Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 22
October 22, 2021
Staying Relevant In My Sons’ Lives
Ok, no surprise.
I am prone to negative ruminations over the fact that my sons – now flown and grown – seem to need me so little. And to go even further into the pity party slump, I am now becoming unhealthily obsessed with asking other mothers of adult sons how often they hear from their off spring – by text, by e mail, by phone, or by visit. I haven’t started actually charting the candid (and maybe not so candid) results of my very unscientific survey, but I am getting closer and closer to that dismal decision to mathematically track my findings. In my distorted mind, the number of communications per week = a certain degree of relevancy that you have in their lives. That’s my personal take.
Oh yes. And my other new and unadulterated topic of inquiry – only slightly disguised as real interest – is asking my friends with adult daughters how often they connect. I have realized this puts me on a self-destructive path of mythic proportions, but I venture on. The road usually ends for me in a pit of despair and despondency, laced with a good measure of pure and unadulterated envy. At least with the moms of boys, I get a few reluctant confessions about how they yearn for more conversations with their male off-spring, but the moms of grown daughters? OMG! Where do I begin?
“We talk once a day, but text throughout the day.”
“In constant touch.”
“She’s my best friend. I’m her most trusted confidant.”
“I can’t go a day without her voice.”
And that’s not even factoring in adult daughters’ Facebook postings, replete with glorious and highly emotional content over birthdays, weddings, births of off-spring or just over the most mundane occurrences of daily living – most of which wouldn’t even register on my sons’ relevancy meter.
What did I do wrong? I fostered independence and rewarded them for being true to their own personal wants and dreams. And what did they do? They drank the Kool Aid, digested the message, embraced life fully and hardly looked back.
Maybe it’s their wiring. I once wrote a column about the different responses little girls and boys have toward their moms. And quoted David Heller in his book Children on Mothers.
This is what little girls say about their mothers:
Be a mother. It’s a rewarding thing. Mothers and Christmas are the two best things in the world. And my mother is the best gift I ever got.
Marie, age 9
Dear Mother.
You are the best mother a kid could have. I think you’re beautiful. And you are very kind too. I hope I turn out to be as good a mother as you. I want to make you a proud grandma with no gray hairs or worries. Love,
Jenny, age 8
She can keep loving and kissing all day long. Even if it’s after nine o’clock
Theresa, age 8
And this is what David Heller has to report on what the boys say about their mothers:
Can you believe that my mother doesn’t know where a linebacker lines up in football? She needs to learn more about the real world.
Michael, age 9
Dear Mummy,
Want to make a deal? You clean up my room for me and I’ll start listening to you.
What do you say?
Greetings,
Dick, age 7
Mother,
I won’t tell Dad you lost a hundred dollars on lottery tickets. But that was a dumb way to spend Mother’s Day.
Ryan, age 7
Dear Mom,
So what if you’re fat like a dinosaur?
You’re still the greatest.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Your little aggravation,
Mitchell, age 8
Is it any wonder I yearn for a daughter?
I lament that my car’s back seat is empty.
I lament that my front hall is devoid of dirty sneakers, perched precariously on the stairs.
I even lament that my evergreen bushes hide no more empty beer bottles.
But I lament the most that I hardly ever hear from my sons about the minute parts of their day or share the same with them.
Friends remind me: that’s what wives and girlfriends are for – sharing the minutiae of their lives.
Friends remind me: sons just want to know that their moms are ok. They don’t need details, nor necessarily want them, from you.
I get it. Well, quite honestly, I guess I get it. But I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.
The days of bringing me home their handmade ceramic tchotchkes (trinkets in Yiddish) from camp, the squiggly worm from the garden, and the trophy for 4th place soccer are long past. Ditto for me being the hub and them being the spokes. Ditto for me knowing where they were or where they said they were or where they wanted me to believe they were!
But a nagging thought persists. If I am not privy to at least some of the details in their richly layered lives, how do we maintain a sense of mother-son intimacy and connection? It puzzles me.
So I do a buck-up self-talk and go hunt up my manuals on both adapting to change and parenting adult children.
Judith Viorst, the wisest sage ever, says in her book Necessary Losses that “letting our children go and letting our dreams for our children go must be counted among our necessary losses.”
Perusing my library of empty nest literature, I glean one more helpful hint: A parent can communicate clearly their wishes, needs and expectations, but then needs to step both back and away.
I take a deep breath, hoping to summon up the courage to plow on. And into my head pops a quite simple realization: three of my sons and all seven of my grandchildren live over 1000 miles away. There’s no causal visiting for an hour or two, no impromptu lunches, nor requests to pick up a grandchild from nursery school. How do we remain relevant from afar?
An idea germinates: What if I ask them, as a favor to me, to share with me and their sibs at the end of each work week something in the last 7 days that has impacted them – in any way?
And in return, I will promise:
to stop comparing daughters to sons and lamenting my lack
to stop obsessively equating the number of my encounters with each of them each week as a barometer of their depth of devotion
and to treasure their messages forever – just like I treasure them.
The above column was written over four years ago.
Every Friday afternoon since then, I send out a group text to my five sons – and without fail, over the next 24 hours, they respond. And now that I know that I can count on that once-a-week communication, I have become less demanding. And, paradoxically, now that I am less demanding, I hear from them by phone on a more regular basis too.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
I am prone to negative ruminations over the fact that my sons – now flown and grown – seem to need me so little. And to go even further into the pity party slump, I am now becoming unhealthily obsessed with asking other mothers of adult sons how often they hear from their off spring – by text, by e mail, by phone, or by visit. I haven’t started actually charting the candid (and maybe not so candid) results of my very unscientific survey, but I am getting closer and closer to that dismal decision to mathematically track my findings. In my distorted mind, the number of communications per week = a certain degree of relevancy that you have in their lives. That’s my personal take.
Oh yes. And my other new and unadulterated topic of inquiry – only slightly disguised as real interest – is asking my friends with adult daughters how often they connect. I have realized this puts me on a self-destructive path of mythic proportions, but I venture on. The road usually ends for me in a pit of despair and despondency, laced with a good measure of pure and unadulterated envy. At least with the moms of boys, I get a few reluctant confessions about how they yearn for more conversations with their male off-spring, but the moms of grown daughters? OMG! Where do I begin?
“We talk once a day, but text throughout the day.”
“In constant touch.”
“She’s my best friend. I’m her most trusted confidant.”
“I can’t go a day without her voice.”
And that’s not even factoring in adult daughters’ Facebook postings, replete with glorious and highly emotional content over birthdays, weddings, births of off-spring or just over the most mundane occurrences of daily living – most of which wouldn’t even register on my sons’ relevancy meter.
What did I do wrong? I fostered independence and rewarded them for being true to their own personal wants and dreams. And what did they do? They drank the Kool Aid, digested the message, embraced life fully and hardly looked back.
Maybe it’s their wiring. I once wrote a column about the different responses little girls and boys have toward their moms. And quoted David Heller in his book Children on Mothers.
This is what little girls say about their mothers:
Be a mother. It’s a rewarding thing. Mothers and Christmas are the two best things in the world. And my mother is the best gift I ever got.
Marie, age 9
Dear Mother.
You are the best mother a kid could have. I think you’re beautiful. And you are very kind too. I hope I turn out to be as good a mother as you. I want to make you a proud grandma with no gray hairs or worries. Love,
Jenny, age 8
She can keep loving and kissing all day long. Even if it’s after nine o’clock
Theresa, age 8
And this is what David Heller has to report on what the boys say about their mothers:
Can you believe that my mother doesn’t know where a linebacker lines up in football? She needs to learn more about the real world.
Michael, age 9
Dear Mummy,
Want to make a deal? You clean up my room for me and I’ll start listening to you.
What do you say?
Greetings,
Dick, age 7
Mother,
I won’t tell Dad you lost a hundred dollars on lottery tickets. But that was a dumb way to spend Mother’s Day.
Ryan, age 7
Dear Mom,
So what if you’re fat like a dinosaur?
You’re still the greatest.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Your little aggravation,
Mitchell, age 8
Is it any wonder I yearn for a daughter?
I lament that my car’s back seat is empty.
I lament that my front hall is devoid of dirty sneakers, perched precariously on the stairs.
I even lament that my evergreen bushes hide no more empty beer bottles.
But I lament the most that I hardly ever hear from my sons about the minute parts of their day or share the same with them.
Friends remind me: that’s what wives and girlfriends are for – sharing the minutiae of their lives.
Friends remind me: sons just want to know that their moms are ok. They don’t need details, nor necessarily want them, from you.
I get it. Well, quite honestly, I guess I get it. But I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.
The days of bringing me home their handmade ceramic tchotchkes (trinkets in Yiddish) from camp, the squiggly worm from the garden, and the trophy for 4th place soccer are long past. Ditto for me being the hub and them being the spokes. Ditto for me knowing where they were or where they said they were or where they wanted me to believe they were!
But a nagging thought persists. If I am not privy to at least some of the details in their richly layered lives, how do we maintain a sense of mother-son intimacy and connection? It puzzles me.
So I do a buck-up self-talk and go hunt up my manuals on both adapting to change and parenting adult children.
Judith Viorst, the wisest sage ever, says in her book Necessary Losses that “letting our children go and letting our dreams for our children go must be counted among our necessary losses.”
Perusing my library of empty nest literature, I glean one more helpful hint: A parent can communicate clearly their wishes, needs and expectations, but then needs to step both back and away.
I take a deep breath, hoping to summon up the courage to plow on. And into my head pops a quite simple realization: three of my sons and all seven of my grandchildren live over 1000 miles away. There’s no causal visiting for an hour or two, no impromptu lunches, nor requests to pick up a grandchild from nursery school. How do we remain relevant from afar?
An idea germinates: What if I ask them, as a favor to me, to share with me and their sibs at the end of each work week something in the last 7 days that has impacted them – in any way?
And in return, I will promise:
to stop comparing daughters to sons and lamenting my lack
to stop obsessively equating the number of my encounters with each of them each week as a barometer of their depth of devotion
and to treasure their messages forever – just like I treasure them.
The above column was written over four years ago.
Every Friday afternoon since then, I send out a group text to my five sons – and without fail, over the next 24 hours, they respond. And now that I know that I can count on that once-a-week communication, I have become less demanding. And, paradoxically, now that I am less demanding, I hear from them by phone on a more regular basis too.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
October 8, 2021
JOOPS – What Is It And Why Should We Use It?
JOOPS – What is it and Why Should We Use it?
JOOPS stands for Journal of Other People’s Sh*t
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I know there are all kind of online apps to track special occasions – like close friends’ birthdays and anniversaries. I am way too attention deficit to track them down, sort them out, try them out and then master one.
Though I have not found one, there is probably an app for keeping track of the myriad number of endless events, happenings and activities of our close friends and family too – better known as those individuals who are in our first concentric circle of personal support and engagement.
Robin Dunbar, an Oxford evolutionary psychologist, is best known for his namesake “Dunbar’s number.” This is the number of stable relationships people are cognitively able to maintain at once. The proposed number is 150.
Actually, I think I have a lot more than 150. I am, and always have been, a people collector. I simply can’t help it. I love people. I love their stories. I love to figure out what makes them tick.
Now I‘m not sure they are all “stable” (tee hee) relationships. And I am also pretty sure I am not cognitively capable of keeping track of everyone’s events, milestones, doc appointments, health crises, celebratory moments, travel plans, sporting events, professional successes, etc.
Years ago, I would have effortlessly remembered the minutiae without a list, app or tracking device. Not anymore. From the mundane to the memorable, I simply can’t keep in my head all the relevant and important details of the people in my life that have a rank on my own personal Dunbar number.
A friend’s arrival back in Florida after summering in NJ
A friend’s son’s bone marrow transplant treatment
My adult kids’ professional presentations
My sons’ important calls with colleagues, travel schedule, golf and tennis game scores
My grandkids’ soccer games, tennis matches, and school projects
My favourite nail tech’s breast surgery
Friends’ husbands’ heart surgery, knee/hip replacement
operations, skin cancer treatments
My daughter-in-law’s new position
A reminder to each of my adult sons to get a colonoscopy and then keeping track of which ones actually did
When we recall seemingly effortlessly both the mundane and the memorable, it speaks that we care. That we honor both milestones and the minor occurrences that make up so much of our daily lives.
When we ask at the wrong time –
Miss the event entirely –
Never remember that we even forgot –
We come off as self-absorbed.
Unfeeling.
Not listening.
Dismissive.
We don’t come off as what we are: well-intentioned, absent-minded geezers. I’m tired of forgetting things I should have remembered or wanted to remember, but nevertheless have a hard time remembering.
Hence JOOPS – Journal of Other People’s Sh*t
It can be a plain spiral notebook filled with lined pages or a leather-bound journal.
It could be a hardbacked calendar book.
The point: designate a concrete, physical binder to only be used for the sole purpose of tracking our friends’ and family’s doings:
The ordinary.
The necessary.
The mundane.
Trust me.
We will be held in high esteem for our caring, our consideration and our attention to detail.
And best of all…It will be our own little secret. I’ll certainly never tell.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
JOOPS stands for Journal of Other People’s Sh*t
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I know there are all kind of online apps to track special occasions – like close friends’ birthdays and anniversaries. I am way too attention deficit to track them down, sort them out, try them out and then master one.
Though I have not found one, there is probably an app for keeping track of the myriad number of endless events, happenings and activities of our close friends and family too – better known as those individuals who are in our first concentric circle of personal support and engagement.
Robin Dunbar, an Oxford evolutionary psychologist, is best known for his namesake “Dunbar’s number.” This is the number of stable relationships people are cognitively able to maintain at once. The proposed number is 150.
Actually, I think I have a lot more than 150. I am, and always have been, a people collector. I simply can’t help it. I love people. I love their stories. I love to figure out what makes them tick.
Now I‘m not sure they are all “stable” (tee hee) relationships. And I am also pretty sure I am not cognitively capable of keeping track of everyone’s events, milestones, doc appointments, health crises, celebratory moments, travel plans, sporting events, professional successes, etc.
Years ago, I would have effortlessly remembered the minutiae without a list, app or tracking device. Not anymore. From the mundane to the memorable, I simply can’t keep in my head all the relevant and important details of the people in my life that have a rank on my own personal Dunbar number.
A friend’s arrival back in Florida after summering in NJ
A friend’s son’s bone marrow transplant treatment
My adult kids’ professional presentations
My sons’ important calls with colleagues, travel schedule, golf and tennis game scores
My grandkids’ soccer games, tennis matches, and school projects
My favourite nail tech’s breast surgery
Friends’ husbands’ heart surgery, knee/hip replacement
operations, skin cancer treatments
My daughter-in-law’s new position
A reminder to each of my adult sons to get a colonoscopy and then keeping track of which ones actually did
When we recall seemingly effortlessly both the mundane and the memorable, it speaks that we care. That we honor both milestones and the minor occurrences that make up so much of our daily lives.
When we ask at the wrong time –
Miss the event entirely –
Never remember that we even forgot –
We come off as self-absorbed.
Unfeeling.
Not listening.
Dismissive.
We don’t come off as what we are: well-intentioned, absent-minded geezers. I’m tired of forgetting things I should have remembered or wanted to remember, but nevertheless have a hard time remembering.
Hence JOOPS – Journal of Other People’s Sh*t
It can be a plain spiral notebook filled with lined pages or a leather-bound journal.
It could be a hardbacked calendar book.
The point: designate a concrete, physical binder to only be used for the sole purpose of tracking our friends’ and family’s doings:
The ordinary.
The necessary.
The mundane.
Trust me.
We will be held in high esteem for our caring, our consideration and our attention to detail.
And best of all…It will be our own little secret. I’ll certainly never tell.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
October 1, 2021
This Is A Hard Column To Write
This is a hard column to write because I don’t want to come off as a self-absorbed, spoiled princess bitch……
My late mother – of blessed memory – always reminded me that I went out of the way to make things difficult for myself. Regrettably, not only did I never listen to her – I never even paused for a nano-second to consider that what she was espousing had even a tiny kernel of truth.
At age 74, I am beginning to heartily reconsider my mother’s point.
When I found out my husband needed additional back surgery, I automatically slid into my advocacy role. His needs are my primary concern – which is as it should be, right?
When he’s released from the hospital a week after surgery, I realize that I will be on my own with him for at least ten days in a hotel room in Manhattan before returning home to Florida.
Usually, I would go into martyr mode:
No one can take care of him but me.
All pleasure-seeking activities must come to a standstill until life resumes its pre-surgery normalcy.
I can’t enjoy Manhattan’s treasures while he recuperates.
First, I let myself day dream – consciously admitting that there are some enjoyable things I’d like to be doing in the Big Apple while he is recuperating. I push aside the well of guilt surging over me from even thinking of such indulgences and diversions.
I’m in New York City. Bloomingdales is down the street. The Metropolitan of Art just blocks away. Nail salons dot every block. Our hotel connects to a spiffy day spa. Outdoor cafes and juice bars beckon amidst the beautiful, balmy September weather.
Do I dare shop?
Schedule a mani and pedi?
Read a novel as I sip a glass of red wine at an outdoor café?
Enjoy “A Lexicon of Fashion” at the Met – ensembles by a diverse range of designers, beginning in 1940 to present day?
I can readily justify getting a home health aide to come by and stay with my husband so I can shop for groceries, pick up his prescriptions, and buy him his blood pressure and oxygen machines.
Do I dare get a home health aide to come by and stay with my husband so I can have lunch with one of my sons who works in the City? So I can watch one of my grandsons play a Sunday morning basketball game in New Jersey? So I can just casually hang with my kids and their families each weekend? And hug my grandkids on an ongoing basis?
I book the home health care aid for additional hours.
It’s hard to admit to myself that in order to Keep Preserving My Bloom seeking out pleasurable activities – even in times of turmoil – are what does the trick.
My decision to spend precious time with my family plus indulging in pleasurable past times during my husband’s post-op recovery has made me a much happier, more caring and more present wife – catering to his needs with a smile on my face and a genuinely patient demeanor. And dismantling the martyr harness has also made me a less demanding mother during this stressful interlude – just ask my five sons.
I wish my mom were around so I could tell her she was right. Because she was.
Keep Preserving It, Baby – it works!
Iris Ruth Pastor
My late mother – of blessed memory – always reminded me that I went out of the way to make things difficult for myself. Regrettably, not only did I never listen to her – I never even paused for a nano-second to consider that what she was espousing had even a tiny kernel of truth.
At age 74, I am beginning to heartily reconsider my mother’s point.
When I found out my husband needed additional back surgery, I automatically slid into my advocacy role. His needs are my primary concern – which is as it should be, right?
When he’s released from the hospital a week after surgery, I realize that I will be on my own with him for at least ten days in a hotel room in Manhattan before returning home to Florida.
Usually, I would go into martyr mode:
No one can take care of him but me.
All pleasure-seeking activities must come to a standstill until life resumes its pre-surgery normalcy.
I can’t enjoy Manhattan’s treasures while he recuperates.
First, I let myself day dream – consciously admitting that there are some enjoyable things I’d like to be doing in the Big Apple while he is recuperating. I push aside the well of guilt surging over me from even thinking of such indulgences and diversions.
I’m in New York City. Bloomingdales is down the street. The Metropolitan of Art just blocks away. Nail salons dot every block. Our hotel connects to a spiffy day spa. Outdoor cafes and juice bars beckon amidst the beautiful, balmy September weather.
Do I dare shop?
Schedule a mani and pedi?
Read a novel as I sip a glass of red wine at an outdoor café?
Enjoy “A Lexicon of Fashion” at the Met – ensembles by a diverse range of designers, beginning in 1940 to present day?
I can readily justify getting a home health aide to come by and stay with my husband so I can shop for groceries, pick up his prescriptions, and buy him his blood pressure and oxygen machines.
Do I dare get a home health aide to come by and stay with my husband so I can have lunch with one of my sons who works in the City? So I can watch one of my grandsons play a Sunday morning basketball game in New Jersey? So I can just casually hang with my kids and their families each weekend? And hug my grandkids on an ongoing basis?
I book the home health care aid for additional hours.
It’s hard to admit to myself that in order to Keep Preserving My Bloom seeking out pleasurable activities – even in times of turmoil – are what does the trick.
My decision to spend precious time with my family plus indulging in pleasurable past times during my husband’s post-op recovery has made me a much happier, more caring and more present wife – catering to his needs with a smile on my face and a genuinely patient demeanor. And dismantling the martyr harness has also made me a less demanding mother during this stressful interlude – just ask my five sons.
I wish my mom were around so I could tell her she was right. Because she was.
Keep Preserving It, Baby – it works!
Iris Ruth Pastor
September 24, 2021
Book Buying Spree
My stacks of “Books To Read” grows steadily larger and larger – near to toppling over from their precarious perch upon my old fashioned, no longer used scale.
Here’s the interesting part: along with the growing number of books I have yet to read is the burgeoning stack I’ve started and then abruptly abandoned.
Too intricate
Too slow moving
Too long
Too small font
Not willing to actually bash an author – people I deeply admire in general – I will forgo specific titles to be avoided at all costs.
With my husband’s looming surgery, however, I was hell bent on tracking down super absorbing books to both calm me down and divert me.
Here’s two:
The Midnight Library by Matt Haig
The Plot by Jean Hanff Korelitz
The Midnight Library deals with that provocative, emotion laden topic: REGRETS.
As in the road not taken
As in the talent not tapped into
As in the relationship left unexplored
As in the opportunity missed
Who among us doesn’t wonder where would we be if we had gone to a different college, moved to a different city, embarked on a different career path, or married our high school sweetheart?
The second attention grabbing novel is The Plot – a story of an “ordinary” writer who gets a glimpse of an extraordinary storyline from a former student and runs with it. It’s his fear of discovery that peoples the story – and the plagiarized tale he tells is added spice to the plot of The Plot.
Along with the novel’s twists and turns is an added bonus: Korelitz utilizes lots of SAT words I haven’t used in years – words whose meanings I only dimly recall.
Vapidity – dullness, flatness
Cogent- a clear, logical and convincing case or argument
Opined – hold and stated as one’s opinion
Purloin – to steal
Sanguine – optimistic or positive especially in an apparently bad or difficult situation
AND my absolutely favorite, though not even a word when I took the SAT’s, and just added to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary in 2018: Mansplaining – when a man is compelled to explain or give an opinion about everything – especially to a woman. Often spoken in a condescending manner, even if he doesn’t know what he’s talking about or even if it’s none of his business. (OMG! I love this term!)
Happy reading.
Happy vocabulary building.
And Keep Preserving Your
Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
PS While we are on the subject of reading, I’m in New York City. Every day on my walk to the hospital to visit my husband, I pass kiosks sporting faded signs indicating they sell newspapers. But I never see any.
Yesterday, I stopped mid-step, pivoted back to the kiosk I had just passed and asked a simple question: Can I buy today’s newspaper paper here?
“Nope, lady,” the young proprietor quipped in a bored voice. “We don’t sell newspapers here anymore.”
Imagine visiting New York City and not readily finding a Sunday New York Times to buy and read.
Yeah, yeah, I know I can get it on-line, but my senses rebel at the sterile thought of it.
Here’s the interesting part: along with the growing number of books I have yet to read is the burgeoning stack I’ve started and then abruptly abandoned.
Too intricate
Too slow moving
Too long
Too small font
Not willing to actually bash an author – people I deeply admire in general – I will forgo specific titles to be avoided at all costs.
With my husband’s looming surgery, however, I was hell bent on tracking down super absorbing books to both calm me down and divert me.
Here’s two:
The Midnight Library by Matt Haig
The Plot by Jean Hanff Korelitz
The Midnight Library deals with that provocative, emotion laden topic: REGRETS.
As in the road not taken
As in the talent not tapped into
As in the relationship left unexplored
As in the opportunity missed
Who among us doesn’t wonder where would we be if we had gone to a different college, moved to a different city, embarked on a different career path, or married our high school sweetheart?
The second attention grabbing novel is The Plot – a story of an “ordinary” writer who gets a glimpse of an extraordinary storyline from a former student and runs with it. It’s his fear of discovery that peoples the story – and the plagiarized tale he tells is added spice to the plot of The Plot.
Along with the novel’s twists and turns is an added bonus: Korelitz utilizes lots of SAT words I haven’t used in years – words whose meanings I only dimly recall.
Vapidity – dullness, flatness
Cogent- a clear, logical and convincing case or argument
Opined – hold and stated as one’s opinion
Purloin – to steal
Sanguine – optimistic or positive especially in an apparently bad or difficult situation
AND my absolutely favorite, though not even a word when I took the SAT’s, and just added to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary in 2018: Mansplaining – when a man is compelled to explain or give an opinion about everything – especially to a woman. Often spoken in a condescending manner, even if he doesn’t know what he’s talking about or even if it’s none of his business. (OMG! I love this term!)
Happy reading.
Happy vocabulary building.
And Keep Preserving Your
Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
PS While we are on the subject of reading, I’m in New York City. Every day on my walk to the hospital to visit my husband, I pass kiosks sporting faded signs indicating they sell newspapers. But I never see any.
Yesterday, I stopped mid-step, pivoted back to the kiosk I had just passed and asked a simple question: Can I buy today’s newspaper paper here?
“Nope, lady,” the young proprietor quipped in a bored voice. “We don’t sell newspapers here anymore.”
Imagine visiting New York City and not readily finding a Sunday New York Times to buy and read.
Yeah, yeah, I know I can get it on-line, but my senses rebel at the sterile thought of it.
September 17, 2021
I Think I’m Weird
I think I’m weird.
Every time I get very stressed, I delve into a novel or memoir about The Holocaust.
Reading about that level of degradation, terror and violence always skyrockets my gratitude meter and puts things in proper prospective.
This time my choice was The Light of Days by Judy Batalion. It is the untold story of women resistance fighters in Hitler’s ghettos.
These unsung heroes, who have remained anonymous for far too long, not only cooked, cared for the ghetto orphans and ran schools in the ghettos, but engaged in smuggling, sabotage, resistance and spying.
In anticipation of my husband’s yet another looming back surgery, I voraciously whipped through chapter after chapter of truly horrific happenings from that historical time.
So, when we checked into our hotel a few days before his surgery, I was less inclined to fret over the fact that there weren’t enough hangers, the Internet connection was spotty, the refrigerator not cold enough and one of the drawers almost impossible to open.
The night before the operation, my husband and I sleep fitfully – both of our phones set to 4:30am. We wake every 45 minutes to check the time and to make sure we haven’t slept through our 5:30am hospital check-in time.
As the time grows closer to his surgery, I remind myself of things I find comforting;
The great time we had with our sons and their families over the weekend
The hospital orderly we have kept in contact with – who assures me he will look after both of us
The fact that three of my sons and their families live nearby
And I have my
Computer
iPad
Phone
Knitting
Books
Coffee mate
Supply of masks
And a long list of truly caring people to text/email updates to throughout the day
Still
I’m terrified.
***************************************************************
My fears are unfounded. Six long hours later, a call from our surgeon confirms my worst fears were unfounded:
My husband didn’t bleed to death on the table
He didn’t stroke out
He didn’t become paralyzed
“In fact, there were no surprises at all,“ my doctor reported. “And all went as was expected.“
I settle down and impatiently wait to be able to see him in the step-down unit where he will spend the next few days being closely monitored after being released from the recovery room.
Still agitated, I’m in need of some grounding. I find it in a message from Rabbi Laura Duhan Kaplan. She recently recorded this for the Jewish New Year of Rosh Hashanah.
Rabbi Kaplan focuses on a 1000 year-old prayer called Unetankeh Tokef– which centers around how to show up in challenging times.
What that means, notes Rabbi Kaplan, is to take stock and decide how to move forward.
She cites three ways to do this – and although the words are Jewish – their meaning is universal.
Teshuvah – a return to what needs fixing, looking at our interpersonal relationships and making amends
Tefilla h – prayer/spiritual self-examination
Tzedakah – giving help to those facing the most harm
Climate change, political upheaval, and a waxing pandemic are all looming, constant and relative threats in our world today.
But no one is
Herding us into ghettos
Starving us
Terrorising us through unremitting beatings
Tearing us from our families
Or throwing us into gas chambers
As American actor Jeff Kober says: To become mindfully aware of our surroundings is to bring our thinking back to our present moment of reality and to the possibility of some semblance of serenity.
In spite of it all, I’m pretty serene right now. Hope you are too.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
Every time I get very stressed, I delve into a novel or memoir about The Holocaust.
Reading about that level of degradation, terror and violence always skyrockets my gratitude meter and puts things in proper prospective.
This time my choice was The Light of Days by Judy Batalion. It is the untold story of women resistance fighters in Hitler’s ghettos.
These unsung heroes, who have remained anonymous for far too long, not only cooked, cared for the ghetto orphans and ran schools in the ghettos, but engaged in smuggling, sabotage, resistance and spying.
In anticipation of my husband’s yet another looming back surgery, I voraciously whipped through chapter after chapter of truly horrific happenings from that historical time.
So, when we checked into our hotel a few days before his surgery, I was less inclined to fret over the fact that there weren’t enough hangers, the Internet connection was spotty, the refrigerator not cold enough and one of the drawers almost impossible to open.
The night before the operation, my husband and I sleep fitfully – both of our phones set to 4:30am. We wake every 45 minutes to check the time and to make sure we haven’t slept through our 5:30am hospital check-in time.
As the time grows closer to his surgery, I remind myself of things I find comforting;
The great time we had with our sons and their families over the weekend
The hospital orderly we have kept in contact with – who assures me he will look after both of us
The fact that three of my sons and their families live nearby
And I have my
Computer
iPad
Phone
Knitting
Books
Coffee mate
Supply of masks
And a long list of truly caring people to text/email updates to throughout the day
Still
I’m terrified.
***************************************************************
My fears are unfounded. Six long hours later, a call from our surgeon confirms my worst fears were unfounded:
My husband didn’t bleed to death on the table
He didn’t stroke out
He didn’t become paralyzed
“In fact, there were no surprises at all,“ my doctor reported. “And all went as was expected.“
I settle down and impatiently wait to be able to see him in the step-down unit where he will spend the next few days being closely monitored after being released from the recovery room.
Still agitated, I’m in need of some grounding. I find it in a message from Rabbi Laura Duhan Kaplan. She recently recorded this for the Jewish New Year of Rosh Hashanah.
Rabbi Kaplan focuses on a 1000 year-old prayer called Unetankeh Tokef– which centers around how to show up in challenging times.
What that means, notes Rabbi Kaplan, is to take stock and decide how to move forward.
She cites three ways to do this – and although the words are Jewish – their meaning is universal.
Teshuvah – a return to what needs fixing, looking at our interpersonal relationships and making amends
Tefilla h – prayer/spiritual self-examination
Tzedakah – giving help to those facing the most harm
Climate change, political upheaval, and a waxing pandemic are all looming, constant and relative threats in our world today.
But no one is
Herding us into ghettos
Starving us
Terrorising us through unremitting beatings
Tearing us from our families
Or throwing us into gas chambers
As American actor Jeff Kober says: To become mindfully aware of our surroundings is to bring our thinking back to our present moment of reality and to the possibility of some semblance of serenity.
In spite of it all, I’m pretty serene right now. Hope you are too.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
September 10, 2021
Your Fountain Of Truth About Life After Youth
I made a decision after turning 74 in August that I‘d be
devoting a portion of my blogs during my 74th year to writing about things I am grateful for – things we all often carelessly and casually take for granted.
Here’s one biggie: our ability – as we slide gracefully (or kicking and screaming) into the autumn of our years – to CONTROL OUR OWN REMOTE.
To be the captain of our ship. And the navigator too.
That translates into having the ability, the time, the resources, and the will to embark on new endeavors. To try new things, even when it involves pushing past the fear of failure and coping with the anxiety of the unknown.
So what am I grateful for these days?
The opportunity to work with an immensely talented and gifted woman named Pam Saeks.
Why? Because she is brilliant, fearless and innovative.
And together we are blazing forth upon a new pathway for both of us.
What is it?
A podcast for and about women (men are most welcome to listen too – hopefully it will help them figure out how their wives, daughters, girlfriends and female friends and co-workers think).
The Name
Shooting the Schtick
Your Fountain of Truth About Life After Youth
Pam and I have been busily engaged in coming up with what we think is a unique slant that isn’t available elsewhere.
Think of Shooting the Schtick as sitting around your kitchen table – schmoozing with a best friend or two – talking about things that matter and some that don’t matter that much – all of it thought provoking, entertaining and provocative. And edgy, of course.
To shave or not shave those pesky black chin hairs?
To tuck, cut, or Botox?
Are we too old to wear ripped jeans and flaunt our cleavage?
Why does what I weigh control my mood?
Long distance grandparenting or being the nanny to your grandchildren or coping with not having any grandchildren to begin with!
Daring to write our own obit – why should anyone but us have the last word?
Dealing with wedding tribulations/family tensions
Parenting adult kids (that’s my favorite cause I never seem to be able to get it quite right)
What daughters-in-law would like their mothers-in-law to know and vice versa
Recommendations on books, podcasts and binge-worthy TV shows
We may be lowering our heels, but we are raising the roof and harnessing our power.
We are babes in joyland
We are women gone rogue
We are seasoned bitches
Blooming broads
Whatever you call us, we are in our 60’s, 70’s and 80’s and we are ready to roar.
Please take our survey to make sure your roar is heard too. You matter.
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
devoting a portion of my blogs during my 74th year to writing about things I am grateful for – things we all often carelessly and casually take for granted.
Here’s one biggie: our ability – as we slide gracefully (or kicking and screaming) into the autumn of our years – to CONTROL OUR OWN REMOTE.
To be the captain of our ship. And the navigator too.
That translates into having the ability, the time, the resources, and the will to embark on new endeavors. To try new things, even when it involves pushing past the fear of failure and coping with the anxiety of the unknown.
So what am I grateful for these days?
The opportunity to work with an immensely talented and gifted woman named Pam Saeks.
Why? Because she is brilliant, fearless and innovative.
And together we are blazing forth upon a new pathway for both of us.
What is it?
A podcast for and about women (men are most welcome to listen too – hopefully it will help them figure out how their wives, daughters, girlfriends and female friends and co-workers think).
The Name
Shooting the Schtick
Your Fountain of Truth About Life After Youth
Pam and I have been busily engaged in coming up with what we think is a unique slant that isn’t available elsewhere.
Think of Shooting the Schtick as sitting around your kitchen table – schmoozing with a best friend or two – talking about things that matter and some that don’t matter that much – all of it thought provoking, entertaining and provocative. And edgy, of course.
To shave or not shave those pesky black chin hairs?
To tuck, cut, or Botox?
Are we too old to wear ripped jeans and flaunt our cleavage?
Why does what I weigh control my mood?
Long distance grandparenting or being the nanny to your grandchildren or coping with not having any grandchildren to begin with!
Daring to write our own obit – why should anyone but us have the last word?
Dealing with wedding tribulations/family tensions
Parenting adult kids (that’s my favorite cause I never seem to be able to get it quite right)
What daughters-in-law would like their mothers-in-law to know and vice versa
Recommendations on books, podcasts and binge-worthy TV shows
We may be lowering our heels, but we are raising the roof and harnessing our power.
We are babes in joyland
We are women gone rogue
We are seasoned bitches
Blooming broads
Whatever you call us, we are in our 60’s, 70’s and 80’s and we are ready to roar.
Please take our survey to make sure your roar is heard too. You matter.
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
September 2, 2021
Selling It All And Trying Something New
The first firm memory I have of Mark Silverstein was slow dancing with him at a Bar Mitzvah party when I was 13. I was uncomfortable for two reasons: he was holding me way too tightly for my dad’s idea of propriety and my yellow brocade party dress was flattening my burgeoning breasts into very unflattering pancakes.
When the dance was over, Mark very suavely (if any 13 year-old can be described as suave) released me from his arms and shot me an intensely dreamy look before departing back to his buddies.
My next recollection of Mark Silverstein was centered around the barrage of buzz he created by traveling 250 miles to attend our 45th high school reunion via his brand new 2010 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle.
A recent Facebook post updated me on Mark’s newest adventure: selling almost everything he owns and moving to Costa Rica. Intrigued, I immediately tracked him down and begged for some time to chat about his change-of-life direction.
Mark tells me he is taking two suitcases and his “Do Cool Sh*t “ t shirt.
Above is a picture of Mark and his daughter Taaron on the trail to Angel’s Landing in Utah – one of the most dangerous hiking trails in the country. His in-your-face motto emblazoned on his t-shirt falls seamlessly in line with his philosophy on life: Die with memories not dreams.
Totally intrigued with what he is doing, I ask him, “WHY?”
“I did a year’s worth of research and went down and visited three times – totaling about 30 days. The country has about 5 million people, is the size of West Virginia and has an excellent program for pensioners, without giving up American citizenship. It also has a good public health care system called Kaja that you qualify for if you are a permanent resident.
“It’s a beautiful country,” Mark continues, “with warm and welcoming people. Costa Ricans actually wave and say hello instead of ‘What are you looking at?’
“And I wanted one last adventure where I could explore nature, do yoga, and learn to surf.”
“Costa Rica is the land of ‘pura vida,’” Mark concludes. “Pura vida means cool or no worries – it’s also used as a greeting both when saying hello and goodbye.”
Costa Ricans say “pura vida” – it is everything that makes their Central American paradise so alluring. Pura vida is the Costa Rican version of the laid-back philosophy of “Hakuna Matata” from The Lion King. It’s how they look at the world.
Mark departed Cleveland on Tueday, August 31. He plans to arrive in Costa Rica today. He’s going to buy a dirt bike and then a 4 x4. Though he intends to build a house, for now he has rented a 2-bedroom home with a pool, 2 kilometers from the Pacific Ocean. Mark plans to start a non-profit to help indigenous tribes like the Boruca sell their art and craftwork. Below is a hand-painted balsa wood mask typically sold to tourists.
And he is also planning for lots of company from the States. I’m betting he’ll get it. As Mark says: “Surfs up and jungle trekking is waiting.”
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
When the dance was over, Mark very suavely (if any 13 year-old can be described as suave) released me from his arms and shot me an intensely dreamy look before departing back to his buddies.
My next recollection of Mark Silverstein was centered around the barrage of buzz he created by traveling 250 miles to attend our 45th high school reunion via his brand new 2010 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle.
A recent Facebook post updated me on Mark’s newest adventure: selling almost everything he owns and moving to Costa Rica. Intrigued, I immediately tracked him down and begged for some time to chat about his change-of-life direction.
Mark tells me he is taking two suitcases and his “Do Cool Sh*t “ t shirt.
Above is a picture of Mark and his daughter Taaron on the trail to Angel’s Landing in Utah – one of the most dangerous hiking trails in the country. His in-your-face motto emblazoned on his t-shirt falls seamlessly in line with his philosophy on life: Die with memories not dreams.
Totally intrigued with what he is doing, I ask him, “WHY?”
“I did a year’s worth of research and went down and visited three times – totaling about 30 days. The country has about 5 million people, is the size of West Virginia and has an excellent program for pensioners, without giving up American citizenship. It also has a good public health care system called Kaja that you qualify for if you are a permanent resident.
“It’s a beautiful country,” Mark continues, “with warm and welcoming people. Costa Ricans actually wave and say hello instead of ‘What are you looking at?’
“And I wanted one last adventure where I could explore nature, do yoga, and learn to surf.”
“Costa Rica is the land of ‘pura vida,’” Mark concludes. “Pura vida means cool or no worries – it’s also used as a greeting both when saying hello and goodbye.”
Costa Ricans say “pura vida” – it is everything that makes their Central American paradise so alluring. Pura vida is the Costa Rican version of the laid-back philosophy of “Hakuna Matata” from The Lion King. It’s how they look at the world.
Mark departed Cleveland on Tueday, August 31. He plans to arrive in Costa Rica today. He’s going to buy a dirt bike and then a 4 x4. Though he intends to build a house, for now he has rented a 2-bedroom home with a pool, 2 kilometers from the Pacific Ocean. Mark plans to start a non-profit to help indigenous tribes like the Boruca sell their art and craftwork. Below is a hand-painted balsa wood mask typically sold to tourists.
And he is also planning for lots of company from the States. I’m betting he’ll get it. As Mark says: “Surfs up and jungle trekking is waiting.”
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 27, 2021
What Do People Do In August?
Very sorry
And
Contrite
About no musings
This week…
Instead, a few days
Of off time
Not to be repeated regularly.
Family Wedding
in Chicago!
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
And
Contrite
About no musings
This week…
Instead, a few days
Of off time
Not to be repeated regularly.
Family Wedding
in Chicago!
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 20, 2021
How It All Began…
On August 15th of this year, my husband and I celebrated our 45thwedding anniversary.
However, that is not the only anniversary I am celebrating this month.
Thirty-one years ago this month, I started writing my “Incidentally, Iris” column.Here’s how it all transpired:Everyone has a special friend from their past and I was certainly no exception. My friend and I grew up together, walked the same neighborhood streets together, moaned over the same moronic boys together and managed to graduate both high school and college with a modicum of dignity.
We both married young, gave birth to two sons and proceeded to get divorced. Not exactly the American Dream, but certainly not a highly uncommon occurrence.
In the years following, we spoke at least two to three times a week by phone – as we emptied the dishwasher, folded the ever-present piles of laundry, prepared dinner and wiped runny noses.
And one day, she called and said, ”Iris, I found something you could do and I’m sending it to you in the mail.”
Sure enough, a package arrives two days later. It is a newspaper – a parenting newspaper to be exact – published and written by a housewife and mother (just like me) living in Baltimore, Maryland.
My friend was right. I could do this.
Just a few weeks before the first issue of Cincinnati Kids came out, I took my sons to Tampa, Florida for my yearly visit to see my aunt and uncle.
I was cooped up in a two-bedroom house my two sons from my first marriage and my three little boys
From my second marriage
I was in the same city where I had experienced a failed first marriage
My aunt was absent minded
My uncle was ailing
And my second husband was in Cincinnati working
I wrote a first-person account about my two-week ordeal and used it in the premier edition of Cincinnati Kids. I titled my column “Incidentally, Iris” in case I came up with any other things I wanted to comment on in future issues. And I signed off with the phrase “Keep Coping” – which was about the only thing that got me through my visit.
Since that time I’ve written on a large variety of subjects – accidents, guilt, ill health, lousy behavior. Lousy meals. Lousy days. I‘ve written about goals attained and those that fell short. I’ve written about losses avoided and losses sustained. Honor. Awards. Hard won wisdom. I’ve written about my family, my friends, my acquaintances. My failures. And my triumphs.
At first, I believed that my columns were well received because my kids and my husband and my life were so interesting that no one could resist reading about my experiences. As time went on, I learned differently.
Reader’s comments were in relation to their own life and personal concerns. Not mine.
When I wrote about losing my grandmother at such a young age, people who had experienced that same kind of premature loss spoke up.
When I wrote about coming to terms with the poignancy and ambivalence involved in watching my children grow up and flee the nest, parents experiencing that same kind of emotion spoke up.
When I wrote about watching my “average” children excel – and sometimes not excel – in school and sports and test taking, parents who also had “average” children spoke up.
When I wrote about the delight of stealing a few moments of solitude and relaxation from a busy day of responsibilities and deadlines, people who also had time constraints and pressures spoke up.
The feedback always was and continues to be centered around my ability to be in my readers’ kitchens – to mirror their thoughts, fears, goals, happy moments and aspirations.
All this time I thought I was writing a column about me. It took me a long time to realize I was writing a column also about you.
What “Incidentally, Iris” led to…
A lot of doors swung open. Invitations to speak about my experiences as a mother, wife, daughter, sister and friend started streaming in.
Months later, a local AM radio station launched “Sunday Night with Iris” a weekly radio slot where I interviewed story-worthy guests about what they were up to and involved in.
And in 1996, my mom and I published Slices, Bites and Other Facts of Life – a compilation of my columns and her comments – reflecting our insights, hard won knowledge and philosophy.
Websites, Facebook, Instagram, guest blogging, and zoom chats followed, as did another book: The Secret Life of a Weight Obsessed Woman.
I had found my happy place – my tribe – and my path continues to evolve, adapt and morph.
What’s changed over the last 32 years?I have more free time.
I have far more wrinkles.
My columns are shorter
I no longer sign-off with the ending: Keep Coping
And Rita now too is happily re-married.
Hats off to all of you who have been and continue to be part of my journey.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
However, that is not the only anniversary I am celebrating this month.
Thirty-one years ago this month, I started writing my “Incidentally, Iris” column.Here’s how it all transpired:Everyone has a special friend from their past and I was certainly no exception. My friend and I grew up together, walked the same neighborhood streets together, moaned over the same moronic boys together and managed to graduate both high school and college with a modicum of dignity.
We both married young, gave birth to two sons and proceeded to get divorced. Not exactly the American Dream, but certainly not a highly uncommon occurrence.
In the years following, we spoke at least two to three times a week by phone – as we emptied the dishwasher, folded the ever-present piles of laundry, prepared dinner and wiped runny noses.
And one day, she called and said, ”Iris, I found something you could do and I’m sending it to you in the mail.”
Sure enough, a package arrives two days later. It is a newspaper – a parenting newspaper to be exact – published and written by a housewife and mother (just like me) living in Baltimore, Maryland.
My friend was right. I could do this.
Just a few weeks before the first issue of Cincinnati Kids came out, I took my sons to Tampa, Florida for my yearly visit to see my aunt and uncle.
I was cooped up in a two-bedroom house my two sons from my first marriage and my three little boys
From my second marriage
I was in the same city where I had experienced a failed first marriage
My aunt was absent minded
My uncle was ailing
And my second husband was in Cincinnati working
I wrote a first-person account about my two-week ordeal and used it in the premier edition of Cincinnati Kids. I titled my column “Incidentally, Iris” in case I came up with any other things I wanted to comment on in future issues. And I signed off with the phrase “Keep Coping” – which was about the only thing that got me through my visit.
Since that time I’ve written on a large variety of subjects – accidents, guilt, ill health, lousy behavior. Lousy meals. Lousy days. I‘ve written about goals attained and those that fell short. I’ve written about losses avoided and losses sustained. Honor. Awards. Hard won wisdom. I’ve written about my family, my friends, my acquaintances. My failures. And my triumphs.
At first, I believed that my columns were well received because my kids and my husband and my life were so interesting that no one could resist reading about my experiences. As time went on, I learned differently.
Reader’s comments were in relation to their own life and personal concerns. Not mine.
When I wrote about losing my grandmother at such a young age, people who had experienced that same kind of premature loss spoke up.
When I wrote about coming to terms with the poignancy and ambivalence involved in watching my children grow up and flee the nest, parents experiencing that same kind of emotion spoke up.
When I wrote about watching my “average” children excel – and sometimes not excel – in school and sports and test taking, parents who also had “average” children spoke up.
When I wrote about the delight of stealing a few moments of solitude and relaxation from a busy day of responsibilities and deadlines, people who also had time constraints and pressures spoke up.
The feedback always was and continues to be centered around my ability to be in my readers’ kitchens – to mirror their thoughts, fears, goals, happy moments and aspirations.
All this time I thought I was writing a column about me. It took me a long time to realize I was writing a column also about you.
What “Incidentally, Iris” led to…
A lot of doors swung open. Invitations to speak about my experiences as a mother, wife, daughter, sister and friend started streaming in.
Months later, a local AM radio station launched “Sunday Night with Iris” a weekly radio slot where I interviewed story-worthy guests about what they were up to and involved in.
And in 1996, my mom and I published Slices, Bites and Other Facts of Life – a compilation of my columns and her comments – reflecting our insights, hard won knowledge and philosophy.
Websites, Facebook, Instagram, guest blogging, and zoom chats followed, as did another book: The Secret Life of a Weight Obsessed Woman.
I had found my happy place – my tribe – and my path continues to evolve, adapt and morph.
What’s changed over the last 32 years?I have more free time.
I have far more wrinkles.
My columns are shorter
I no longer sign-off with the ending: Keep Coping
And Rita now too is happily re-married.
Hats off to all of you who have been and continue to be part of my journey.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
August 13, 2021
The Key To Greater Happiness
I have made a decision.
I’m devoting a portion of my blogs during my 74th year to writing about things I am grateful for – things we all often carelessly and casually take for granted. Why? Because a plethora of studies show that practicing the art of gratitude leads to greater happiness.
Initially, two things come to mind: Podcasts and Books and our easy access to both.
We live in a world of chaos. Political unrest. The increasingly growing threat of mass Covid re-emergence. Constantly evolving technology. Money pressures. Health issues.
Podcast
The podcast Hidden Brain helps me make sense of my world. And I am especially enamored with a recent Hidden Brain podcast titled “Cultivating Your Purpose” which appeared on 8/2/2021.
Cornell University Professor Anthony Burrow was the guest of the host of Hidden Brain, Shankar Vedantam. Burrow’s area of expertise is purpose: what it means to have a sense of purpose and how it can transform our lives.
Cultivating purpose can help us weather life’s biggest challenges and storms. It’s a mood regulator – helping us remain on an even keel in moments of stress and challenge.
This Hidden Brain segment contains footage from the iconic movie The Graduate focusing on when Benjamin Braddock (played by Dustin Hoffman) languishes in the swimming pool while being forcibly questioned by his father as to what his future plans are. It’s a brilliantly crafted scene – especially now as I am viewing it through a parental lens, not through the perspective of a young adult.
Also touched on in this segment is the critical need to be resilient – a remarkable character trait too, especially when the world spins out of control and it is so easy to feel disconnected and unengaged. Resilience comes in handy when we recognize the need to move forward and get more of what we like and less of what we don’t – and we haven’t quite figured out how to get there. Hidden Brain will help you.
Book
Remember the poem about Humpty Dumpty – who fell off the wall? And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again?
Well…..what if he did get put back together again? How would he fare? And what effect would that traumatic fall have on his well-being and confidence?
Ruminate no more. Author Dan Santat answers those questions in his book After the Fall – How Humpty Dumpty Got Back Up Again.
Now terrified of heights, Humpty can longer do many of the things he loves most. Will he summon the courage to face his fear? Santat’s lesson: Life begins when you get back up again.
A newfound fear of heights prevents Humpty from enjoying his birdwatching. Though feeling isolated and far distant from his goal of birdwatching once again, Humpty is determined not to give up his favorite hobby so he builds a model plane that soars across the sky. When another accident occurs, Humpty must conquer his nerves or give up on flying.
The Wall Street Journal said it best: “Santat gives full weight to the power of fear, which can daunt anyone who has been injured, before showing Humpty Dumpty’s eventual triumph with an inventive ending that is nothing short of exhilarating.”
Amazon notes that After the Fall is a book for ages 4-8 but don’t be fooled. This is a book for all ages – for everyone who needs a reminder that it takes time to saddle up once again after a defeat and that often we emerge stronger and in a more advantageous state than before.
So, let’s adopt the mindset that the best is yet to be. And enjoy and take advantage of the huge array of podcasts and books that we are so fortunate to have access to.
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom!
Iris Ruth Pastor
I’m devoting a portion of my blogs during my 74th year to writing about things I am grateful for – things we all often carelessly and casually take for granted. Why? Because a plethora of studies show that practicing the art of gratitude leads to greater happiness.
Initially, two things come to mind: Podcasts and Books and our easy access to both.
We live in a world of chaos. Political unrest. The increasingly growing threat of mass Covid re-emergence. Constantly evolving technology. Money pressures. Health issues.
Podcast
The podcast Hidden Brain helps me make sense of my world. And I am especially enamored with a recent Hidden Brain podcast titled “Cultivating Your Purpose” which appeared on 8/2/2021.
Cornell University Professor Anthony Burrow was the guest of the host of Hidden Brain, Shankar Vedantam. Burrow’s area of expertise is purpose: what it means to have a sense of purpose and how it can transform our lives.
Cultivating purpose can help us weather life’s biggest challenges and storms. It’s a mood regulator – helping us remain on an even keel in moments of stress and challenge.
This Hidden Brain segment contains footage from the iconic movie The Graduate focusing on when Benjamin Braddock (played by Dustin Hoffman) languishes in the swimming pool while being forcibly questioned by his father as to what his future plans are. It’s a brilliantly crafted scene – especially now as I am viewing it through a parental lens, not through the perspective of a young adult.
Also touched on in this segment is the critical need to be resilient – a remarkable character trait too, especially when the world spins out of control and it is so easy to feel disconnected and unengaged. Resilience comes in handy when we recognize the need to move forward and get more of what we like and less of what we don’t – and we haven’t quite figured out how to get there. Hidden Brain will help you.
Book
Remember the poem about Humpty Dumpty – who fell off the wall? And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again?
Well…..what if he did get put back together again? How would he fare? And what effect would that traumatic fall have on his well-being and confidence?
Ruminate no more. Author Dan Santat answers those questions in his book After the Fall – How Humpty Dumpty Got Back Up Again.
Now terrified of heights, Humpty can longer do many of the things he loves most. Will he summon the courage to face his fear? Santat’s lesson: Life begins when you get back up again.
A newfound fear of heights prevents Humpty from enjoying his birdwatching. Though feeling isolated and far distant from his goal of birdwatching once again, Humpty is determined not to give up his favorite hobby so he builds a model plane that soars across the sky. When another accident occurs, Humpty must conquer his nerves or give up on flying.
The Wall Street Journal said it best: “Santat gives full weight to the power of fear, which can daunt anyone who has been injured, before showing Humpty Dumpty’s eventual triumph with an inventive ending that is nothing short of exhilarating.”
Amazon notes that After the Fall is a book for ages 4-8 but don’t be fooled. This is a book for all ages – for everyone who needs a reminder that it takes time to saddle up once again after a defeat and that often we emerge stronger and in a more advantageous state than before.
So, let’s adopt the mindset that the best is yet to be. And enjoy and take advantage of the huge array of podcasts and books that we are so fortunate to have access to.
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom!
Iris Ruth Pastor
