What would happen if, instead of the current economic system, all nations were set up so that every individual automatically received a monthly allowance?

A decree might state that everyone would receive the same amount. It would be up to each person to budget and ensure they put each dollar to good use. Entrepreneurship would be encouraged, as would the ability to make a profit, hire staff and invest. There would still be taxes to pay, as a means to support shared infrastructure and services and promote a sense of responsibility toward the well-being of the community.

Of course, for this to work, it might be helpful to put in place programs to train people in effective money-management skills. For while everyone would be assured consistent income, not everyone would necessarily manage it in their own best interest. This is true with the current system. Regardless of how money is earned and regardless how much is earned, guaranteed income, whether on a temporary or ongoing basis, does not guarantee financial shrewdness.

One might argue that guaranteed income would create generations of lazy people who do not feel there is any reason to contribute to a work force. I would argue that the majority of people have creative minds that beg to engage in society, projects, work, development and community. I would also suggest that many brilliant entrepreneurs and dedicated workers at heart might strive under such a system, because they might feel secure enough to dare to act on their dreams and visions. I find I am most creative when I feel secure. I know this to be true for most people.

Another possible argument is that any individual who chose not to actively participate in the workings of their community simply because their ability to obtain food and shelter is ensured would not be in any different position than people who refuse to participate today. Thus, in the end, the source of income does not matter and the guarantee of income may not matter at all either. What matters and what makes a difference in how successful we are at living and sharing in the activities and prosperity of a community is our attitude, and our willingness to take action. In the end, we create our own ability to support and fulfill ourselves.

Perhaps what is truly needed is not guaranteed income, but the aforementioned training program to provide every individual with not only a keen understanding of financial matters and survival, but also a real sense of respect for self and others. We “earn a living” by taking action, sharing our strength, skills and creativity with colleagues and ultimately with an entire community. In this sense, it is likely that a system that guarantees income to all would in fact rob many of the incentive to go out on a limb and develop strength, skills and creativity.

An engineer, who earns thousands putting together a proposal that is finally accepted, may feel great sense of accomplishment and meaning. Likewise, a server who sees clients return, specifically asking for her table, and leaving a good tip as a token of appreciation, may feel a great sense of accomplishment and meaning. The dollar amount and means of earning it are irrelevant.

Money does not give value to our lives; how we live our lives gives value and meaning to each dollar earned. Ultimately, how we live our lives give values to far more than that.

Slainte!

Last week, my husband and I visited his father. He lives about two hours south of us. I was not going to come along at first, but changed my mind. It had been a while since I had seen his dad. On the way there, we usually stop by a ball field where we can let our dog out to run and play for a while. Since our dog is small, most of our attention remains near ground level, where we pick up sticks to throw for him, or watch him run in giant circles with a huge grin on his face. That day, however, something in the distance caught my attention.

There is a batting cage at the back of the field. A huge raven was trapped inside, flying back and forth from one end to the other, desperately trying to be free. I ran to it. As I approached, I noticed a tear at the bottom of the net and decided my feathered friend had probably ventured in that way and forgotten about it after a while. I immediately proceeded to raise one end of the net. Raven stayed at the opposite end. It was exhausted and panting. Every time it tried to stabilize itself in a corner, it soon drooped down, unable to keep its strength. The sun was warm. It was not a good day for a black bird to be trapped out in the open and to panic.

I secured the end higher, to offer a more obvious opening, and motioned Raven to fly over to that side of the net. I had removed my sunglasses, so it could see my eyes, and I spoke in a soft voice so it could hear the vibration of my love. Raven seemed to calm down a bit, but it insisted on staying in the top corner. I crouched down and motioned “down” with my hand, several times. After three or four repetitions of this “message”, Raven got the gist of it and soon began to shift its attention from me to the bottom of the net. It inched its way down as best it could, found the exit, flew straight out and circled back over me before disappearing into the trees by a nearby river. It needed shade and drink.

What a gorgeous creature! It was so close to me that I could have picked it up in my harms. I was tempted by this great opportunity to hold such a beautiful animal and shower it with tenderness, but it did not want my tenderness and I had no right to impose. A French love song says, “I do not want to be tamed or caged. I want to be loved simply for what I have to offer”. We cannot hold on to everything we love, not even our life.

A few days later, in a restaurant in Montreal, a young couple sat in the corner of a greenhouse that extends onto the sidewalk, in front of a tall hotel building. They were celebrating her upcoming birthday. Neither one was trapped or caged. They had tamed each other, yet they were free. They could have gone another day or sat anywhere else, but it is reported that the woman insisted on the corner table. A block of cement weighing over 400 pounds came undone from the hotel, eighteen floors above, and fell directly onto the young woman’s head, killing her instantly. Her husband lost a few fingers, but preserved his life. Perhaps he had been reaching across the table at the time, holding her hand, not knowing he would be forced to let go.

We try to assign cosmic order to such seemingly random events. A raven’s life is spared because someone happens to drop by and look up at the right moment. A young woman’s life ends because she picked the wrong table at the wrong moment. It is difficult to believe in random acts because in such instances the course of events is modified due to a decision that was made moments before the outcome. These events stand out because the outcome, or averted outcome, awakens a sense of loss. By choosing to stay home today, instead of going for a drive, we might be avoiding a serious accident, or perhaps we avoided one last week, while distracted by Raven. Perhaps it is Raven who was in the right place at the right time, needing our attention long enough to spare our lives from what awaited down the road had we been there instead.

I was so close to Raven that I could have held it. It did not want my embrace; it wanted the freedom it had lost. I felt so moved by the story of the young couple that I wished I could be there to hug the survivor. He does not want just any embrace; he wants the companion he has lost. Conceivably, Raven did not fly away with a sense of pain or remorse. It is intelligent enough to not venture there again. Lesson learned. It was just an isolated event in the life of one raven and, in truth, in the story of ravens in general. However, these events change the course of things, drastically.

Raven may avoid anything that looks like a batting cage from now on, or it may decide to be more trusting of humans and end up hurt by someone who dislikes black birds. For humans, it appears to be slightly more complicated. Personal loss, and certainly personal trauma, affects our work life, social behavior, sense of freedom, ability to trust and ability to love in ways that often override our most basic survival instinct. Forgetting and getting back to the routine of life is not easy. Sometimes, it not possible.

It is when we realize how much we have lost, or how much we risk loosing, that we question the sequence of events or decisions that lead to painful outcomes. It is when our well-being is at stake that we consider our path, our level of education, our choice of career, our money management skills, our choice of activities, our choice of friends or partners and so on.

The pain of unforeseen accidents, injury or loss collapses upon us in an incomprehensible rumble of debris. Only time, the beginning of a new routine, a new day, a new line of work, a new approach, a new relationship, a new event to catch our attention, a new reason to laugh, a new sunrise, a new delectable meal or a new symphony  can convince us that we have the ability to overcome. It is the anchor that holds our story together regardless of what unfolds between the first and the last chapter.

Slainte!

I recently participated in a discussion regarding mid-life woes. Participants generally expressed a sense of loss: the loss of a youthful body, youthful activities and overall physical comfort. Facing change requires strength and a good sense of humor. Both were evident traits of each person involved in the discussion. It was also clear that what we, middle-age folks, seek most, is reassurance and support.

The media add insult to injury by repeatedly bombarding us with product and role models geared to an everlasting youthful demeanor, appearance and mentality. These myths possibly originated far before television and magazines. In all cultures, for centuries, models society has sought to emulate typically had perfect strength, courage and bodies. We forget that these images are metaphors, that the physical attributes of heroes and role models represent outward evidence of inner strength and composure. It is a visual language, nothing more, but it has become so distorted.

We now equate white hair, a few extra pounds, wrinkles and aches and pains with something undesirable and with imperfection. We fear becoming unattractive, forgetting that as we age, we develop an inner attractiveness and others develop the ability to see and appreciate it. We forget that we are animals, and though our brains and abilities may be different from those of other animals, we are still governed by similar biological laws. After a certain degree of usage, our bodies are not meant to attract others because we are no longer meant to reproduce. After all, the round habitat on which we walk, create, love, and fight can only accommodate so many bodies.

Discussing all of this with friends is far from futile. It is a philosophical exercise that inevitably reminds us that we are not alone, that we have become so much more than what we were, that we can laugh at ourselves, that we can no longer briskly skip up the stairs, but we have raised fine children, made true friends, developed a useful product, sustained a successful business or mastered an art we could not have mastered without maturity and experience.

I left the discussion and went to bed, but not without many thoughts churning on my mind. So many good points had been made, yet I had not identified the reason for my own discomfort. It is not grey hair, wrinkles or lack of youthful activities that cause me concern. I felt the same sorrow as others, but could not name it until later. It came to me as a revelation, moments before falling asleep. What I regret most and truly about my youth is the loss of courage. Perhaps it could be referred to as the loss of innocence.

I am not brave anymore, in spite of all my accumulated life and work experience, all the accumulated self-awareness, all the skills and talents I have developed. Conceivably, insecurity is a safety valve. It is the mechanism that allows us to pause and consider options, alternatives and, especially, possible consequences when making new decisions in life. It can also leave us in a state of paralyzed fear.

Therefore, our challenge as we age is not to make wrinkles disappear or hands regain their dexterity. Our greatest challenge may be to develop discernment, the sort that enables us to act boldly and youthfully in spite of our years. Courage does not operate in the past, it is not meant to help us repeat circumstances from familiar, comfortable past events or appearances. Courage operates in the present moment. It is the spark that enables us to embrace new circumstances and trust new ideas, friends and abilities. In this sense, courage may be the coveted potion we seek to draw from the mythical fountain of youth. There is nowhere to go to find it. We must simply allow it to flow through us. As water, it effortlessly embraces every shape, wrinkle or color on its path because it does not recognize shape, wrinkle or color as real or interfering objects.

Slainte!

When asked what I wanted to become when I grew up, I usually replied a veterinary or anthropologist. Then, I went and studied arts and communications.

Later, one of my most memorable work experiences took place at a kite and flying toys store in old Montreal. I had no retail sales experience per se, yet I had passion for the act of fending for myself and for learning new trades. I had seen an ad in the newspaper and jumped on my bicycle with the sole intention of first visiting to decide if it felt like a place where I could work. I arrived heart beating, skin flushed, sweat beads on my forehead and heat in my limbs, unprepared.

I barely had the time to ask the sales clerk how she liked it there. She immediately picked up the phone and called the manager. A cheerful woman soon appeared and invited me to the owner’s office. Twenty minutes later, I had a new job, in spite of my sweatpants and the sweat that continued to shine on my face as I sat across the desk from this creative and passionate man. I spent the next two years or more creating theatrical displays with kites, building them, explaining flying methods to customers, setting up for trade shows and meeting the most fascinating people.

I especially remember two young boys who appeared one day. They were extremely articulate for their years and soon explained that their father was a ship captain. They docked in Montreal, across the street from the kite shop, traveled with their own personal teacher and their sea faring dog. I wondered what they would become when they grew up. They had already seen so much of the world and would see so much more. Surely, this would shape their passions and goals. At seven and nine, they had already begun to build a network of knowledge and acquaintances, all of which could significantly shape their destiny.

My story is not unique. Countless people from my generation have found their most memorable work experience to be that one apparently simple, little job where they learned from scratch. The key ingredient in those times was trust; trust in the abilities of others to learn and apply themselves. Employers who had built their business on their own passion and remembered their own trials and tribulations had the ability to recognize the passion in others and trust that it was possible for yet inexperienced youth to follow the same path, to want to learn and grow so much that anything was possible. Perhaps we lived on the brink of a significant shift in the job industry: the remnants of the age of masters and apprentices.

Of course, this relationship between employer and employee is still possible, but it is rare. In the highly specialized industries of today and in a world where litigation, risk management and bottom lines influence every business decision, employers seek highly knowledgeable individuals to minimize training time and ensure proper practices and behaviors with minimal supervision. The atmosphere of the family-owned business, where skills and knowledge are passed down from one generation to the next, is not easy to maintain or recreate in this context. However, it still exists in some trades where internship is an integral part of learning.

Ideally, our schools prepare us for a career, but what of those who have several interests and the passion and ability to excel at them? My father was an electrician, and a photographer, and a geologist, and a theater programming director. He left school at 14, thought himself English and every trade he ever felt inclined to tackle. When asked what he did for a living, he normally only referred to his current activity.

When asked, “What do you do?” or, “What do you want to become?” we are expected to give a precise answer. Admitting that we wish to become a musician and surgeon and illustrator would feel like admitting that we do not have a clear goal or we do not seek to become an accomplished “somebody”. What of passion, that ingredient which enables us to stay awake late at night to avidly study a new trade and drives us to take on new work and learn from the seat of our pants? What of our true interests and the freedom to develop many parallel or intersecting careers?

Some people do it. Some people dare. When they have to, due to circumstances or simply because they cannot hold back anymore, when there is much they want to experience and they still do not know what they want to be when they grow up. This is the point, precisely. We miss the mark. We perceive what we call “growing up” as a goal in a string of goals. We must choose a path, begin to prepare for it as though we knew exactly what to accomplish, become “grown up” and at once attain the goal of accomplishment.

What if “growing up” is the path? Then, every hobby, every career or trade we dare to embrace creates a life of persistent learning and continuous personal reassessment. Then, mastering life and every talent at the tip of our fingers becomes our career. What if schools encouraged us to choose as many paths and side roads as we can imagine taking?

Then, we would not regret the things we had not done or tried. Then, we might have been in the right place at the right time to provide assistance, to fill a need for an employer, to teach, to learn, to contribute and to continue growing. Then, our legacy would be a road map and our vision without limitations. Then, we might be fearless. Then, we might have more compassion because we would have walked on each other’s paths.

Slainte!

What is it that truly brings communities together? Celebrations and state holidays certainly create an opportunity, but the majority of people return to their daily routines and the natural boundaries of shyness and individualism isolate us again by sunset.

There was a fine Fourth of July celebration in my town this year. Unlike previous years, I decided to get out of my cave and participate a bit more. I set up shop in the school field with other vendors and crafters and spent a mesmerizing afternoon in the crowd. From that vintage point, I observed a cloud of people coming from all directions and descending on the venue in one accord.

Like bees swarming to a mother hive to attend some buzzing convention, they seemed to gather to collect information, reassure each other that the center of town was still alive and well and perhaps acquire a treasure or two before returning to their own dwellings. In such moments, we are reminded of the collective consciousness that sustains us even as we continue to live our private and guarded lives. In fact, this may be the greatest treasure we come to seek; the glimpse of everyone else to remember we are not alone, the glimpse of a smile to remember we are worthy of it, the humming of new voices to break the silence of our habitual conversations, a good tip for a new recipe or a new career, a new reason to love each day.

It is interesting that we are capable of such conviviality, but for such a fleeting moment. By evening, we withdraw to our select few friends, to the familiar and safe. I confess that I am an accomplished cave dweller. Perhaps this is why I am so mesmerized by these gatherings. They reveal the bursting enthusiasm and child-like nature of people of all ages and all backgrounds and provide a reason or excuse to confirm that we are part of a common story.

When the music fades and the crowd disperses, when families retreat to their backyards, I often have the urge for a new tradition. Once a month, one family would select a theme for a community gathering. It could be anything, it could be silly or creative or informative. We could build a giant screen and view a movie out in the field, we could build a stage and have a talent or improve show, and we could do workshops, where people teach a skill or craft, we could take a vote on a simple idea and assign different families to develop it until the next gathering.

We do not realize that the dynamics that apply to our encounter and subsequent comfort with close friends are indefinitely applicable to everyone with whom we cross paths. It is quite simple. We connect with people the instant we discover common grounds. We do not need to have the same political views, that same age, the same fashion or gastronomic tastes, the same cultural background or belief system to find common grounds. Often, passion unites us in subtle and lasting ways. A Republican and a Democrat at heart can share a passion for art, a Christian and a Buddhist can share a passion for children, an octogenarian and a seven-year old can share a passion for books.

We guard ourselves from others, saving our friendship for a select few. By doing so, we seek to protect our vulnerability. Maybe this ensures it instead. I wonder. I wonder what it would be like to have a community of 5000 friends who look forward to arbitrary monthly gatherings to come together and laugh about the idiosyncrasies of work, hear different stories and points of view from what we hear each week and see, first hand, the vastness of our circle of friends. I do not believe this would lead to intrusion of our privacy. I believe it would ensure more privacy and dignity because there would be more trust.

Face Book is a vast community that in some ways resembles what I am describing here. Yet it is also a virtual world that floats somewhere above the surface and away from the parents and children, entrepreneurs and students who dwell in neighboring houses and make up the fabric of our immediate surroundings. I imagine a “Field Book” community, one where we can shake hands, walk the same grounds and see the same sunset. There is always a place where we can meet. Just as we seek the flat spot in a field to cast our tablecloth and have a picnic, we can seek the soft spots in each other to cast our friendships on common grounds.

Slainte!

We live together to help each other strive, overcome and, ultimately, remember that we exist. This occurred to me as I considered the various types of relationships people around me seem to have. Love is not the reason we choose to share our lives with a significant other.

Love is the magnet, the irresistible mechanism that ensures we align our destinies with another. What we make of this attraction is up to us. It transforms over time. It fades or becomes a deep sense of belonging that no longer needs the games of physical chemistry to justify or embellish the connection. To reach a hand and at once recognize the soul mate in the subtle leap of energy that confirms his or her identity and love with instantaneous, absolute certainty, with nothing else to be done or said; that is sublime; more so than what we commonly call love.

We mistake “falling in love” for the real thing, yet the real thing may very well be utterly strange to physical attraction. To be able to cry together, listen to one another, understand without explanation, know without being told, offer help without being asked, to spontaneously say or do exactly what must be said and done to uplift and acknowledge one another, that must be true love. It has the power to transform.

Our relationships are a balancing act. We believe we have so much to give and expect there is so much to receive. We believe that giving and receiving should be equal. We unconsciously keep a ledger of good deeds, earnings and expenses. We live in a culture of checks and balances where time and effort have a price tag. The metaphoric price tag of relational expectations is the most costly of all.

This becomes obvious in relationships were salaries are unequal or one person does not work. It is very difficult in this culture to accept that the time one spends preparing a meal, the effort and energy placed into it, is not any different from time dedicated to a workplace. Both require commitment to the task at hand for the benefit of a group or agency, even though in the case of a marriage or partnership the group consists of only two individuals and maybe only a few children.

We equate our efforts with a paycheck, yet the volunteer in the hospital feels abundantly compensated by the sheer satisfaction of bringing assistance where it is needed. The difference in our perception may lie in the fact that volunteerism is a form of work whereas the chores of every day living are necessary acts and are often governed by expectations. It is through our expectations of one another that we set the standard by which we unconsciously determine whether the other measures up to our own efforts. We assign a value to chores: doing dishes is worth two imaginary tokens, whereas sitting in the office is worth eight. Any task that does not equal our own efforts in time falls short and imaginary token stacks do not line up.

Time after time, the “player” with the highest stack assumes the role of champion, stands at the top of the podium but does not receive a medal. Deep down inside, we like being the hero, so though we scold others for not doing their part, we secretly wish to be able to continue pointing out that we are the hero, over and over. In reality, we dream of a bronze medal, we dream of ignoring the dust on the furniture and the dishes in the sink, we dream of tasting laziness for one delightful afternoon. If we dare do so, we realize that others do not react and do not care. It is not that they do not care; they simply did not have an expectation.

What is discovered in that instant is acceptance; from ourselves for having had the honesty to do as we pleased and from others when they simply let us be, silently noticing “she finally took time for herself”. However, we generally overlook this acceptance because it does not fit in the scheme of things. We feel like “less” because we are not performing, not meeting expectations, not earning our imaginary tokens in every moment of every day, not matching the stack of tokens in others’ pockets.

Acceptance, integrity and honestly are the proper currency. Expectation is like Monopoly money. It does not even look real, yet we handle it with greed and seriousness.

Slainte!

The day was mild. I remember high blades of grass undulating in harmony with the gentle breeze that faintly touched my cheek. I remember the sand, so fine, at once off-white and golden, and the gentle slope that reached far behind us into the water. I remember walking through a field of flowers and wild herbs, reaching an almost distinct border between the flowers and the sand, as though two different ecosystems had developed on either side of the border. I remember turning slightly left and up the sandy dune that led to a low, white cottage. A smiling woman, wearing a scarf on her head, emerged half way from her door as we approached it. She smiled and handed me an apple. It never happened.

I never forgot. I often asked my sister, who is older by five years, about this event, where we might have gone on vacation on the seashore when I was a child, about this utterly radiant woman whose memory fills me with a sense of being safe and loved to this day. My sister has no recollection of any such event.

A greenish figurine that, it seems, looked like a sort of android, was placed on a circular surface toward the far right hand side of a board game I had unfolded on the table. It held a long stick, which pointed down at the board. It vacillated on its circle for a while, appearing to hesitate between right and left, perhaps due to a cleverly arranged set of magnets, until it finally rested, pointing at one of the questions or phrases that radiated away from the circle. I spent hours playing with this android, this plastic being that for long moments seemed a real and fascinating man-god who lived in a box and needed to be acknowledged and allowed to communicate its wisdom by pointing at the words at its feet. This, too, never happened.

I never forgot. I spent hours playing with this board game or contraption. I asked my sister about it, assuming that since it appeared to be an educational game of sorts and she was older, it had to have been hers. She has no recollection of any such game. I asked many people of my generation and some older, thinking there must be some vintage board game out there someone would surely remember, even faintly. No. What is interesting is that I remember only one afternoon of this scenario. What is even more interesting is that I sat at my dad’s end of the table, opposite the end I normally sat at to eat. I played at that table nearly every day. That is the only memory I have of not being in my own spot.

Perhaps my sister simply does not remember, though she is the one who remembers every single student from first grade to her last year at university. Perhaps a therapist could extrapolate for hours on images of angels and hand-held, god-like figures. It is, I am certain, quite revealing and probably in many ways very much in line with the circumstances of my childhood. Perhaps I simply had vivid dreams.

However, this does not explain the vivid dreams of later years, where entire scenes unfolded in a different time and place, scenes I returned to night after night, in locations I later visited in wake time and perfectly recognized. This does not explain meeting two men on a street in Scotland with my husband and in a flash “seeing” an entire massacre the ancestors of one of them, precisely that one, had taken part in and in a flash knowing his clan name, which was correct. History books later confirmed my knowledge. I feel the pain of the violent encounter, back in the sixteen hundreds, as I feel that warm breeze on my face, that day, as I walked up to the woman with the apple, and as I feel my intense fascination with the android on the board of knowledge and as I feel the keyboard under my fingers this very moment.

I recently took part in a fascinating conversation with friends regarding the existence, or non-existence depending on one’s point of view, of time and space. All agreed that time exists and is measurable. All agreed that though measurable it was relative. All agreed that measuring devices were entirely man-contrived and not applicable to all cultures. All agreed that time implies space and movement. Most concluded, at some level, that we could not be certain after all and that any discussion about time would go on, well, indefinitely.

The appearance of Buddhist Baba’s in foreign parts of the world as they meditate in their own dwellings has been documented. Could a dream state somehow slip into absolute meditation, even for a moment? I can doze off on Roderick’s shoulder, for but a minute, and experience an entire morning of events in a distant dream world. Some researchers and theorists hold that all is mere consciousness. On occasion, we may accidentally slip into our awareness of other worlds, or tap into the awareness of others. Some researchers believe cellular memory is a more accurate explanation. Yet others believe in reincarnation. Perhaps this is much like the search for an absolute deity or creative mind. Not all cultures share the same views on what this creator might be, not all religions agree, but all contain some measure of evidence or truth.

What is true for me is not true for everyone, and vice versa. Therefore, by asking what is real, we also seek to define truth. The ultimate answer or explanation may lie in the overall tapestry of all beliefs. Indeed, perhaps the ultimate answer lies in our ability to accept and embrace the diversity of views and experiences, whether scientifically verified or utterly personal. Perhaps that moment of non-resistance in accepting all points of view is the turning point where questions are no longer necessary. All is as it is, experienced in personal ways, scientifically clear and perfect or indefinitely mysterious and expanding, or both.

Slainte!

Last weekend, I visited my sister in Montreal. Though I lived either in the Montreal suburbs or on the edge of the city itself for 26 years, whenever I return I am blown away by my experience, especially the experience of using public transportation and passing through subway stations.

I am used to the distinctly smaller crowds of Vermont. Even Scottish Festivals, with an average of 30,000 visitors in two days, feel like vast and peaceful surroundings in comparison. What seems most striking in Montreal is the very high percentage of people in their thirties and twenties. What is most striking yet is the overwhelming presence of angry, rebellious, foul-mouthed teens.

The representation of ethnic populations is remarkable, also. Then again, most of our ancestors come from overseas. However, Canada and US born Americans seem to have become a minority. The subway is a good place to make this observation. A subway car contains at least 30 seats. At any time of day, the crowd is such that every seat is used and additional people stand to fill the remaining space. Amongst all the people in a single subway car, it is possible for not one to have been born in Canada or the United States.

It honestly does not bother me whether someone is white, black, brown, yellow or purple. It honestly does not bother me what someone’s native tongue is or which faith he or she embraces. I am often mesmerized by the perfection and beauty of skin tones, the deep, dark eyes of African American people, the gentle demeanor of people from India, the fascinating perspectives taken by different creeds and the voices of young students speaking their native tongues amongst themselves. All are the product of centuries of history, struggle, overcoming and hope and I myself am just one spec of one culture.

The existence of so much diversity in one place is an opportunity for a great mosaic of talents, knowledge and creativity. Unfortunately, I think it is the little things that get us, truly, not color nor creed nor languages. Different cultures behave differently in social settings. For instance, as someone who grew up in a nation with deeply ingrained “Catholic” values and rules about proper public conduct, it is second nature for me to step aside and make way when I encounter people on a sidewalk, or to hold a door for anyone walking behind me. This is not “normal” conduct in all cultures. Interestingly, it is not normal conduct for the younger generations of my own culture.

Hence, back to the teen population I encountered in Montreal. I have a hunch that what I observed likely applies to many other cosmopolitan settings. It may be a cultural epidemic of sorts. To my mind, their completely gratuitous aggressivity and rudeness surpasses any foreign threat or malicious intention ever featured on the evening news. Interestingly, when such groups of teens enter a public bus or subway, adults from every nation and every tongue fall silent and seek comfort and answers in each other’s eyes.

Twenty years ago, it seems, children did not need the fear of retribution to choose to be polite and civilized. It was common sense. Perhaps it was second nature. Now, rebelling seems to be second nature, even rebelling against nothing other than just being there, amongst others; rebelling for the rush of it. This weekend, about eight teens boarded a Montreal bus swearing at the top of their lungs, pushing their way through standing passengers, some many times their elders, and swearing about that too. The boys were sloppy. The girls wore so little that it is a wonder they were there at all instead of being a photograph on a milk carton. My sister indicated this was a daily occurrence, not an anomaly.

I am old enough to be their mother, yet they scared me. They scared everyone. What’s the point? I understand a bit, of course. Everyone does, and it is sad. I have no doubt that every single one of them has great talents and the ability to contribute much, at the very least the ability to pour heart and soul into a project and be fulfilled in it. Would it not feel better to be embraced for this rather than be feared for nothing?

I stepped off the bus wondering what they would become, if they could be happy, truly happy and laughing a heartfelt laughter, the sort that springs from the exuberance of a good moment shared with friends, in peace, not the sort they currently experience when they make fun of others. The joke is on them. No one told them.

I wish them well, but they would not want my love, wishes or encouragements. They would not hear me. Perhaps they are the ones who beg to be heard. How do they need the world to look? Has anyone asked them? They are better informed than I at their age. The world and all its drama is at their fingertips, jolting them out of innocence at its own pace, not theirs. Perhaps this is what makes them so angry.

Slainte!

To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

These words were attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson. Though this is questioned, it remains the most often quoted citation about success. What is interesting about this is that the majority of us actually measure success in terms of school grades, business acumen and career accomplishments. In other words, we assign a dollar value, rank and productivity to success. It is something to attain, a lofty goal that must unfold a certain way in order for us to be able to say, “I have done this”, “I am a manager” or “I work for so and so”.

When we ask an individual such as Bill Gates what he feels represents his greatest success, we expect him to reflect on the development of Microsoft, its launch and its rapid evolution to the level of empire. This would be a perfectly acceptable and reasonable answer. We would be shocked, and disappointed, to hear him talk about the first time he stopped to notice a sunrise and how he incorporated sun gazing into his daily routine from that day forward. There is no glamour in that, nothing accomplished; or is there?

We equate success with productivity. We must accomplish a task, even the most complex task, in the least possible time, with the least possible steps and at the least possible cost. Now that is success; or is it? Attention to detail sometimes requires extra steps. That a successful process should be quick and as inexpensive as possible is an arbitrary decision someone made at some point, probably to reel in the dollars faster. It became a model. This does not mean it is a successful model. How successful is it to expect results with minimal effort? How successful is it not to be willing to take extra steps to ensure a well-rounded process?

When we cook a meal for a loved one, we painstakingly select the best ingredients, begin early to have plenty of time and diligently follow each step of the recipe without seeking shortcuts. We seek not profit; rather, we seek to be of service. Profit then becomes an effortless, inevitable result. We gain trust, and love, through our ability to inhabit each moment fully, giving it our whole creativity and integrity, regardless of the required effort or time. In other words, we pour our whole attention into the process because, in fact, we are pouring our love into it.

To approach each task of every day, in our personal life and in business, with this much fervor; now that would be success. Anything else borders on discrimination.

Slainte!

I see a long corridor, or rather a field, expanding away from me and slowly curving down out of sight, with the curve of the earth. At various intervals between the horizon and me, a fence stands erect. I am surrounded by the people of my community, the small business owners diligently sweeping the front steps of their stores and restaurants. We are the working class.

Beyond the first fence, men and women in suits stand, drinking cocktails and looking in our direction, perhaps remembering, some fondly and some with disgust, earlier times in their lives when they lived on our side of the fence, before climbing the corporate ladder. Some miss this time, but dare not say. The mansions of the well-to-do reach up above the third fence, so that even at a distance we see them and hear the roar of their gatherings. In that section of the field, the sky is perpetually lit by the glow of countless television sets and the multiple bedroom homes.

The next fence can only be seen from the perspective of the well-to-do. We do not see it from the working class field, but we know it is there. It is the only one adorned with barbed wire at the top. The decision-makers enter it each day, through a guarded gate. They are the founding fathers of our wealth, success, work, health and dreams. Some of them began their lives toward our side of the fence. They may have forgotten.

Beyond this field lies another, filled with golden wheat swaying in the sun and edged by stately, ancient trees. It is the field of all possibilities. We think one must be granted access through the previous fences in order to attain it. Few of us try. We are discouraged before we even try. In truth, we are scared because we believe the lies about our place in the world and because we believe we are different, less capable, perhaps even less worthy than the folks in the corporate, well-to-do or decision-maker fields. We forget that our lives and abilities are not truly subject to the gravitational pull of a horizontal field, and we forget that the fence is a symbol, not an actual barrier.

This is the image that comes to mind when I think of the dynamics of this world, our governments and our very perception of who we are and what we are capable of becoming. Our society, with all its various echelons of workers, small business owners, big business tycoons and government, is a landscape that spans infinite acreage from the poorest of the poor to the richest of the rich and from the least influential to the most powerful.

Often, our leaders seem so out of touch with the voice and needs of the people they represent that they might just as well be separated by a field so vast that the curvature of the earth makes us disappear from sight. Decisions are made based on assumptions and memories of who we are. Those who live on the other side of the fence, within sight of the leaders, may receive more attention because they are the immediate neighbor. 

We stay within the confines of our own playground, hoping that our needs will be met, indeed hoping they will be noticed at all. Some dare to venture out, to cross the fields and approach the playground of the leaders, enough at least to be heard from over the fence. What they fear most is not to be kicked out; what they fear most is to be ignored, which is worse. Nevertheless, no voice can be ignored. The wind travels amongst all fields equally. It may not travel at the speed of our thoughts. It may not travel at the speed of our earnest desires. But in its own time, it touches every person and every blade of grass and transforms the landscape enough so that over time our perception is altered, regardless of our position in the landscape.

Change requires occasional turbulence and the ebb and flow of trial and error, approach and retreat, but it is inevitable. And the fences are just that, fences, not walls. A construct of intertwined fabric that lets the wind, and the voices it carries, reach to the furthest ends of the field.

Slainte! 

My husband, Roderick, and I were sitting at dinner, sharing light conversation. Our house sits very close to the street, in an otherwise quiet village, except during work commute. We could hear the beat of hoofs in the distance. This was not unusual since a neighbor has a horse she periodically rides around town. What was unusual was that this horse was distinctly approaching at a rapid pace. The most peculiar spectacle unfolded before us the moment we shifted our attention from our conversation in order to stare out the window.

Atop the horse in question sat a young, barefoot, female rider who wore nothing but jeans and, quite distinctly, a regular upper undergarment. As a Victoria’s Secret advertisement event in full motion, they whisked by our house and continued all the way to the north end of the street, turned around, raced by in the opposite direction and disappeared around the curve at the south end of the village. I immediately sought to confirm with Roderick that he had seen what I had seen. A couple had driven by and observed the spectacle or at least I am certain they did, judging from the look on their faces. Neither horse, nor rider, was ever seen again.

I imagine a group on teenage cousins, visiting at a nearby house up the road and sending one of their own off on a dare to embark on this courageous galloping journey. She returned to them having done the deed and reporting on the puzzled faces encountered along the way. They had a good laugh. In that moment, the only reality was the feeling of freedom, courage and youth. It will be remembered by all who shared this moment in any measure.

Another incident takes place more frequently. We have lived here for almost nine years. I have gone on morning walks around the village daily for as long as we have been here. As a child, I often sat in front of my house to wait for the neighborhood cats to congregate around me, which they did within moments. Now, several decades later, a neighborhood cat ran to me every single morning when I walked by her house. I always stopped to greet her. The first time she did this, she had no way of knowing I would volunteer any attention. I assumed she treated every passer-by the same way. She did not.

I have come to cherish this brief, daily encounter. More so since my own cat passed away, last September. I had not seen my feline neighbor for several weeks and assumed her people had gone away for a while. However, she ran to me the day after my Vladimir died; only it was different this time. As I crouched down to greet her, she placed her front paws on my lap, reached up gently to kiss me, turned around and left. I did not see her again for eight months.

A famous French Canadian author wrote a novel, long ago, in which one of the main characters is a big, old cat who sits on a windowsill and witnesses the daily tribulations of human life. A grandmother and her grandson are the only ones who see him. I sometimes catch myself questioning whether I am the only one who sees the friendly neighborhood cat after all. She does not seem to come to me, or is nowhere to be seen, when other people are nearby, except a man she shares a house with, who occasionally stands in the doorway, watching. Is he puzzled by the fact that I, too, see a cat everyone else tells him does not exist?

Roderick took our dog Mathias for their daily father-and-son walk this afternoon. I always ask if he met anyone interesting on the path. By this, I am referring to either human or animal encounters. The same faces usually turn up, but not today. As they prepared to walk up the trail, they met a young man wearing a Utilikilt. This is a modern, plaid-less, version of a Scottish kilt. He also wore knee-high, laced, black boots, the type one might wear with a Utilikilt. He wore no shirt. An eccentric character? A Celtic musician on a refreshing stroll after practice? Had he been wearing a traditional kilt and boots, we would certainly entertain the possibility of a time warp.

I have had my fair share of incongruous encounters that are so unlike anything else in my daily routine that, occasionally at least, I cannot help but question the reality of it all. I believe there is much more to this world than our normal senses can perceive and I do not need an explanation for everything I do not understand. Sometimes, there is a very logical explanation; things simply do not line up in a very logical way, so the edges of reality appear fuzzy.

That these experiences occur but once may be a clue. More importantly, the fact that they stand out and leave such a lasting impression on the memory may be a blessing. In some instances, they project us outside of our daily routine. As a beam of light suddenly reveals a flower that had been there all along, hidden in the shadows, these moments remind us to look around and see with new eyes. At other times, these mysterious occurrences bring levity to an otherwise ordinary moment or spark our emotions in such a way that, without fail, we perceive a blessing at a time we need it most.

Slainte!

We do not often think about this, but the instruments we fashion to help us work, travel, survive heat and cold or communicate have essential common traits: the shape of our bodies and immediate surrounding and the shape of the economy. If our hands were clamps, the methods we devise for handling food, for instance, would be in direct relation to the shape and mobility of our clamps. Conceivably, our home furnishings would look quite a bit different if we lived underground or under water.

That we fashion the devices we use in our daily life after the shape of our surroundings is evidenced, rather interestingly, in the design of games. Consider “Twister”, for example, the game whereby a mat covered with large colored dots is placed on the floor and players must place hand or foot on a specific color. The design of the game was quite unusual and may not have occurred to the creator only a few years before its invention.

The extended family remained an important part of life well into the sixties and beyond. Family gatherings were common and commonly took place in the largest room: the kitchen. Twister was patented in 1966, at a time when suburban life was booming and families had moved these social gatherings from the kitchen to the living room or playroom. The advent of television, in the fifties, is believed to be partly responsible for this shift.

Only a few years earlier, the majority of American families still lived in very modest, small dwellings. The working class was not rich. The sixties are the era of the bungalow, the split-level and homes with a living room, family room or both. In a word, homes with legroom and couches facing the television set, rather than facing other chairs to accommodate the aunts and cousins. Twister requires floor space, a key ingredient to spark the idea for a game to be played on the floor. The configuration of homes and available living space at the time may very well have influenced the design of the game and the logistics of playing it - indeed, the possibility of playing it at all.

Now consider board games. Nearly all are four-sided and square. What is interesting about these is that most common kitchen tables are rectangular, which means that at least two of the four players might have further to reach to access game pieces. No problem. Simply take out the game table; the one used all along to play cards, checkers and chess. Board games are square out of habit, fashioned after checkers and chess games.

While checkers and chess are designed to be played by two players, the four-sided board game, though square, becomes a circular environment designed in such a way that four players can maneuver from a beginning point to an end point around the game surface. The instructions are easy for anyone to understand and follow, allowing the typical family to join in the fun and allowing children to play alongside adults at a time when the “nuclear family” was the new family model du jour.

Racetracks and Hot Wheels sets come to mind as other games of the sixties that required more space than the common home of the previous decade might have been able to accommodate. Interestingly, these were also more expensive games, another factor deeply connected to the economic landscape of the time.

The games of today are shaped by a different economic landscape, but also a much different emotional reality. Upon careful, though rather brief, analysis of the offerings on the shelves of merchants, one quickly realizes the emergence of a new pattern: The perceived need for abundance of choice. Most games are truly a variation on the theme of earlier games. Though they look different, and the game pieces vary, similar skills and nearly identical rules apply to many of them. What is interesting is that the designers of truly new game concepts have turned to intellectual themes, which is perfectly in line with this age of child-less couples, cocktail parties and reclusive bachelors.

If we did not so diligently record details of our society throughout the ages, what might a historian studying twentieth and twenty-first century games two thousand years from now conclude? Conceivably, he might draw conclusions regarding our home furnishings, size, and perhaps even the size of our families, but what of the change in the focus of games. For instance, Parcheesi is strictly a parkour game, while probe is rather more intellectual. Would he draw conclusions as to the levels of education at the time these games were played? How would this shape his portrayal of the people of these times?

The games we invent are designed based on our intellect, physical surroundings, economic situation and family models. Similarly, the theories we form about a society we have not experienced first hand are colored by our immediate experience and understanding of intellect, physical surroundings, economy and family models. When we find a stone that appears to be shaped as a knife, we can almost certainly determine whether it was shaped on purpose and for what purpose.

I image the historian somehow conversing with a prehistoric man, and casually showing him the stone and referring to it as a hunting tool. The prehistoric man raises his eyebrows and breaks in a giant uproar of laughter. After calming down, he informs the historian that the stone is in fact a game piece in a game that is strangely similar to our old Tip It!

Slainte!

Thank you notes sent by real mail, three-page letters recounting a voyage to distant lands, referring to men as Sir and women as Madam or addressing a teacher by his last name; all lost delicacies of the art of expression. Not merely. Lost art, yes. Lost values and depth, definitely.

I remember reading a biography of Marie Curie*, written by her daughter Eve. She had collected her mother’s early correspondence with her own sister, at the beginning of her journey into life. Marie Curie was born in 1867. Her life spanned the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century. As a scientist, she participated in the historical and scientific advancements that very rapidly, indeed exponentially, shaped the nineteen hundreds. She lived at a time of great transformation in the very fabric of society and the manner in which people interacted with each other.

Her correspondence is worthy of the works of the great masters of literature. Yet she was merely a teenager when she began writing. No slang, no abbreviations, perhaps not even a hint of the vernacular of the time were ever penned by her. She wrote with the mind and maturity of one for whom it does not suffice to say, “The sky is grey today”. Each thought beautifully unfolds to reveal an entire thought process and a level of self-awareness and self-scrutiny far beyond her age, had she lived today.

While reading her biography, I discovered a great disparity between her ability to express and my own, and that of the people of my time in general. I think my mother might have lived on the cusp of the final great transformation of the art of the written and spoken word. In her time, students still had to study the classics, learn to write properly in every single class, not only in language classes and, perhaps most importantly – that is if we are to preserve any glimpse of the art - had to address their teachers and elders as Mister or Madam.

I often think it is a great mistake to allow children to call teachers by their first names, or adults to do so with their employer and colleagues. It completely shifts dynamics and the proper balance of respect. It is actually worse in French, my native tongue, because of one little word: “tu.” When addressing someone with respect, one would say “vous” which, for the purpose of illustration, I will equate with the more formal, ancient “thou”. In this sense, using “tu” when addressing a superior or teacher would be similar to saying “hey you”. Let us say that it would be more than a tad bit too familiar for a queen or president!

Psychologically speaking, there is a remarkable difference between how one resolves conflict, or behaves in a business setting, depending on the use of a first name versus last in addressing colleagues or superiors. Imagine a courtroom where the Judge is referred to as Larry. Formality has its reasons. It works. The rules of engagement for the courtroom could very well apply to daily interactions at many levels. They lead to a conscious exercise in proper phrasing. This, in turn, stems from a conscious effort to select and shape one’s thoughts. It is not manipulation, though it can be. In its pure and honest form, it is a willingness to express out of respect and to seek clarity.

There may exist a documented account of the focus and behavior of children in schools where certain rules of engagement are enforced to this day. Where, simply, students do not call their teacher Mike or Debbie. I am positive it dramatically affects the quality of a student’s learning experience and his or her self-esteem also. It also affects how they interact in the world at large.

This is, quite simply, an exercise in inner decorum, much as wearing a tucked-in shirt and clean pants is an expression of outer decorum. It sets the tone for daily human interaction so that respect remains a central focus in all dealings. It also sets the tone for proper form, much as choosing to sit up straight at a dinner table. It reaches far beyond rank or social status. Truly, this sort of decorum dissolves differences rather than promote them, because it establishes an equal tone of respect for all.

What sort of a person would I be today had I chosen to say Mister or Madam to my teachers and employers, even though they did not request this? Today, new rules apply. We believe that we create common grounds and put others at ease when we casually announce, “You can call me Joe”. In all honesty, and based on my own experience, I believe this leads to more conflict because it is an invitation to disregard structure. It is similar to a language teacher inviting his students to disregard proper grammar. It contributes to our inability to communicate clearly and, sometimes, even our ability to communicate intelligently without rushing or stumbling upon our own emotions.

Slainte!

*1911 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for the discovery of the elements radium and polonium.

The events of September 2001 somehow revealed a level of hatred beyond any understanding. Interestingly, though presumably everyone wants peace, it resulted in more hatred and misunderstanding. Within a few weeks of the tragedy, my husband and I attended a famous Celtic Festival in New Hampshire. It was my first time at such an event. The contrast with the world atmosphere shook me deeply.

When we initially decided to attend this event, I felt guilty. Was it acceptable to seek entertainment while the world mourned a tragedy of unthinkable magnitude? Was one permitted or able to enjoy festivities in the midst of such anger and pain? I internally vouched to spend the day reflecting on the toils of humanity. I was 37 and ignorant of the many facets of war games, both globally and psychologically. I felt I needed to gain some mature perspective on these matters. I was guilty of ignorance.

The moment we began walking through the venue, which spans an entire resort, my mind went into a swirl. There were more people dressed in medieval garb than modern clothes, there were tents and vendors that seemed to be straight out of a history book, and there was enchanting bag pipe and drum music throughout the site. We sat on a hill and watched, silent, transported and moved.

People were dancing, juggling, singing and laughing. How could there be so much joy, so soon? How could there be so many people there? Were we all insensitive? The answer came to me the instant I began to examine these questions. Peace and joy are always stronger than pain, and the ability to join in a place of music and joy was an expression of perseverance, perhaps even faith.

Eight hundred years ago, people of another time had done the same thing. They had watched their fellow men fall to persecutions of all sorts, put on their best clothes and gathered on the public place to celebrate the feast of the day, to seek healing in laughter, music and, most of all, community. A sense of community, the ability to embrace diversity based on intricate and subtle little common threads, can override any divergence in belief, opinion or background.

On that day, in 2001, at the New Hampshire Highland Games, thousands of people who were as horrified and hurt as me had come together in spite of the pain. Strangers smiled and nodded at each other in perfect accord as they listened to the music they loved. We had all gathered there as though we had known each other for centuries. There was no hatred there simply because there were no apparent reasons for discord. It was a microscopic, yet gigantic expression of our natural propensity for communion and peace.

Though there were no major world tragedies at the time, I had had a similar experience many years before, when I lived in Montreal. A friend had invited me to attend an event called “The Night of Publivores”- a twelve-hour screening of the best, most creative ads in the world, from seven at night until seven the next morning. The movie theater was packed. When a crowd of hundreds of people of all ages and backgrounds is confined and awake for twelve hours, chaos becomes a distinct possibility. Nop. It was fantastic.

During intermission, some folks made paper airplanes. Soon, the entire theater became the arena of a silent air show, perfectly and joyfully orchestrated by hundreds of strangers who had separate stories, different tastes and different beliefs. It did not matter. A sort of microcosm of historical communities had formed, quite spontaneously, as though one did not require hundreds of years of coexistence and evolution to experience community. All was said and done in just twelve hours.

Fourth of July celebrations are another example, but with an added perspective. Since they typically attract a town’s own population, it is possible to observe people return to their respective homes after the festivities. Neighbors who rarely speak, often simply out of shyness or a sort of fear of invading each other’s privacy, can be seen gathering and chatting as they watch the parade or attend a community potluck in the park. When the day is over, we return to our respective homes, resuming the standoffish lives we are accustomed to. Perhaps we need a reason, even an unspoken one, to come together. It requires an ability to be vulnerable and bold all at once. We are more likely to knock on a neighbor’s door to borrow a tool than merely to say hello. Maybe we simply need to say hello a bit more.

I have a hunch there is silliness in everyone, a little jester who has come to believe that being serious is the proper way to be, except sometimes. I imagine this silly vision of a warfront where, unbeknownst to both sides, all ammunitions were replaced by flowers, confetti and balloons. When the shooting begins, everyone is taken by surprise, stops and starts laughing in perfect accord. And this is the end of hatred.

Slainte!

One day, in high school, the teacher announced that special guests were on their way. A blind man and woman, husband and wife, would talk to us about their life and how they go about daily activities. Both were born blind. They had not a glimpse of what it was to receive images of surrounding fields, streets, walls, furniture and faces in their brains.

When asked what it was like to be blind, neither one could answer. They could not answer because they could not compare sight to non-sight. For the same reason, not a single student in the classroom could explain sight or understand blindness. We had come to an impasse. We perceive and name our experiences of the world by means of comparison. Something is small as opposed to large, hot as opposed to cold or good as opposed to bad. We must, at the very least, have understanding of one aspect of a thing in order to determine what its opposite means. However, one cannot fully understand what one does not experience.

I understand sight because I can see. I can only ponder what blindness might feel like, and only based on immediate experience. For example, if I hold my hand up so that the palm is facing the horizon, and move my arm about as though I had an eye in my hand to capture what it sees, my brain would not receive an image. That, to me, is blindness. I had to use something in my experience in order to seek understanding. I had this thought while we met with the blind couple, years ago, but I did not speak up. I did not say anything because I realized I was still comparing sight to non-sight, and they knew nothing about sight. I came to a standstill.

The same experiment applies with death. Even more so, since most of us do not have the opportunity to discuss these things with the dead and hear their perspective. When I say, “I am alive”, I am expressing my awareness of being, right now. In every fraction of every instant, I move or shift my body ever so slightly, my organs shift, move, and transform as they go about their business of ensuring my survival and well-being, cells die, and skin sheds. From one fraction of a second to the next, I am not quite what I was before, and though I may have some vague memory of what I did a moment ago, my body is no longer involved in that activity and my senses no longer busy interpreting that moment. Now I am alive, now I am dead. To the extent that I no longer fully inhabit the moment, that, to me, is death. Nothing to fear.

We are like octopuses. Our five known senses are the tentacles that reach out and assess the environment. We touch, feel, and seek to understand. The instant we shift our awareness to a new object, indeed, as we are shifting it, that fraction of existence has died, no longer to be experienced again. Memories are inevitable. They are the archives, the accumulation of information about our experiences, the points of reference that help us determine how well we are doing and what we might choose next.

There is not a “me” in the past who feels dead because I have evolved to the present. That “me” simply is no longer. There is no fear, no questioning, no seeking to return, not anymore than there is a non-eye in my hand feeling lost because it does not see. It cannot feel lost simply because it does not know that it does not exist. Thus, what is our awareness aware of if the moment our body, with all its senses, ceases to live, we do not have awareness of being dead? Do we know we are dead?

I almost drowned when I was a child. I played in a swimming pool with some friends. They all sat on an inflatable mattress on the surface of the water and it was my turn to play shark, swim underneath the mattress and try to dislodge as many of them as I could from below. The excitement of the game made it difficult to keep my breath very long under water, so I promptly sought to come up for air. Somehow, the mattress always moved in the same direction as me, and I could not come out from underneath. I actually felt a sort of “on the edge” moment, a place in time where I had the opportunity to give up, quite fearlessly, or make a decision. I felt the “nothingness” of giving up. It would have been easy. However, as for any other animal, my survival instinct spoke loudly and I chose to swim further, away from the mattress. I gasped for air.

Slainte!

Do we stop feeling responsible toward our children, siblings or friends the moment they are out of sight? Does it matter whether our actions are witnessed and is there any reason to change the manner in which we act depending on who is nearby and who sees us? Quite bluntly, it appears we become sloppy when there is no one to impress. In this sense, though there is no justification for the behavior, the reason may be a variation on basic instincts. It may be a matter of role playing, rank (real or perceived) or power (real or perceived).

In the food service industry, there is so much customers do not see, and would not want to know, from restaurant kitchen staff blowing into a plastic bag to release cheese slices from it to deli employees sitting on the floor to clean food service containers, with food in them, with a dirty rag. Simply put, behind “closed doors” people become sloppy. Interestingly, these behaviors are never hidden from colleagues or even from new employees. There exists an unspoken agreement not to let customers see this. But are not new employees also former customers? Could they not share with the world what goes on behind closed doors?

Sloppiness is not a behavior that starts one hundred yards from one’s home and applies only to strangers. If you tell me I can spit shine a fork or cut corners as long as customers are not watching, you are revealing your lack of respect for fellow human beings and you have lost my trust. End of story. Respect and thoroughness do not require a witness in order to be activated. The goal for any action is not how it will be perceived, what will be perceived and by whom or to do it with the least effort.

This is another distinction we make. Faced with a new task, it is nearly always tempting to ask how to do it with the least effort. Those who ask this question are not bad; they are not lacking in skills, talent or expertise. Often, they are simply overwhelmed. Sloppiness or lack of thoroughness, then, may depend on our perception of the value of our time. It is as though we feel we might lose something or lose the ability for thoroughness in our own affairs if we extend it to everyone and everything all the time.

We equate thoroughness with doing our best for ourselves and a few chosen close friends or family; indeed, we associate it with a distinctive mark of allegiance. This is not true, of course. Some cultures and some groups have known this all along. The Quakers come to mind as a good example of a group (or culture) that consistently embraces a notion of boundless thoroughness. Pouring oneself into a task, whether it be witnessed or not and regardless of who is being served, constitutes one of their most basic life principles.

Must one learn or acquire thoroughness? Is it something we get from our parents? In some instances, at least, thoroughness is a dysfunction. Psychologists and those otherwise interested in human behavior have identified some circumstances where thoroughness is a compulsive behavior. A person may adopt this behavior in an irresistible effort to create order when, for example, they have grown up in a chaotic family. Conversely, one may adopt sloppiness as a form of rebellion.

So perhaps the real issue is not whether we are thorough or sloppy. Rather, it is whether we can be trusted to become thorough when required to do so, and whether we can be trusted consistently. What, then, could be the incentive to adopt thoroughness even when no one is watching? Is personal satisfaction enough? Is not thoroughness a form of self-expression?

As a form of expression, or language, thoroughness is indeed a worthy cause for the person pursuing it. There is a sense of accomplishment and personal fulfillment that exists with the mastery of a language that, in itself, encourages one to practice and perfect it, consistently and invariably.

Slainte!

When my husband and I traveled across the US in our old RV, in 2001, we ended up spending five months in Fredericksburg, Texas. We stayed at a modest campground. Our immediate neighbor was Wal-Mart. We still use the two dinner plates we bought there as a sort of celebration of freedom gift to ourselves. A big, colorful, smiling and silly-looking fish smiles at us from the middle, while smaller ones swim around the rim.

When we reached checkout to pay for these plates, we found a rather long line. Something unusual soon captured our attention. The register operator was a teenage boy. Unlike many “grown ups” at nearby registers, he was not merely nice to the person in front of him; he gave his full attention to everyone in line. He made eye contact, greeted everyone, asked how everyone was doing and if we had planned something pleasant for the weekend. He did so with genuine respect and engaged everyone in light conversation. When a customer had a question he could not answer without causing delay for others in line, he immediately secured assistance from a colleague. Everyone who had approached the line with a frown of discouragement immediately began to smile. This was a tension-free zone.

My husband and I still talk about this young man. I was certain then, and am certain now, that he has had success and advancement at every job he has ever held. I am positive his career path was assured simply because he had already mastered how to present himself and extend respect to others in a position many would consider low and meaningless. This, precisely, is the difference: he surely did not consider his work as a checkout clerk to be meaningless.

There is a sort of distortion in our minds regarding job functions and attitude. Interestingly, this distortion affects all ranges of the job spectrum. An executive may believe to be so “above” everyone that he looses his sensitivity and compassion toward peers, subordinates and clients. Similarly, a checkout clerk may feel so low on the totem pole that she cannot show kindness to the customers whom, it turns out, very directly contribute to putting food on her table each day.

The ability to engage with people at heart level, to disregard rank and job title and only see another human being with fears, talents, concerns, strengths and weaknesses similar to our own, is a precious skill to embrace and develop. No amount of product knowledge can replace this. A customer service clerk who does not know an answer and does not bother to look it up for the client has lost an opportunity to experience the richness of human connection. Not only will the client be turned away feeling worthless and not likely return, but also he is not likely to radiate much appreciation toward the clerk, who will mistakenly assume this confirms how much their job “sucks”.

Conversely, a sales clerk with the presence of mind to take a few extra steps to secure proper information, out of sheer respect for the person before him, also opens the door to a rich experience. The client is put at ease and acknowledged. Her gratitude will be obvious. Both she and the clerk walk away feeling complete. Kindness is a commodity without a price. A best friend can break your heart with harsh words or actions; a stranger in a store can mend it in an instant. In fact, the mending is far more powerful when it comes from a stranger, because though she has no reason to care, she takes the time to do so.

It appears that success is measured not only in rank or salary level; it is measured in kind. One is not truly rich who does not have the ability or willingness to give genuine attention to strangers as much as to friends. Our willingness to be fully present to others does not have to stop or change the moment we step off our property line or the moment we stand behind the counter at work.

Perhaps there is no sense of boundary for those amongst us who can give equal respect and attention to all. When they step off the curb from their homes to go to work each day, they simply feel they are walking to another end of the same property, a place to see new faces, to serve others; a place to walk back from in the evening feeling the sort of exhaustion one feels at the end of a good and fulfilling day. There is no reason not to repeat this the next time and the next day, wherever they go.

Slainte!