouds clear and the sun comes out, rather than taking the two-pronged approach, that, I feel, will speed up their recovery. But, again, it is their choice, and everyone has their comfort zone.

And so yesterday it rained. But I had a day with Maya, my mom, and a deer showed up in my backyard, too. So it was a pretty good day.

The Dragonslayer

2010-04-16T17:11:00.013-04:00

I am moving my office to Union Square in a few days. I admit to feeling a bit anxious about all of this. More space, more rent, more work. But before I let myself go too far, I stop.

I have faith. Faith that I am making the right decision. Faith that this is the time to make this move. I have a vision of the practice that I wish to create. I have a vision of the type of therapists and support staff I wish to employ and have around me.

I am stealing this line, but it "does take a village." I am not good enough or multi-faceted enough or even have enough time to do all of this myself. I have had help. And for that I am grateful. I think I have been good to people and in return I have received gifts in return. I do not see this changing as my scenery changes, as the challenges and opportunities change.

That being said, let's take a look at the challenges that come to us each day. The ones we expected, the ones we "sort of" expected and the really fun ones--the ones that completely blindsided us.

What challenge are you facing now that you expected? Did you prepare yourself for the challenge? Did you make a list of the steps that needed to be taken to conquer the challenge? Or did you just wait for it and wing it? How did it turn out?

What challenge have you faced that you "sort of" expected to face? Did you do any prep work for this one? Did you get anyone else involved to ease the transition or help you deal with it? Or did you just wait for it and wing it? And how did this one turn out.

And tell me now what challenge has completely blindsided you? How did you respond? What were the immediate thoughts and feelings that flooded you? Were you debilitated? Empowered? Were you oddly excited, but still scared beyond belief? So what did you do? And would you do anything differently now?

Most of us are creatures of habit. As these challenges come, do we respond in the same way time after time? Or do we make a tweak here and there as time passes? I would like to think that I have gotten "smarter" as time passes--when the challenges now come I realize that a quiet confidence is now more present than the time before and the time before that. This is called faith. And trust. And progress.

I called this blog "The Dragonslayer" because of a recent experience a client had after suddenly being told he no longer had a job. And this just after he had signed a lease for a new apartment. After some deliberating, he sent me a text saying that, "You know, I wanted a dragon to slay. This is just the one.." So he is now in his new digs and moving forward.

We can do this.

Pride and Dependence

2010-04-10T17:14:00.007-04:00

I often have clients ask if I think they are codependent. Frankly, I don't know what that means. I believe that that one word has been so overused and bastardized over the years. Maybe we should be asking this question:

Am I relying on you too much for my own success and happiness?

We are creatures of habit. Because of this, we often consciously or unconsciously get comfortable in our ways of doing things, without realizing that we may not be utilizing our own skill set as effectively as we should be.

Case in point (and, believe me, I am not exempt from this): Last Thanksgiving, my trainer, Josh, took several weeks off from training to spend time with his family for the holidays. Fair enough. Everyone has a right to take time off, to restore, renew and refresh themselves.

I don't know exactly what happened next, except that the workout rhythm that I had come to expect and look forward to was interrupted. And I did not handle it as well as I should have. I slacked off going to work out on my own, I was not eating as well as I had been, and as a result, began to feel less energetic, not as healthy, not as happy.

And it was all Josh's fault. There I said it. It was his responsibility alone that I fell off the apple cart. He should have realized that I was not disciplined enough or strong enough to do this on my own--

Does any of this sound familiar? Like it or not, most of us come to depend a bit too much on certain people in our lives. And I am not saying that depending on others is a bad thing--it is clearly not. Depending on others allows us to be and feel vulnerable, which brings us all closer together. But depending too much can be a signal to ourselves that we are not using the gifts that we have been given. In my example, I had just become too used to meeting Josh at the gym--and when that source was no longer present, then I somehow "forgot" everything I had learned.

Why do we forget? Is it just laziness? Is it some pride and ego thing? Maybe, but that's too easy an answer. I think it's confidence, the level of trust we have in ourselves, and the internal critical voice that pops up at the most inopportune times. That voice that says, "Why bother?" or "You can't do this." or "You'll never change, so stop trying." Now, yes, in therapy we can figure out where this voice comes from--where we heard it first. And that can be helpful.

But if we want some immediate relief, we can also use an imagery exercise that I learned from Jill Leigh, founder of the Energy Healing Institute and a dear friend of mine, called "Blowing Pictures." It's pretty simple--"create" a rose out in front of you, at arms length between your head and your heart. Allow yourself to feel that voice/negative belief about yourself. Take that voice/belief out of your body and place it on the rose. Take a moment to "see" those words/belief on the rose. When you have the image, then imagine that you are blowing the rose up, eradicating the voice/the words/the negative belief along with it. It takes some practice, but it works.

So tell that critical voice inside of you right now, that it is no longer needed, and get out there and do something. You heard me!!

2010-04-01T11:34:00.002-04:00

PEOPLE WHO CARE

A few significant things: "they" took down my "I am Powerful" poster at the 23rd Street PATH Station and replaced it with an ad for Daffy's. It was odd--I felt a real loss for a few days, and it made me angry that a good message to all of humanity was replaced with a cheap ad. And, by the way, Daffy's had to take over 3 of the boards--couldn't 1 have been enough? I'm only asking.

The other thing: At night, on the southbound side of the F line at 23rd Street, there has been a young mother and her daughter--probably my daughter's age--homeless, asking for food and money. I passed by them a few times, but finally stopped on Friday evening--it was very cold here in New York that night--and asked, "Do you have somewhere to go?" She replied that they go to the shelter at night. My heart was sick--I gave her a $20 and told her to take care of herself and her little girl. Where are the people who care in her life? Are there any?

I have had this phrase stuck in my head for a few weeks now and it applies specifically to 2 people who have really been there for me in 2 very different ways. One of these people is my friend, Peter, who came back into my life after being absent for many years. Peter has been a loyal friend and a welcome addition to this business as he works tirelessly on all of the behind-the-scene duties that enables me to continue doing my work without all of the distractions. Is he paid handsomely for all of this? Not even close. But he works tirelessly for me even as he manages his own life. And for that I am truly grateful. He is a person who cares.

The other person is my trainer, Josh. We started together last June--I really thought that this would be just another trainer/client relationship. I show up, he makes me sweat and feel inept and then we both go back to our respective lives. But, no--he had to get involved in my diet, my periods of feeling less than motivated, assessing the ongoing issue of creating balance for me--he had to be more than a trainer. After a recent physical setback, he continued to insert himself into my life by checking in, keeping me motivated--you know, that annoying stuff that people who care do.

So this poses a quandary/challenge for me. If I was not a person who cared, I would sincerely hope that I would not be doing this therapy thing for a living. The challenge, here, is how do I become more of a PWC (person who cares), outside of my professional life? Because at the end of some days, I do wonder how much more I have in me.

And this quandary is not isolated to those of us in the mental health field. In whatever field we find ourselves in, how do we make those efforts to show the people in our lives that we care? I need to do a better job of showing the other important people in my life that I, too, am a PWC.

So, who are the people who care in your life? And do they know that they matter? Do they know you appreciate what they do for you? What are you waiting for?

Endurance

2010-03-02T18:10:00.006-05:00

“So when we received the call a little more than 3 months into our sacred experience that some distant family members in one of the Carolinas had come forward claiming they wanted to fight us for custody, our world exploded. Help.”

If you have ever been through the trauma of losing a loved one, experiencing a serious illness, injury or attack, or enduring an experience that wipes you away emotionally, physically, psychically, and spiritually--for us, this was it.

For 12 months, we endured home visits from a revolving door of caseworkers and supervisors from the State of NJ, who, I suspect, were wary of us because when the news was received that our daughter was in jeopardy, we swung into action--notifying pertinent legal institutions, foster parent associations, Oprah (no luck there), the Governor’s Office; and we were relentless in going up the chain of command in the Department of Youth and Family Services. “How could a case,” we asked, “that was to be a no-brainer going for adoption suddenly turn up family in the Carolinas? Wasn’t a diligent search conducted?”

And the simple answer was: “There are no guarantees.”

And yes, there are no guarantees. When we were presented with this explanation, it fueled the fire further. There were the monthly court visits to Newark. We would be there (minus Maya), along with Maya’s law guardian, the caseworkers, and the DYFS attorneys. Noticeably absent: the family members who were trying to gain custody.

And so it went. Month after month. I would walk by Maya’s room the night before a court hearing and wonder if tomorrow would be the day the family would finally appear. How would I react? My fantasy would be to leap across the table, shake them and ask them why they were doing this--destroying our family-- but then my fantasy relented, knowing that I would undoubtedly get arrested.

Court date after court date, they remained absent--where were they? Was this some sick game going on here? They were always mentioned. We knew they existed. And we continually, desperately, probably pathetically at times told the Judge how well Maya was doing with us, and in school, and how she was so loved by our families and friends, and how medically she was perfect, given that she was born to a methadone-addicted mother, and how....

It was Christmas, 2003. Maya had just turned 6 months. There was a great deal of sadness and crying that holiday season. My mom and stepdad had come out for Thanksgiving. Every visit was treated as a final one. It was harrowing. Nothing changed, and yet things were moving so quickly. The milestones: crawling, creeping, trying to upright herself --expanding that smile of hers. All of that great stuff that you read about in the baby books--it was happening! All of it, and a part of me wanted to tell her to STOP. "Stop. Because I just don’t know what the end of the story is!” But the other part, I just watched in awe as she gathered more and more of my heart in her little brown hands and those big, wide “I love this world” eyes.

We began 2004 with more court dates, more caseworkers--our most recent one left her job because of the stress of our case--more shuffling by her room the night before Court and wondering...

Now if I were operating in a bubble during this time, it still would have been immensely difficult, but no, I was working. That previous summer, I had started a group practice with 2 other colleagues. And my initial zeal with getting a business off the ground and building and creating a mental health practice in Lower Manhattan, began to tarnish as my energies were more focused on Maya and the possibility of dealing with a devastating loss. Weekly business partner meetings often included statements such as, “Jeff, we feel that you are absent.” And I was.

Call it denial, call it stubborn Midwest work ethic, I tried to keep plowing through. In regards to the client work, I think I did some of my best work up to that time--”I KNOW and FEEL your pain.” In regards to building a business, I sucked.

As Spring 2004 approached, the mystery family saga continued--and it should be noted that the cast changed--the initial responders dropped out because of some legal issues that would prevent them from becoming foster parents , and now new family had taken their place. What was driving them? The Judge, thankfully, did not care and had reached his threshold. “I want this child to have a bonding assessment with her foster parents.”

Now a bonding assessment is an evaluation that lasts about an hour or so and is conducted by a psychologist. What he/she is looking for is to basically see how the child interacts with the family; if he/she feels in their professional opinion, that to remove the child from the current home environment would be detrimental to the health and safety of the child.

The evaluation took place in June. Well, it was stressful. Would Maya be in a good mood? Would she be playful? Would she ignore us? Would the psychologist be able to "see" how well we all fit together? Was Maya really attached to us or would she look at this doctor and say, in deadpan, “Get me out of here.”

Life is funny when you are under acute stress. We bought a new house. It was bigger, had more land, cost more money than our previous one--and it was just 4 blocks away. But we thought that if we were to lose Maya, better to “start over” and not pass by that room where we brought her home from the hospital what seemed to be a lifetime ago. And we went to couples counseling for a bit--just to make sure we were “OK.” Ha.

Weeks passed. No word. A new caseworker. He slowly seemed to be giving us a bit more info than any of the others in the past. And then one night, his car was in the driveway when I returned home. We went in the house and he told me that the latest family had not submitted the necessary medicals after numerous requests and that the bonding assessment was “the best he and his superiors have ever seen.”

The feeling of being sucker punched is how all of this began. His words regarding the family and the bonding assessment and the likelihood that perhaps this might be over, created a dizzying effect that took me a moment to recover from.

I have 2 empty bottles of champagne on the mantel in my bedroom. A Veuve Clicquot, with the date August 20, 2004 written on it. The day the Judge reviewed the bonding assessment, looked at us straight in eye, smiled and instructed the representatives from the Department of Youth and Family Services to begin immediately the process of us becoming Maya’s legal parents.

The other bottle is a Moet Chandon, dated January 4, 2005. And that is the day it happened. We did it.

WE'LL TAKE HER!

2010-01-20T20:19:00.004-05:00

We’ll take her? What are we doing? Buying a pound of bananas?

It’s hard to sometimes distinguish the enormity of an action, until you are in the thick of it. Such was the case with us. On the surface, we were to begin fostering a child with the eventual hope of adopting.

The news among family and friends traveled swiftly, and their reactions were mostly positive and supportive. From my father, who had been battling health and marital woes, the generous, loving comments were absent.

“What the fuck are you thinking? A white couple with a black baby? How are you going to deal with that? What are people going to say? Well, I will have nothing to do with it.”

IT. My addition to the family. My attempt to create a family. And you are calling her IT?

Memories flooded back of years of fights and misunderstandings. Of expectations gone awry. It never really disappeared, did it, Dad? It just went into hibernation for a bit.

For the sake of brevity, I will say that this antagonistic back and forth continued. I will say that my father, who grew up in the 40s in an all-white upper-middle class enclave in suburban Detroit, could not understand that the winds of change were hitting his family.

We were not trailblazers, this was happening more and more. Interracial couples, interracial families....This process made more sense to us than reaching across the oceans where we could find a baby the same color as us. Given my experience with the foster care system in NY and NJ, the fact of the matter is that there is a backlog of kids--and most of them are of color. And the child that the Universe sent to us was black. And we fell in love with her.

We had had minimal contact with the Division of Youth and Family Services during this time. They knew that Maya was in a good home, that she was safe and loved. We were plugging away to the day where she could finally be adopted and be legally ours. We knew that she was considered a fost-adopt child. This meant that because of her family status and the history that her birth mother had with the Division, the chances were unlikely that she or any other family member could or would come forward to take custody of her. The fost-adopt program was considered a fast-track option to the eventual adoption.

We wanted to be parents--it was the practical, logical next step. We had done the New York City nightlife stuff, did the great restaurants, the shows, the concerts, the extravagant vacations. We had purchased our first home, had 3 cats, and endured the pains and memories of 9/11. The creation of a family was the next practical, logical, grown-up step.

(I heard yesterday that 54 kids were airlifted out of Haiti en-route to the United States to be with their adoptive families. Help is still on the way.)

There is no normal parenting experience. Every kid brings something different to the family dynamic--whether biological or adoptive. Every parent, also, reacts differently given their history. So we muddled through. And had many a sleepless night, exercised less, put the weight on--because she was the center of the Universe--of our Universe. Sleep can be reclaimed, weight can be lost. But to witness her laugh, smile, and sound out her first words and attempt her first steps--well, there is nothing more sacred.

So when we received the call a little more than 3 months into our sacred experience that some distant family members in one of the Carolinas had come forward claiming they wanted to fight us for custody, our world exploded.

Help.

HELP IS ON THE WAY

2010-01-17T10:21:00.004-05:00

So blare the headlines as the tragedy in Haiti becomes even worse.

And help is on the way. From much of the world. Tons of supplies, millions of dollars, and an infinite amount of prayers, meditations, loving thoughts, and tears. So many tears.

I texted to 90999 last evening--this is the number that will charge your phone bill $10 and give that to the Red Cross. I was happy to do it, but wanted so desperately to do more. It’s some small thing, I suppose.

So I get stuck in my thoughts, I become frustrated at the frailty of this human condition. I don’t have to detail the stories coming out, although there is one that particularly caught my eye--a story that highlighted the plight of 254 children who were in the process of being adopted by American families. (http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/34864977/ns/today-today_people/)

We can hope and pray that all of these children are alive and well and that their adoptions will be expedited. We can hope that lost paperwork will not be an issue. We can hope. The pain these expectant parents are experiencing is something I can especially understand.

My daughter, Maya, is 6. She is a gregarious soul with a heart and spirit that touches me in a way that no one has ever--or will ever--be able to accomplish.

We met Maya when she was just 6 weeks old. Born to a drug-addicted mother in Newark, NJ, a woman who had borne several other children before her, Maya (formerly named Tamika), was immediately placed into State custody. Her mother visited her just once before heading back out to the streets. There is no biological father listed on her birth certificate. She was visited by a maternal grandmother on a regular basis, but she could not claim custody of Tamika because of a felony record.

We had been waiting for a phone call from the New Jersey Department of Youth and Family Services for some time. The call finally came and we were instructed to drive to UMDNJ Hospital in Newark. We were instructed to go to the “Border Baby” unit, a sort of Land of Misfit Toys for infants. These babies (how many were there--30? 40?) were stacked in rows waiting for parents like us to come forward, waiting for family members--or just waiting. The nurses had their work cut out for them--how do you physically and emotionally care for these newborns? My knowledge from grad school regarding human development--attachment, bonding---all of that good stuff that I know is so important--didn’t UMDNJ know that this is critical? What kind of start to being one with the planet is this?

Our focus was re-directed from this overwhelming spectacle to one drab, used way-too-often, bassinet. And inside, a child weighing just over 6 pounds at 6 weeks. I had never seen a baby so small, so (I assumed) helpless.

We were there for about an hour. We fed her, we changed her, we held her, and we fell in love with her.

We went back home that evening, leaving Tamika in the Land of Misfit Toys. The call to the State worker was made the next day. “We’ll take her!” we breathlessly reported.

Help is on the way. To be continued...

CARRY ON

2009-11-02T15:23:00.001-05:00

Being from Detroit, I was (and proudly, still am) a Motown junkie. Even though Motown Records had moved to LA by the time I really began to appreciate the music, it did not matter. Diana Ross, The Supremes, Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Stevie Wonder---MAGIC.

I remember my first Diana Ross concert. It was at The Ford Auditorium in downtown Detroit. It was in the late 70s. I went with my mom, my grandmother, my best friend. I think I was in junior high. The concert was awesome, but what I remember most was my grandmother getting up out of her seat with her program, going a few rows in front of us and getting autographs from Diana's brother, mother, and and Aretha Franklin. I still have that program. Classic.

Carry on.

Who would have thought that a handful of years later that my grandmother would be propping up her daughter (my mom) and her sons, after her daughter's husband abruptly left the home, the marriage, the family. Were it not for her, I do not know what would have become of us. Because of her, the bills were paid, there was food on the table and there was a sense that love was still around us.

Carry on.

My first therapist in New York was a psychoanalyst. Susan was wonderful. She helped me through some particularly difficult times as I wrestled with family issues, especially my history with my dad. Through weekly sessions and group therapy, I was able to let go of so much of the critical talk that had hindered me for most of my life and I began to understand that I was not responsible for all of this pain.

Carry on.

I am in awe of those who come into my office seeking relief. For many, they have been let down by those who should have been taking care of them and loving them. They have endured, they have felt pain, they have gingerly walked through life, not being able to trust themselves or others. I am inspired by the leap of faith they take when they sit on my couch and attempt to trust a complete stranger in the hopes that just maybe, things will begin to look and feel a little brighter.

Carry on.

None of this is easy. But the lesson here is that it does not have to be done alone. It is risky to go against "what you know" and trust an outsider. It is risky to open up the box of pain, secrets, and shadows and begin the process of setting them free. It is risky to contemplate another way of being. It is risky, it is risky, it is risky. But for a second, try to imagine what your life could look like "if I did set this stuff free."

It could be pretty amazing.

Carry on.

(By the way, I used "Carry On" because it is on my running tape and Diana Ross sings it. There's the connection!)

E.K.

2009-08-21T14:25:00.001-04:00

In the late 1980s, I needed to take a break from my life. So I went on a month-long Sabbatical and began volunteering for an organization in the East Village founded by Marianne Williamson called The Manhattan Center for Living.

I found myself surrounded by an amazingly eclectic, loving and extremely dedicated group of individuals who were committed to fighting the-then death sentence of HIV/AIDS. Straight and Gay/All Colors and Religions--and I was with them. They welcomed me. This was what I needed to get away from the highly critical voice in my head that was telling me over and over again that I was not living the life that I was intended to.

And, by the way, I was not making a ton of money, I did not have anything saved. I just used up every hour of comp time, vacation time and sick time--I was determined to clear my head. One way or another.

One of my many responsibilities at The Center was to serve as a Peer Counselor. One of my first clients was this guy named E. E. was an actor, early 30s, from California. He was gay and his first sexual experience with a guy resulted in him getting infected and soon developing full-blown AIDS. He had an incredibly promising New York career ahead of him.

E and I would meet once a week at The Center for lunch, talk about his life, his management of his illness and he would go on his way. Soon, however, a friendship developed and more time was spent outside of The Center. He was soon incorporated into my circle of friends and we would all go to restaurants and concerts together and I was included into his life as well--meeting his theater friends, his roommate, his brother. It was the meeting of and the healing, I believe of 2 wounded souls.

Because at that time, I was certainly feeling my share of wounds. Dissatisfied with my professional and personal life and continually feeling that this wall that I kept slamming into was bruising me into someone who I no longer recognized when I dared to peek in the mirror in the morning, I knew that there were 2 choices: quit my life or change.

If I did the former, I knew that I would devastate my mother and grandmother, and, admittedly, I think I realized that I did not have the guts to do anything harmful to myself and I think I also understood that no matter how awful I felt, there was always that twinge of hope--no matter how small.

During the time that I spent with E, I was initially awed, but then just came to expect his courage, his strength and his warmth during the harrowing hospitalizations he endured. He would go in for a few days and then come out. He would be readmitted for a few days more and come out. And the stays became longer and longer. His weight declined, lesions appeared, his hair thinned, and it was difficult for him to speak, but his eyes continued to shine--because he knew he was dying and he knew he was going to be "all right." He had peace.

E was eventually flown back home to California to be with his family. . Before he passed away, I received a postcard from him from Disneyland with Minnie Mouse on the cover--"Jeff--this IS the happiest place on Earth!" Love, E.

I have a framed Christmas Card from E on my desk in my office that I look at several times a day. On it, he wrote, "...so much depends on love today. may we heal our hearts."

Well, Erik, you certainly healed mine.

THE MYSTERIOUS LAND OF ALMOST

2009-08-01T20:40:00.001-04:00

I ﬁnd myself in this place.

I have almost completely quit drinking.

I have almost lost my stomach.

I almost want to take some more acting classes again.

I almost want to buy a guitar and take lessons.

I have almost regained my urge to begin writing my book again.

I have almost created the practice I want.

Almost.

The mysterious, magical land of almost. There was a time, when I could not even think of almost. There was a time when the world was colored in such a way that the task(s) at hand was either possible or impossible. I was either competent or not. The world was inviting or hostile. There was no middle ground. And when we (or I) see that there is no middle ground, then it is difﬁcult to imagine the possibility. And the possibility is that we (I) can achieve what we desire.

So how did I take myself from the land of the lost to the land of the almost?

• Well, I had to hit bottom several times. I made many stupid mistakes career-wise, health-wise and personally (I donʼt recommend this--but I obviously had someone or something watching over me). So I learned from my repeated mistakes.

• I began to detect the people around me who were positive forces and those who were not. Those who brought good energy into my life and those who did not. Those who contributed to my well-being and those who had their own agenda.

• I took a serious look at some unhealthy behaviors that I had acquired. Specifically, the vodka martini that had somehow become a “family tradition” since I was in college, and was there in good times and bad. And as the cast of characters changed, VM was still there--loyal to a fault. So at the beginning of this year, I made the decision to change our relationship. We now see each other about 2 times a month, but like with any relationship, there are memories associated with it, and many of them are not that great, so I am saying goodbye. And, actually, it feels pretty good. And I feel great.

• When I am not working, I will throw myself into “happy.” I do not want to watch the news ( I will read the Hufﬁngton Post and the New York Times during the day) at night, I do not want to hear why there is more evidence that Obama is not a citizen--I want funny--any BBC comedy series, any old movie from the 40s or 50s. Or I will curl up with a Bombeck book. If Bombeck does not do it for me at the moment, then I will pick up something a bit more inspiring, spiritual, uplifting. Just as long as itʼs hopeful.

• Physical exercise has been a huge lift for me. Pilates at home--by myself--no fear of doing it “wrong” or being judged--just me, the mat, and the dvd. Easy. And the gym at least 5 days a week. That has cleared my head and opened me up in ways that I never thought possible. And if you can afford a trainer, all the better. Given the economy, I am sure there are trainers out there who would be willing to make deals to attract new clients.

• And, yes, therapy. Having an outlet is key. Having someone who can help you identify patterns of behavior, whether known or not. Having someone who can cheer you on, help get you out of that “stuck” place.

You know, getting to the goal is great--but please do not underestimate almost. I look at my Almost List and smile--Iʼm getting there--you can, too.

GOOSE BUMPS

2009-07-29T07:45:00.002-04:00

My note from The Universe (www.TUT.com) said this today:

"Look at it like this, Jeff, the more challenging your life story has been so far, the bigger the goose bumps for future generations who retell it to their kids. Who will no doubt add, "And if Jeff Robinson was able to do all that, so can you!"

We've barely just begun - "

Good to hear.

So, imagine you are laying on a blanket under an old oak in the park listening to 2 strangers talk about your life--what would you be hearing? The accomplishments you achieved? The people you touched? The money you made? The possessions you acquired? The relationships you cultivated? The chances you took? Or the risks you avoided?

Would you be proud? Touched? Inspired? Sad? Frustrated?

If you're like me, it's probably a mixed bag.

And if you're like me, your eyes may be focused to that last question: "Or the risks you avoided?"

What message, then, do we send ourselves when we avoid taking a risk? Yes, we get busy, we get tired, money is tight, there is a recession, my 401K is dwindling, the locusts are coming.......

But what is the more subtle message? Could it be that we have been somehow conditioned to avoid rather than face life head-on (to live life ALMOST in the moment). Could it be that we have been conditioned to learn that any sort of conflict is a danger to us? That if we dare become near to it, then we risk something close to a cataclysm?

And...if we do peak around the corner of that risk and dare to dream for a mili-moment, are we then faced with the prospect of failure, and the eventual (and this is dramatic) destruction of ourself? So we do what is comfortable, and crawl back into our safe zone.

No risk=No threat to myself. Simple. And known.

THE 2-STEP

There are many parts of me that I consider pretty fearless. I am pretty confident in my business skills and feel confident in what I have created and what has yet to be created. I am confident in my ability to size people up and to determine whether or not they are "good" for me. I am pretty confident with speaking up for myself and getting my needs met.

Where I have discovered my fear is alive and well is in my physical realm. There will be a later and lengthier blog on this, but during a recent session with my trainer at the gym, one of the routines was to hold 10 pound weights in each hand and take the steps up 2 at a time for 5 reps. Normally--let me correct myself--back in 2005--I would have done that with ease.

But pre- and post-hip surgery, I became very unsure of myself--"Can I do this?" "What will I look like to others in the gym--will I be wobbly?" "I am going to look unsure of myself."

The message my brain was sending to my leg, my soul, my psyche, the Universe, was:

"IF YOU CANNOT DO THIS PERFECTLY, THEN DO NOT DO IT AT ALL."

I must have looked down at my right leg for a good 2 minutes and up at those stairs for another 2. I had visions of my hip popping out of its socket, EMS being called, having to go back to The Hospital for Joint Diseases and trying to explain to my surgeon what happened. And then, I would be bed-ridden for another month. James Caan, MISERY, redux.

"Fuck it." I grabbed the 2 weights, hiked my stronger left leg up to the 2nd step first and followed with the more challenged right one. And then the right leg took the risk and swung up the 2 steps--shakily--but it made it. And I did that all the way to the top. And 4 more times. And later in the workout, 4 more times after that.

If there was a moment for me--that was mine. It wasn't perfect. I won no awards that day. No one, albeit Josh, congratulated me on my accomplishment. That was appreciated, of course, but I KNEW that I did something huge that day and THAT gave me goose bumps.

Go get some goose bumps today! You deserve it.

I HATE YOU

2009-06-12T19:42:00.002-04:00

God, when I was a kid, I can’t even begin to imagine how many times these words spilled from my lips.

And where did they land? In the ears of my mom, my dad, my beloved grandma, my brother, friends, love interests...

And the memories of those words rose again the other afternoon when I heard of the shooting at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC.

Why do we do this?

Why do we hang people from trees because of their skin color?

Why do we beat them and leave them on an old fence to slowly die because of their sexual preference?

Why do we fly planes into buildings killing innocent people because we don’t like their governments and the ideals of democracy and freedom?

Why do we drag men from behind pick-up trucks because of their skin color?

Why do we drive cars with babies strapped in carseats into a lake and leave them there to drown?

Why do we chase, attack and kill people who do not look like us, or believe in what we may believe in?

Why do we maim, rape and slaughter thousands and thousands of refugees who are trying to flee a dangerous land in order to build a better life for themselves and their children?

Why do we rejoice when abortion doctors are slaughtered in churches and in their places of work?

Why do we celebrate when gay soldiers are killed in action?

Why are we happy when people die of AIDS?

Why do we kill civic leaders who are trying to create a better place for vast segments of society?

Why do we shoot up campuses, hotels, cafes--places that were once safe havens for study, for sleep, for solace?

Why do we deny tragedies such as the Holocaust?

Why do we pit Muslims against Christians against Jews against...?

Why do we decide who should marry, who should bear children, who should abort children, who should live where, who can join the country club, who can adopt?

Why do we do this?

Well, the obvious reason is because we are afraid. The more complicated answer is because when I was a kid, I said, “I hate you.”

THE GRAND MARQUIS

2009-06-07T23:33:00.000-04:00

The Grand Marquis Station Wagon with Wood on the Side, Marianne Williamson’s Miracle Thoughts, The Red Audi, The Middle Finger, and Me

.I work Saturdays. I like working Saturdays. There is no traffic at The Holland Tunnel. I am able to zip in and out of the city. It almost feels like a non-work day. Everything just seems a bit more relaxed and at peace.

A few weeks ago, I was driving my usual route from my home to the Garden State Parkway and this Grand Marquis Station Wagon with wood on the side pulled out in front of me. No biggie. I was relaxed. I had my sunroof open, my windows down and was listening to Marianne Williamsonʼs Miracle Thoughts for my daily lift and spiritual awakening. I was in a good space.

The speed limit on the road that I take to the Parkway varies between 25 and 45. Evidently the guy in the GMSW did not take note. He was averaging 20-25. I was still pretty cool. Marianne was doing her job.

Cars were beginning to pile up behind me. I could not pass the guy--double yellow lines. And, frankly, I was in no hurry.

Huh, he seems to be slowing down, I observed.

To my dismay, I began to draw a mental and physical picture of this guy. I knew he was a smoker--I could see the the cancer clouds billowing from his driverʼs side window. Was he off to work this morning? Was he pissed that he has to work on a Saturday and was his controlling the flow of traffic his way of feeling that he has some control over his world or was it just a “fuck you” to people like me who drive foreign cars? “Jeff--stop doing this--listen to Miracle Thoughts!”

Our journey continues. We pass the soccer fields, and as we approach the train tracks The Grand Marquis realizes a train is coming and that he is not going to make it before the crossing gate comes down. He is pissed. He begins pounding his fists and forearms on his steering wheel and dashboard. It is a sight to behold. I smile. Lifeʼs not that bad, buddy, I try to convey to him.

The train eventually passes, the crossing gates rise, and The Grand Marquis, once again begins his 20-mile an hour saunter with a caravan of at least a dozen cars in his wake. What is he hoping to gain here? I can see that he is looking at me in his rear view mirror. What is he thinking?

We eventually arrive at the intersection at Central Avenue, which will take me to the Parkway. This is a major road. The Grand Marquis blows through the red light, tires screeching. I am intrigued. I follow--after making my appropriate stop and legal right on red, of course!! I catch up to him on his right. With all of his God-given might, he leans over to the passenger side of his Grand Marquis Station Wagon, and mightily thrusts his right arm out the window and gives me the finger with a loud and hoarse “FUCK YOU!”

“Forgiveness offers everything I want.” That is the Miracle Thought I was listening to that day.

I totally forgive that guy. I know that it wasnʼt me that pissed him off that beautiful Saturday morning. So many factors could have been affecting how he was feeling that day. And perhaps being trailed by some guy in an Audi, didnʼt help--who knows? That

is between him and ......

So, letʼs remember, when we find ourselves the recipients of some unexpected, and certainly unwanted hostility and/or criticism, maybe, just maybe we need to take a step back, not react in the moment and show a little empathy and mercy. That stuff goes a long way.

And, to be honest, I have not always done it, but Iʼm getting better at it. Because in the past, if I was attacked, I would come back at you with guns blazing or write you off as if you never existed. But now, I like to think I am learning to be a little more thoughtful, a little more caring and, most importantly, a little more forgiving.

There are Grand Marquis Station Wagons with wood on the side all around us. We can live happy lives with them as long as we do not react when they want us to. Even as they thrust us the finger. Very classy.

HOCUS POCUS DOMINO-CUS

2009-06-06T10:14:00.001-04:00

I recently hired a personal trainer. Josh is probably the 6th or 7th Iʼve hired over the years. Some have been good, some have been okay. Josh is by far the best. (And, Josh, if you do read this, keep yourself in check, buddy!)

I had an interesting moment with Josh the other day. Actually, let me back up. We had our initial meeting in my office. I gave Josh my workout history and what I hoped to accomplish in our time together. I also told him that my primary goal was to be back running with the New York Roadrunners Club in the fall. But before I did that, I needed to get my legs much stronger.

So the other day at the gym, we were doing a new exercise for my quads. Now remember, with the hip surgery a few years ago, the right quad muscles were almost completely weakened. So with my goals in mind, Josh was showing me a step-up exercise where one foot is on an elevated surface while the other foot is flat on the floor with the toes up. The bottom foot is slowly raised to join the other on the elevated surface. It sounds simple and is a very effective workout to strengthen the quadriceps.

I tried and tried, but could not do it. My quadriceps were just not strong enough. Frustrated, deflated, and pissed, I finally said “Josh, this is not going to work for me right now. I canʼt do this.”

“Okay, Jeff, weʼll try something else.”

\He set up an alternative squat exercise and as I readied myself, I found that my thoughts were still on that last set. I could not shake my recent “failure”.

Josh sensed my distraction. “You seem discouraged. Whatʼs going on?”

The magic words.

In that instant, the gates opened. I had a flashback of a teenage kid on the golf course with his Dad and uncles, frustrated, because his ball was in a sand trap and he could not get it out. But no one asked me if they could help--no guidance was offered. I just remember Dad admonishing me, “Jeff, settle down.”

When Josh spoke those few simple words, I was okay. I knew I would get through this. I had someone with me who was going to help me attain my goals. I was not being put down, I was not being told that I was weak. I was being told that everything was going to be okay. Goals and plans are not fixed--adjustments can be made.

Most importantly: Even though I did not say a word about how I was feeling, Josh picked up on my concern--that is the critical piece here.

How often do we miss the opportunity to just check in with those around us if we perceive that they may be feeling a bit down or discouraged? Are we able to get

outside of our own heads? Of our own stuff? And just show a little a tenderness? A little understanding? A little mercy?

When clients come to my office, my inner dialogue often begins with:

I know that you are struggling--you have come to this place--my office; you are sitting in this chair, this couch. But I also know that you are resilient. You have endured and are enduring pain and conflict. You have been hurt by those you loved and those you thought loved you. You have felt misunderstood and not heard at critical moments. You have had dreams that have been squashed either by your own hands or the hands of others or the universe. You have expectations that have not been achieved and now you wonder, “Is it me? Do I need too much?” And the questions deepen, and linger, and persist and the noise in your mind continues. But sometimes, the simplest of remedies is just an outside voice asking, “You seem discouraged--whatʼs going on?”

Itʼs pretty simple stuff, really.

HOME

2009-05-29T20:45:00.001-04:00

Home can bring up so many connotations for each of us--some amazing, some warm, some funny, some empty, and some harrowing.

When I think of home, I am reminded of the complexity of the feelings born, raised, and fertilized inside that knobby-kneed little kid who grew up in the brick house in suburban Detroit. And, actually, that little kid and all his big feelings reared his head last Tuesday and stuck around to play for a few days.

Why did he show up at this time? I don’t know.

What did he hope to gain? Not sure.

What effect did he have on me, Jeff, the “grown-up”?

I got scared.

For those few days, it felt very difficult to find my stride, to grab hold of the successes that I had been achieving. I tried to do my “normal” stuff--eat the same, sleep the same, get to the gym--all of that--but...”he was still around.”

And then he was gone. And I felt better. I felt lighter and back to my old self. So what do you think? Why do these moments hit us? Or-- why do we bring on or create these moments of insecurity or doubt? Why do we open the doors of insecurity? Is it an attempt to go “home”?

So let’s talk of home. It gets exhausting to be a grown-up. We have to be responsible for our jobs, our finances, our spouses, our partners, our kids, our families. Our apartments, our houses, our cars. Our health and education. We feel that we need to be concerned about not only our past, present and futures, but the past, present, and futures of everything I have previously listed. Shit!

So maybe, just maybe, Jeff the grownup got tired last week. And that pesky little kid showed up, because the gatekeeper was not on duty. Maybe this was my attempt to give up my power, retreat and go home, praying that I could be taken care of for a few days, or years.

The moral? My home--my body, my internal system--may not have been experiencing the healthiest balance. I have no qualms having that knobby-kneed kid show up--I love that kid--but he should not be a drain, he should be an addition to my life. When he’s a drain, I know that I’m not doing something right. When he shows up, I want there to be more laughter, more bounce in my steps, more twinkle in my eyes as I scoop my daughter in my arms.

That’s the way it should be. Simple.

THE WATCH

2009-04-29T14:36:00.001-04:00

I read an obituary today, and it ended with the line, “She had no survivors.” Iʼve read lines like that a thousand times before, but today, for some reason, it resonates.

Maybe because I just had a birthday a few weeks back. Maybe because a FaceBook friend from high school and college just had a birthday and she wrote me a few days ago reminding me that we are approaching a milestone year soon.

When she wrote that, I thought, “Wow--I donʼt feel like that number (**please note the irony here: I am not sharing that number with you.). I certainly donʼt (think I) look like that number, and God knows, I donʼt (think I) act like that number, either! Reassurance???

“She had no survivors.” I am coming up on the 4th Anniversary of my Dadʼs death. There is not a day that goes by when I do not think of him. Some of his ashes are in a pine box on my piano in our living room; I have a tree planted for him in our yard with some of his ashes mixed in with the soil. And in my ofﬁce, on the freestanding bookshelf that rests next to the chair where I sit for every session--lays his watch.

That watch. It wasnʼt a Rolex, or a Tag Heuer. Itʼs pretty nondescript, actually.....

It was probably the Summer of 2002. Like most Annapolis summers, it was hot and humid. Like most Annapolis summers, we were probably drinking our Stoli Martinis and reminiscing about the “way it had been.”

My dad was pretty sick by this time, but he could still knock back those extra-dry martinis. And I shared this ritual with him--screw the mild hangover the next morning-this was our attempt, albeit not the most functional, to connect.

“Here, Jeff, I want you to have this.”

He slipped the watch from his now-frail wrist--that wrist that putted for pars and birdies,that wrist that used to teach me his tennis serves when I was a young kid, the wrist that helped him draw funny cartoon characters that my brother, Brad, and I would marvel at.

“Dad--I--I--canʼt take this. Itʼs yours.”

“Jeff--I am your father--I want you to have this. Forcefully, but with a sense of resignation and maybe some regret for our not-always peaceful relationship, he said,“Take it..” He waved it at me, urging me to grab it.

Our eyes met for a brief, brief moment--and I panicked.

“Dad--I--I donʼt want it--I donʼt like it. I donʼt wear watches like that. Iʼm sorry. (I paused.) Maybe Brad would want it.”

“Then, thatʼs okay--never mind--itʼs okay. Iʼll take it back.”

He did not look at me. His hand shook a bit as he pulled the watch back toward him, much like a poker player tentatively pulling back his chips.

Realizing what I had done, I began to clumsily, stupidly backtrack. “No, Dad, I want it- Iʼm sorry--I donʼt know what I was--”

“Jeff--itʼs okay. Itʼs okay.” He slowly slipped it back on his wrist. He took a small sip from his glass. “Itʼs really hot here today, isnʼt it?”

“Yeah, Dad, it is.” I took a gulp from my drink, spilling some of it on my shirt.

Jeff--you are a fucking idiot.

Survivors.

CLEANSERS

2009-04-12T17:47:00.000-04:00

PART 1

So, I am on Day 5 of a 5 Day Cleanse. A cleanse is kind of like a detox. You put all natural, unpasteurized fruit and vegetable juices in your body. The program I am on supplies me with 6 assorted drinks that I consume in a particular order throughout the day. I can also drink water and herbal teas. Monday was my first day of doing this--I wanted to stick nails in my eyes--I was in my bed by 6:30pm praying for my caffeine withdrawals to subside and watching the Bearenstain Bears with Maya--poor thing--she did not even know the agony I was in.

When I awoke Tuesday morning, I was still feeling a bit shaky, but was feeling better. By Tuesday afternoon, I felt pretty much okay and by the evening, I felt great. Since then, I have felt AWESOME.

You know what’s odd? Not chewing food. I have conditioned myself throughout the day to chew on apples, almonds, sushi, salads, and at night, assorted meats and vegetables. But to not chew? Weird.

My head is clearer. I am feeling more motivated. And I have dropped almost 10 pounds in 4 days. Wild.

So my mom asked me the other day, “Jeff, why are you doing this?”

I replied, “Well, Mom, I am not getting any younger, I have been eating way too much red meat and carbs. I am not happy with who I see in the mirror in the morning--I have never weighed this much in my life, and I want to feel healthier.”

Then she asked, “So what happens after the cleanse is over?”

Pause. “Good question--that is the challenge.”

And then we both laughed.

And we both laughed because I have been down this road many times before. I have the idea, I have the vision, I have the desire, I have the plan and then KABOOM!

It falls apart.

I’ve alluded to this before in a few other posts. Consistency, focused consciousness--good words. Wonderful principles.

But it takes work and determination to put into motion. And you know what? It’s not too late. I’ll keep you updated.

PART 2

So, I went to bed with Mary Tyler Moore last night and woke up with Mary and Robert Redford.

Let me explain. It was a dream!

Robert Redford directed Mary Tyler Moore in the movie, Ordinary People, back in 1980. I really connected with that film. My parents’ marriage had just dissolved, I was forced to give up school for a while because of financial constraints, and I was going through my own emotional hell, so I really identified with the pain that the characters in that film were experiencing. The role I played in my family was the “feeling sponge”--if there were feelings dripping around, I would sop ‘em up!

Though the film did not center around divorce, it did focus on what can happen in a family when expectations, judgements, rigidity and fear, outweigh compassion, love and understanding. And the protagonist, Conrad, lost in the family’s tide of grief following his older brother’s death, also took in the family’s pain. I got him--we were doing the same thing. His story and mine were so close.

The other difference was that I did not have his therapist, played by Judd Hirsch to go to, to talk of my pain, to cry, to get a hug. It was all kept inside. And it was toxic. Sure, I got it out sometimes with the help of alcohol and weed, but I think we all know that these are not effective coping strategies. But in that moment, that is all I knew. I had no one to go to.

And I was reminded of an article I read in the Times the other day. And this is something I was already aware of, but it is always nice to be hit with it again.

One of the great travesties, in my opinion, is the way we take care of our youth who are aging out of the foster care system. Basically, these kids, when they turn 18, are let loose into the world with no safety net, except Medicaid insurance and maybe $1000--more or less. And a lot of this depends on how effective their caseworker has been in their advocacy. So now, given the economy, and given their emotional baggage and their less-than-perfect educational background, they have some hefty challenges to face--more often without the aid of family or any support system. Oh yes, and no job prospects.

How would we handle this? I guess we could do what I did and drink and smoke some weed to alleviate the pain, but this only lasts so long.

Put yourself in the shoes of an 18 year-old boy or girl, shunted from home to home, from school to school, belongings transported in a black Hefty bag. Attachments, for the most part have been difficult to form, because of troubles in this foster home or that one, because this foster parent accused me of this, or I did not get along with this kid.

Some foster children are held up to such an incredibly ridiculous high set of expectations that we would never hold our own children to. And if we did--well, we would need a bunch more child therapists. But we don’t think about the impact on these kids who have been left behind. It is heartbreaking.

So, as you read about about me wanting to put nails in my eyes because I am going thru a caffeine withdrawal because I have just spent $325 on a cleanse, let’s just tell each other:

Keep Life In Perspective.

TRUTH AND SWEAT

2009-03-28T21:12:00.003-04:00

There is an editorial in today’s New York Times that really touched me. It centered on the case of Benita Veliz, a 23 year-old college graduate. Here is the link--read the article and get back to me.

NYTimes Article

I don’t care what your opinion on “illegal immigration” is, but if you are able to look at this young woman from a pure, non-judgmental point of view, this is certainly someone that I would want in my corner.

In spite of the obstacles that she has undoubtedly faced and faces now, she moves forward. I am sure she has become discouraged along the way, but she has this knowing quality in her heart and soul that soothes the doubts and affirms, “Benita, keep going--this is what the universe intended.”

So, how do we do this? How do we do this when we “know” that we have this stuff in our heads that tells us “What are you thinking?” and “You can’t do this!!”

Oh, ye of little faith! Recognizing that, “Yes, in my past these things have occurred that have hindered me, but today is the day I take the leap. Today is the day that I acknowledge my past. Today is the day that I respect and forgive the decisions I have made, knowing that I did what I had to do AT THAT TIME.”

When we remove the debris that we so recklessly collect, when we move aside the hurts and sorrows and anger, we can do what Benita is doing. We can stretch ourselves, we can challenge the “No you cant’s” that are racing through our minds.

Last year, I realized that I was feeling less than “myself.” Yes, I was working, I was having quality family time, but I knew that I needed to stretch some other muscles. So I thought I would take an acting class at The Stella Adler Studio here in Manhattan--just a few blocks from my office. Perfect.

Now, I was in Debate and Forensics in high school--I did okay, won a few trophies, but I never really “acted.” The closest I got was an offer to sing a solo in my grade school Christmas Pageant. “Silver Bells” was the song--I chickened out at the last minute and my neighbor, Colette White, got the shot at stardom. Grrrrrrr. I hold no grudges.

So, armed with these near-misses at fame, I showed up in this well-worn and dated studio in March of last year. One of our first lessons, was to get to “our truth”. Acting, the instructor described, is not just having the words, but getting to the truth of the words, of the character’s intent. To do that, she said, we must SHOW truth to our audience.

Well, I thought, that doesn’t sound so tough. The assigned homework was to bring in 2 items and “use them truthfully” and the class would decide whether or not we achieved.

Here comes the confession. I did not really prepare in the way that I should have. The morning of class, I raced through my house and grabbed a camera and a needle and thread and a pair of shorts that had lost its button. I had a full roster of clients that morning and as such, did not practice my truth-showing exercise.

When it was my turn to go, I sensed trouble. I fully realized that I was not prepared but I forged on. I did my lame exercise with the camera, shooting away, praying that I would not be “found out.” The instructor looked at me cautiously and said, “Okay, um, what else do you have?” Shit--she knows. At this point, the sweat began to pour from my forehead, the back of my neck and my temples. It was a shower on 28th Street.

“Come on, Jeff--pull it together,” I mumbled to myself as the class looked on, probably hoping that my agony would soon end. I pulled out the needle and thread and the shorts and the button, and began to sew. I sewed for at least 2 or 3 minutes, all the while hoping that I would needle an artery to put me and the class out of this misery. I occasionally looked up in the direction of my instructor, with pleading eyes--let this end!!

“Okay, Jeff--good! Good! That is truth--wonderful!”

What? My head was spinning, I was drenched down to my socks, but, hell--I had shown truth. I mopped my head with the shorts, needle and thread still connected--that was also truth.

From that point on, I was on fire. I did not care that some of these people in this class thought of themselves as the next Sean Penn or Meryl Streep. I only focused on what I needed to do to advance my skills and learn. Comparing ourselves to others is merely another barrier to discovering what we need to learn about ourselves.

The final classes focused on us doing an actual scene. “Know the playwright’s truth, know the character’s truth, know your truth,” we were instructed.

Armed and dangerous, I practiced and practiced. I purchased a mini-recorder where I could listen to my speech in the car, noting inflections, pauses, changes in emotional intent.

The day came:

“The fog was where I wanted to be. Halfway down the path......”

Eugene O’ Neill and Benita Veliz--eat your heart out!

SNOW DAY

2009-03-13T21:08:00.002-04:00

We had a huge snowstorm here in the Northeast a few weeks back. I had a snow day with Maya--we shoveled (well, I shoveled) and she tried to throw shovel-loads of snow at her Dad. We had a blast--showing her how to do snow-angels--did you ever do snow angels as a kid? It is an art--you find the purest patch of snow, stand erect and fall back, praying that you make the cleanest of imprints in the white fluff. And then just wave your arms and legs open and close. Simple magic. (Getting up is the challenge!)

Letʼs juxtapose this scene with the horrible news of those mass killings in Alabama and that town in Germany. We now know this guy in Alabama had a “list” of those who wronged him. And it was his mission that day to check this list off in the most depraved, cowardly manner. And he succeeded.

Now, I do not profess to be an expert in forensic psychology. Yes, I am sure I could draw some basic conclusions about these 2 animals, but the point here is that this guy in Alabama had a list and maybe the kid in Germany had one as well.

Who among us, has not had a “list” sometime in their life? Who has not felt wronged or hurt by someone we thought of as a friend, or someone who we felt, loved us? Or wronged by a boss or a colleague? But for heavenʼs sake--to carry out a killing spree for emotional justice??

For those who have knowingly or unknowingly been on my list throughout the years, I apologize. Yes, you may have hurt me, you may have wronged me, you may have emotionally injured me in some manner--BUT I am still breathing, I am still functioning, I am still thriving. Whatever your intent--whether it was done out of malice or not, whether it was out of frustration or not, whether it was the only way you knew how to respond or not, I forgive you.

Because... I played a part in all of this. I either did not express my feelings in the moment, did not put my interests first, did not believe in myself and my skills and my worth, or maybe I just played into a pattern of behavior that we had established. I do not know.

But what I do know, is that this list is burdensome. I want my life to be filled with more snow days. I deserve that.

THERE WON'T BE TRUMPETS

2009-03-03T08:47:00.000-05:00

This is the title of one of my favorite songs from the Broadway musical, “Anyone Can Whistle.”

My soon-to-be-six year-old daughter, Maya, came home with a piece of artwork from school last week. It is on pale blue construction paper, with a big white cloud glued to it.

On the cloud are multi-colored hearts and written below the hearts she wrote: “I have a dream that 1 day there will be no war.”

Wow. I do not think I was dreaming that at 6--were you?

No, I think at 6, I was dreaming that I would outgrow my bedwetting. Or that the local crossing guard would stop calling me names. Or that I would be less bashful.

I think at 6 I was dreaming that my Dad would take more of an interest in me, that my Grandfather would be nicer, and that my newly born brother would make life a bit happier for me.

So now, some decades later, I do not need to worry about any of that stuff. The journey was taken, the conflicts eventually resolved. I hobbled through those early years,

making many wrong turns, and, occasionally, a few right ones.

Which leads me to Facebook.

Facebook has whooshed me back to certain landmark watershed moments from this amazing journey. Not always pleasant ones, I admit--I have been reminded through

those who I have friended and who have friended me that I have made mistakes, hurt some people along the way, done and said things that I would not do today.

Facebook, you have humbled me. And quieted me.

There wonʼt be trumpets. There is a quiet revolution that has been happening inside of me for quite some time. It is gaining strength, but it needs to stay quiet. For my sake. I will not come out as loudly as my daughter and declare to the world what I dream. This is for me. This is my time. My turn.

I have been loud in the past about my dreams. Some came true, others did not. And when they did not, I put on the brave face, masking my disappointment and distress. BUT--the sky did not fall, my life was in no danger, but I do feel as if I lost something.

So when I work with my clients I like to stress that change, real change, should be quiet, subtle, loving and cherished. And when it comes, look out--it is an incredible sensation.

So do not ask me what my dreams are. They are mine. I keep them tucked away in a peaceful place, where I can bring them out when I want.

You can have your trumpets.

JASON

2009-02-26T21:22:00.001-05:00

Chances are, you donʼt know this guy. I just learned his name about 20 minutes ago after leaving the gym, stopping at Starbucks and walking back to my office.

Jason sits outside a bank on 7th Avenue and 24th Street. I am sure I have passed him scores of times, but there was one day last week, when I heard him. “Spare some change?” Living and working in New York for over 20 years, I have probably heard it all and seen it all. I stopped, initially annoyed that I was being bothered, but then I turned and looked in his eyes. There was a story there.

I fumbled through the pockets in my jeans and jacket for some loose change, found nothing, and hurriedly grabbed my wallet to see if there was anything in there knowing full well that I rarely carry cash thanks to my HSBC debit card. But I had a dollar and I gave it to him.

He seemed a bit taken aback, which for some reason surprised me. “Oh, thank you, thank you--God bless you.”

Clumsily, but with genuine empathy, I said, “Youʼre welcome--

take care.” I walked away, but wanted to turn around around and look at him again, but I did not.

I did not give Jason a buck to make me feel better--I gave him a dollar because I wanted to show him that sometimes people care.

There is a woman who passes out The Metro, the free daily, outside of the PATH Station on 23rd Street. Again, I have passed her countless times, refused the paper because I know I will not read it since I have usually already read the Times on my IPhone.

But there was that day I looked in her eyes, and I saw the story. I took the paper, smiled at her and told her to have a good day. I now take the paper every day--I still do not read it, but my assumption is that her livelihood depends on how many papers she hands out--maybe Iʼm wrong. But now she always tells me to have a “good morning and have a great day!” I do not know her name, but I will find out tomorrow morning.

Itʼs all in their eyes. How often do you really take a look into someone? Jason and the Metro Lady have their story--Jason is outside of the bank because of circumstances of either his own doing, societyʼs or both. The same probably applies to the Metro Lady.

I am sitting in my office because of my own doing and societyʼs. But I still want to look outside of me. Maybe itʼs because as a social worker who teaches a class for first year graduate students, I do not want to forget that part of me. That part of me that volunteered in college as a Big Brother, that part of me who, at the height of the AIDS Crisis in the mid- to-late 80s, became a peer support worker for men and women afflicted with, at that time, the death sentence. And that part of me, while going through my own personal crises and challenges, was fortunate enough to have the support that enabled me to move out of the abyss and back into a place where I can go to the gym, stop at Starbucks, give Jason a buck and a handshake, go to my office, do my work, drive home at the end of a good day and look into my daughterʼs eyes and hug and kiss her goodnight.

Thank you, Jason.

THAT MOMENT

2009-02-21T15:12:00.001-05:00

Think about the moments in your life that impacted you:

•Realizing you were in love.
•Bringing your child home from the hospital for the first time.
•Learning of the death of a parent or a grandparent.
•Getting that great job.
•Finally knowing that a relationship was over.
•Recognizing and understanding that it was now time to overcome an addictive behavior.
•Knowing that your life is what you make of it.

Whether your moment was an indescribable achievement or a devastating loss, we can learn, we can grow, we can heal. Both, yes both-- have merits.

In those times that I have achieved something wonderful or have attained a moment of divine clarity, I tell myself over and over, “Jeff--remember this feeling, remember this moment, remember this gift.” Thankfully, sometimes I do and sometimes I “forget.” But do I really forget, or do I just become lazy and revert to faulty thinking or behaviors? I think you know the answer. Yes, we are creatures of habit, and in our sometimes jumbled minds full of to-do lists, economic woes, friend and family conflicts, career challenges, it is so often possible to lose “our moment”. That is a shame.

Think about it. If we were diligent enough, strong enough and brave enough, that moment would have such a dramatic impact on the other noises in our head. Granted, it may not fix or cure the conflicts, but it would allow us to become less of a hostage to them. And by getting closer to our moment, our truth, we would be less apt to turn this annoying noise into something cataclysmic. We like to do that at times--gives us a weird kind of rush, I suppose.

Conversely, in those times of pain and unhappy realizations, I have probably done some

of my best growth. Whether through a death, a realization that a certain relationship

was proving toxic, or just feeling that I was in some dark abyss--I had to do the following:

•This is a temporary pain
•I am not alone--I do have people that I can reach out to
•I am still alive
•I still have my future to hold onto

There are 2 significant events I can relate: the first, in early 2001 and the latter in early 2006. My maternal grandmother, for all intents and purposes, was my best friend for as long as I can remember. She helped me through some pretty tough times, including my parentsʼ divorce. When she died on March 12, 2001, it was not a shock, but the belly punch that I felt was as painful as if it had come out of the blue. I remember breaking down as I had never done before, and cried for quite a while. But after a bit, I stopped and a calm spread throughout my body and I remembered all the good she had brought me, all the good that we had together and all the good that I would continue to feel because she had been such a critical piece of me--this very complicated puzzle. While this was a loss, I also learned that I had gained so much.

In 2006, I had come to the realization that a business organization that I had helped develop was no longer serving me. I was feeling beaten, defeated, unmotivated, misunderstood. I did not know what to do. I talked about this to some people, but still received no clarity. I mulled, pondered, prayed--all to no avail. I finally went to a counselor and I when I began to discuss what was going on with my company, she cut me off and said, “Youʼve got to get out of there. This is toxic.” You mean, I can leave? I thought to myself. Immediately, a wave of relief and peace rushed through me--I did

have a choice after all!

Both examples exhibit, by means of figuring out stuff on our own or with a professional, that there are choices to be made in the best and worst of times (who said that?). I could have held onto the death of my grandmother as this loss that I could never let go; I could have stayed with my company and suffered silently as it battered down my image of myself. But thankfully, I did neither.

Those moments--I look at all of them and I marvel.

THE DELICATE BALANCE

2009-02-17T13:27:00.004-05:00

I read a book many years ago, entitled The Patient Who Cured His Therapist. In an opening passage, the author, Stanley Siegel, writes “ I see therapy as art, as an extremely subjective art, too, collaborative and communicative between the therapist

and his client--two human beings, one with tremendous experience with his own troubles, the other supposedly possessing vast knowledge of other peopleʼs troubles, not to mention their statistically recorded patterns and clinical names.”

It is this relationship that excites me. I can feel it, the client can feel it. Itʼs “that connection”, that exciting dynamic that occurs in the therapeutic environment--like a meadow full of butterflies on a good first date. That ability to have a constructive, productive back-and-forth that slowly chips away at the pain, the troubles and the woes until all we are left with is the clientʼs truth.

The clientʼs truth. Our truth. My truth.

I have had many, many clients over the years who have inspired me and transformed me. But they do not know that. My secret. My truth. I went through a large chunk of my life not knowing my truth. I can honestly say that I donʼt know if I fully know it as I type this today. And thatʼs okay--my truth is not fixed, it

can evolve and I think thatʼs a good thing.

When I graduated with my MSW in 2000, I think I believed that I had reached my truth. I thought that this piece of parchment guaranteed me entry into the “Truth Hall of Fame”. Silly, silly Jeff.

Little did I know, that this paper guaranteed me nothing. Yes, I could secure a better paying job, take a licensing exam and put out a shingle. But it did not prevent me from making mistakes, both personal and professional. Nor did it better prepare me to

experience heartbreak and loss. Paper is not that powerful.

And it could not protect me physically. I had discovered the love of running in the early 90s. What a rush. Being active in The New York Roadrunners, I quickly collected an array of tee shirts emblazoned with the races that I had taken part in. They were

carefully put in my special drawer--my own running hall of fame.

And then sometime in early 2003, the pain started. Thinking it was an issue with my muscles, I focused on deeper and more intense stretching. Nope. Finally, an xray and some asshole in a white coat commands: “It is arthritis in your hip--you wonʼt be able to run again.”

For anyone who has ever had a bad diagnosis offered to them, you know where I am coming from. It defies logic, it knocks the wind out of us, it is the ultimate sucker punch. And the delivery from the jerk in the white coat--well, fill in the blanks. This is not me--this cannot be me.

But it was. I was destructible. Emotionally, professionally and physically, 2006 was my darker (not my darkest) period. A psychotherapy practice in transition, a full hip replacement on my right side and feelings of “Who am I and what the hell am I going to do now?”

For those who have experienced disabilities--whether temporary of chronic--it takes great will, character and strength to not give in to it. To not give into the voices that say “Well, this is who you are--deal with it. It doesnʼt get any better than this.” I am not

saying that I had an abundance of those qualities in July 2006, but I did have a taste of them--thank goodness.

How was I cured during this rehab process? By my clients--by having phone sessions, by knowing that even though the body was temporarily down, the mind and the empathy were alive and well.

When I look at 2006, I do not look at it with disgust or sadness--no, that was the year of a sort of re-birth. And I look at 2007 and 2008 in the same way--personally and professionally great growth occurred.

And 2009? There, my friends, is the delicate balance. This is the year to integrate everything that I have learned from my patients who have sat on a few different couches over the years and focus on regaining my physical health. I had an “ah-hah” moment a few weeks ago as I realized that I was actually feeling incredibly angry at my body for failing me. I wish someone had told me that this would occur--that I would be feeling let down that this body of mine was human. Why did no one tell me this stuff?

But, as in all healing, we must try to release the anger, perceived and real, and learn to forgive. I am still the same guy, maybe X number of pounds heavier (I canʼt share everything!), but that can be addressed. Maybe I canʼt run a 7 and a half minute mile

anymore , but I can train and strengthen to run, maybe a 9 minute mile. Maybe I canʼt chow down like I did 10 years ago, but that, too, is not a death sentence.

No, my truth is being the best I can be professionally, personally and physically. My truth is knowing that I can be emotionally present for my family, especially my daughter, my clients and my friends. My truth is knowing that at the end of the day, I did my best. And when I have a day that I know I did not do my best, I will acknowledge that this was merely a blip on the screen--that this, too shall pass.

In the Epilogue of his book, Siegel concludes: “As a therapist, what do I do? I listen, see, perceive, sense, share, appreciate, respect, teach, escort, connect, risk, recommend, withdraw, watch, care, and learn. And then marvel.”

You know what? I am going to apply these same skills to me--and then marvel.