On the Bright Side

It’s that time of year again: People cutting in line because they obviously have somewhere to go; crowded stores and streets; and the endless music being piped into our lives, indoctrinating the “holiday spirit” (spend your money) into our weary souls, if only for a few stressful weeks. The holiday season really has become a direct manifestation of our culture. We have a very all-or-nothing attitude when it comes to celebrating. Maybe that is because most of us are truly too busy working to take the time out to celebrate in moderation on a more frequent basis. No, in America it is “Go hard or go home! During the work week, we work hard. On the weekends, we play hard. During the summer, we vacation hard. And during the holidays, we rejoice – hard! We jam it all in: the food and drink, the running around, the sleep deprivation, and the dent in our bank accounts, the family obligations and politics… all in honor of the “holiday season.” I’ve never been much of a “Put the Christ back...

It’s here. The Season. From too much food to too much fun, the “all in” mentality that typically accompanies the holidays is reinforced by that little voice in the back of our heads deluding us into believing that, come January first, we have a new lease on life. The reckless abandon of the month of December that racks up the pounds and draws down the bank account, becomes our motivation to take on the world with a whole new fervor. In many ways I am grateful, albeit amused, at this cyclical ritual that defines our consumer culture. I equate it with a collective case of spiritual bulimia. Initiating with Thanksgiving, where we stuff ourselves full of food as a symbol of our gratitude, followed by Black Friday, our nationwide shopping spree, where I have at times found myself thinking, “There must be something I need!”, to the multiple weekly parties, charity functions and family gatherings that are now what we simply call, "The Season." And so it starts: the binge before ...

I don’t enjoy the first few weeks of school as much as I do now once we get rolling. It is a “getting to know you” process. Unavoidable, but still, not fun. By now each of my classes has its own personality, making the repetition of lessons six times per day less monotonous. Things strike kids differently and the questions raised during class change the conversation all day and hardly a week goes by that I don’t learn something new. We spend 180 days together, and some days are better than others. There are days when I am just “on” and the energy is palpable. And other days when I wonder if I’m even really in the room because everyone looks like they are about to fall asleep! I used to take that really personally, but experience and wisdom are teaching me that sometimes I just can’t compete with a sugar crash or personal situation outside of my realm. So, I carry on, do what I can and hope for the best. Realizing that the students don’t have to love every minute of every one of my ...

One of the greatest benefits of getting older is becoming clearer on who I really am and what I am all about. Young people often lack the confidence, skills, and life experience to narrow down exactly what makes them tick. Growing up is a process of trying on different personalities and engaging with different kinds of people to identify which parts of ourselves we want to accentuate and which we want to discard. I used to love the beginning of a new school year. One year I was punk, the next year a cheerleader. I went from Rizzo to Sandy in less than six months. In college, I minored in dance and changed my major three times. If people didn’t know me better, they might think I had Multiple Personality Disorder. Bear with me, I’m not making light of this affliction. In fact, it is one of the reasons I majored in Psychology. I really relate to the idea that there are many, many personalities inside of each of us, and am fascinated by the way these voices are socialized, controlled, ...

They go together like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire; like peanut butter and chocolate; like milk and cookies. You can’t really have one without the other. On the other hand, ‘now’ and ‘zen’ are like oil and water if you happen to be in the middle of a tooth extraction, as complete presence in a moment like that is a challenge - hence the Novocaine! The point is, you can really only appreciate the fullness of each moment if you stay in the present. Kids get this. They live in the present. They have no worries about paying the mortgage or going to a job every day. They have no one else depending on them. They are not yet aware enough to even think about their purpose in this world. Nope - they just lose themselves in play. And interestingly, the way they play is so close to the true spirit of their being that if they could just hold on what makes them happy their future might be so much easier. They create, they sing, they role play, they run, spin, and they fall down to their hear...

I’ve always fondly referred to my closet as my “Room of My Own” and my copy of Virginia Woolf’s book is front and center on one of the shelves. My closet is full of my creative endeavors. Paintings on the walls, journals upon journals of songs and poetry, and even about a hundred pairs of rose colored glasses that I bought on a whim on my 40th birthday when I had dreams of starting RoseyShades, the “attitude accessory” company. It’s my Dream Cave. But recently when I was spring cleaning, I saw these pieces of me - really my favorite pieces - sitting dusty on the shelves, and it made me wonder if I was living my life ‘in the closet.’ Is my coveted Room of my Own, brimming over with creativity and dreams, actually a reflection my poverty of courage? Woolf lived in an era when women held considerably less legal and economic power, and were often ‘shackled’ to a life they did not choose. In response to a quip she’d heard from a Cambridge professor about women not having the intellig...

Okay, so I should probably start by explaining that my kids never actually said, “Mother, may I...” although I tried. And I’m not talking about the game we played in the 70s where we stood in a line and one person got to choose who would be “Mother” next by allowing that person 5 steps forward to the everyone else’s 3 paces backward. The title of my column this month is just my cheesy way of using ‘Mother’ and ‘May’ together since Mother’s Day is this month (hint, hint). But my story is a mother’s tale. A few weeks ago, my son drove home from college miserable with a 102 fever. I offered to drive up to see him, but he preferred coming home for some “fresh air, peace and quiet.” I’d like to say I felt bad for him, but if I did that paled in comparison to the major mom-high I was on. In a few days he’d be better and I’d go back to being the nag who still from afar manages to ask just enough questions to garner an eye roll. I’m pretty sure that’s why we don’t Skype. In the meantime, ...