Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 28

I’m Watching You

For quite a while, I’ve been thinking about doing a column on not living in the moment.

Everyone I know seems to think that they live in the moment – and that perhaps their friends and family members would do well to take a few lessons from them.

I am clearly in the judgmental group, by the way.

Every week, I send out my column around 3 pm on Friday. Here’s a couple of questions:

When do you read my weekly missives?

The moment it hits your inbox?

A few hours later when you are savoring your  after-dinner dessert?

At a formerly and formally designated time and place?

When you start deleting your most recent e mails and remember it’s still unread?

What are you doing while you read my newsletter?

Are you in bed, feet propped up, with scented candle burning, soft music playing in the background?

Are you sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in a relaxed mood?

Vegging in your pj’s on the family room couch reading on your I Pad?

OR:

   Are you reading on the run?

Reading on your phone? Laptop?

Reading while driving – even if it’s only during the pauses for a red light?

And are you actually reading? Just skimming? Glancing at every other paragraph for the gist?

These are not random questions.

If you are a regular reader of any columnist, think about how you construct your time and your surroundings in order to be able to read that columnist regularly. Do you routinely sandwich in? Give yourself a break, tune out distractions, compartmentalize your problems, thoroughly enjoy the experience?

What your answers are says a lot about how you live your life. Actions do speak louder than words. And actions trump intent.

How you go through your day is how you go through your life.

Always distracted.

Always looking ahead to the next chore.

Obsessively checking off items on your To-Do List. Always rushing to finish the task at hand.

OR do you savor?

Behold?

Thoroughly enjoy the activity engaging you at that instance?

Whether it’s a conversation with your kid, sewing a button on a blouse, dropping off shirts at the cleaner’s – how we go about the daily activities of our lives writes the chapter on how we enjoy each of the moments we are gifted.

Make it count. I’m watching you.

And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

My Secret Obsession

Okay.

Let’s face it:

Everyone has something in their life that could be deemed slightly or very much obsessive.

It’s not surprising that the game of Maj Jong became my preoccupation during the long days of social distancing we are enduring due to Covid. The game is entwined into the very roots of my nature.

When I was a little girl living in a two-bedroom apartment with my mom and dad and brother, every Monday night I fell asleep to the snappy cadence of Maj tiles hitting the top of the card table my mom had set up for herself and her weekly Maj group in the living room. M & M’s filled the silver candy dish, cigarette smoke wafted down the short hall to my room and the tinkling of ice cubes submerged in Coca-Cola lulled me to dreamland.

Maj Jong is a Chinese betting game of skill and luck played by four people with domino-like tiles. Each year a new Maj card is issued giving a template for which hands can be played that particular year.

Maj Jong affords great social interaction because tiles are discarded face-up so tiles previously thrown do not have to be remembered. Thus, conversation among the players can flow effortlessly.

Whew.

This allows much leeway in the depth of dialogue on subjects such as births, marriages, deaths and divorce – subjects that can be covered with as little or as much analytical clarity as the four players deem necessary to advance the story. And the game.

When I moved to Tampa in 2006, my life on many fronts was in transition. Growing up hearing murmurs of intimate conversation intermixed with gales of laughter from my mom and her girlfriends at their weekly Maj Jong game propelled me to form my own Maj group. And I did.

For over a decade, we played together. For me, my  weekly Maj Jong game became a grounding social event representing routine and normalcy. A throwback to my childhood. And a reassurance that I was making lasting friendships in a new city.

Our group is no longer together. And up until recently, I haven’t played Maj in many months.

But with Covid constraints looming large, I longed for a reprieve from worry and restlessness and frustration. I discovered www.realmaj.com – a site you pay for – a site where you can play a game of Maj at any time of the day or night – with live people or against robots. (I prefer the robots.)

I don’t think my mom would be pleased that I am playing Maj by myself – with the computer for company.

On the other hand – because with Maj Jong, there is always another “hand” – computer Maj has its advantages….

It relaxes me.

It distracts me.

It – unlike much in life – has a clear start and a clear finish and a sure winner and a sure loser

It’s portable with no risk of transmitting Covid.

And it exercises my brain: the mixture of random tiles presented to me stimulates my brain to make the best combination possible to align with a hand featured on the Maj card.

Exercising our brains obsessively is one of the best obsessions we can have. And maybe one of these days it will also go back to being a great way to socialize face-to-face too.

I hope so.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor.

Quick tips for Quarantining in an unfamiliar space

Dear << Test First Name >>,

Quarantining is  a new way of life when traveling from one state to the next –  as I found out last month when I traveled from my home in Florida to the state of New York. Along with my husband, I quarantined in a privately-owned apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan for two weeks.

Yikes! Going from a four-bedroom house to a tiny pied a terre had me a tad freaked. But the amenities were a delight – a roof top garden and a terrace with all the basil I wanted to cut for my mozzarella and arugula salads. Just one perk.

I took full advantage of the ethnic influence existing in so many of the neighborhood eateries. I ordered in knishes, corned beef on rye sandwiches and bagels brimming with an abundance of cream cheese, onions and lox. The delivery boys became my friends and the doormen at the building kept me well stocked in daily WSJs that a careless prior tenant had forgotten to cancel.

I quickly surmised that I had to take command of my personal interior space too. “How?” I pondered. The answer: surrounding myself with things that make my environment personal and inviting.

Here’s what I did:

Bought three plants

Ordered a bunch of Candles

Brought my yarn and knitting needles from home and created a wild menagerie of purses and pouches over the fourteen-day period of “my incarceration.”

Broke out of my reading rabbit hole and ordered a genre I hadn’t read since a kid devouring Nancy Drew chapter books: Mystery books

At same time I was getting out of my comfort zone with book categories, I also made sure I had the conveniences of home: a one-cup Keurig to brew my daily three cups of dark coffee and a nutribullet to mix up my daily smoothies. Thank you Amazon.

The trick to successfully quarantining in a strange and unfamiliar space? Prize the uniqueness. My space had a great city view.

I gazed out often during my two-week quarantine – in the early morning as the sky lightened, in the evening as the sun dappled the apartment buildings in sight and at night as the lights from nearby skyscrapers twinkled and glowed.

I looked upon quarantining as an adventure – while at the same time surrounding myself with things that provided comfort and calm. And the two weeks flew by.

What’s been your experience quarantining? What did you find to be most challenging and how did you deal with the challenge? What coping mechanisms worked for you best while quarantining and what advice would you give to others? 

Let’s chat.

Let’s be there for each other.

Keep Preserving your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

The Worst Birthday Ever

I celebrated my 73rd birthday two days ago.

Here’s the whine:

I’m in New York City.

Every museum is closed.

Broadway is dark.

No inside dining.

I’m in New York City and the doctor has ordered me to stay off my feet due to my very slow healing ankle injury. Maybe just a tiny, teeny quick shopping spree at Bloomingdales for me? When I casually mention this to one of my sons, his retort: “What? Are you crazy? You need to stay put – you are in the high- risk age range for Covid. And your ankle is a mess.” Geez. Thanks for the reminder. 

I’m in New York City and I’ve already eaten my breakfast, lunch and snack allotment of calories and it’s not even noon. And that doesn’t include the succulent little cupcake perched on my kitchen table just waiting to be devoured – after I figure out how to blow out the candle while wearing a mask. The fact that I had no birthday cake candles in the apartment only intensified my frustration.

But then:

Texts and calls and e mails start pouring in – wishing me a happy and healthy birthday.

Later, the following e mail pops up in my inbox from a obstetrician/gynecologist living over 10,000 miles away:

Morning, Iris

 My biggest challenge is overcoming bulimia; having just clicked over 40 years with this ED, and planning on avoiding the 41st anniversary (though my disordered eating goes back further than the bulimia, I know)
 I learned about you when searching for resources to assist me with 1. I purchased your book The Secret Life of a Weight Obsessed Woman. . I can so identify with so much of it, and am now on my second reading of it – making notes this time.

My road to recovery started with your book. Thank you for having the courage & compassion to write & publish it. I look forward to your newsletters too.  May we keep on blooming.

As dinner time approaches, my husband wraps me in a huge bear hug and whispers the following in my ear: “I’m a week out of surgery and I haven’t felt this good in 20 years – and every day since my back surgery, I feel even better.” 

My son Frank stops by and the three of us walk carefully and slowly two short blocks to a bistro with sidewalk dining for dinner.

As night closes in, one last look at my e mails reminds me of an exciting upcoming zoom event I will be hosting on my philosophy of life. The zoom chat session is entitled Wisdom to Live the Life You Crave. The date is Thursday, August 13 from 10 to 11am EST. And the link is below.

https://san-diego.oasiseverywhere.org/product/wisdom-to-live-the-life-you-crave/

What in the hell was I thinking when I penned my very negative subject line? 

This has been a terrific birthday with so much to be thankful for:

GOOD HEALTH

TIME WITH THOSE I HOLD DEAR

WORK THAT HELPS REPAIR THE WORLD

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor 

 

Surprise!

We all have talents and as the number of candles on our birthday cakes increases, many of us learn to be both comfortable and protective of our talents and to even exploit them for the greater good.

I am not a farmer –I don’t plant and harvest wheat or rice. I don’t raise livestock. I don’t forage in the forest for wild berries to make homemade jam.

But I am a hunter and gatherer of sorts. I am an information gatherer.

There are challenges to being an information gatherer:

How to organize the information

How to remember the information

How to best distill and circulate that information

Like most of us, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time at home during the last three months of the pandemic. Much of my day was spent in solitude. Thinking. Pondering. Figuring stuff out. Wanting to change something or someone.

Rumi – a 13th Century poet and mystic had this to say about change: Yesterday, I was clever and wanted to change the world. Today, I am wise so I am changing myself.

And after days of ruminating, I’ve come up with a change that will serve you – my loyal cadre of readers – and provide a satisfying modification to my own mundane routine. I’m implementing a new way to disseminate the useful tidbits I come across in my reading, researching and wanderings.

Years ago, my columns used to be 900 worlds. Then when I become a Huffington Post and Sixty and Me blogger, the word count dipped to 600 and has stayed at that point more or less consistently ever since. So when I came across a short vignette, an engaging story or a tale worth repeating, if I couldn’t develop it into a 600 word document, I’d let it go.

And then came a big SURPRISE in my life: Instagram!

So dear readers, here’s my plan for disseminating all the random facts, figures and articles I’ve been collecting for years:

Posting regularly – not randomly – on Instagram

Posting whatever strikes my fantasy or tickles my funny bone or simply cries out to be heard

Some subjects I’ll be posting about:

Preserving Your Bloom (of course)

Father’s Day

A 4th of July love story

The surprisingly simple key to happiness

Surviving the pandemic with sanity intact

Grappling with guilt over getting a pedicure

Staying relevant in our adult children’s lives

Disseminating information is my simple way of making this troubled world just a little bit less burdensome. It’s one more way of preserving our blooms and keeping in touch. I hope I can provide posts imbued with meaning, substance, a little frivolity and inspiration to help us all be the best version of ourselves.

IT ALL STARTS TODAY! https://instagram.com/irisruthpastor

Hugs,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Shaken by the killing dredges up the past

His name was Alfred and he was 21 years old, just like me.

He was married with one child, just like me.

Unlike me, though, Alfred was a high school drop-out with no kind, loving parents to see to it that he got a chance for a college education. His father had abandoned the family years ago and his mother died some time after that.

And, unlike me, Alfred would die young from complications stemming from his chronic high blood pressure – well before his 40th birthday. He would leave an estranged wife and four more children.

But I’m getting ahead of my story. On that bright sunny day in April of 1970 dying was the last thing on Alfred’s mind. Or on mine.

Alfred worked for my first husband’s father as a truck driver. He was a solidly built young black man with sparkling eyes, macho mannerisms and a sexy swagger. Alfred knew he had “people appeal.” It’s probably what got him the job in the first place.

Alfred and I were thrown together that spring afternoon by casual circumstances and I didn’t know then that it would be a day indelibly impressed in my memory.

Alfred was driving a truckload of fabric to a store in Daytona Beach, Florida which my husband was preparing to open that week-end. I was tagging along for the ride – planning to join my husband for a week-end of grand opening festivities plus getting in some serious sun bathing and beach combing. I couldn’t wait. And I suppose my excitement was contagious as I rode along beside Alfred in the cab of the truck.

Alfred was dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. I was dressed in cut-offs and a cotton denim blouse knotted at the waist. There was no air conditioning in the cab and we were sweating profusely. I put my hair up in a ponytail and stripped down to my tube top that was underneath my shirt. We hummed quietly to the music on the radio and continued to complain about the heat.

About 30 miles outside of Tampa, while barreling down an interstate highway that connected Florida’s east and west coast, our truck broke down. Alfred, as mechanically savvy as he was resourceful, couldn’t get the truck to start. As the minutes mounted, he seemed to be sweating more heavily and wiping his brow more often and continuously and nervously glancing around.

After awhile, a “friendly” trucker pulled his rig up behind us on the apron.

“Son,” he called to Alfred after surveying the situation, “you’ve got a big problem here and you need some help.”

I felt Alfred’s terror but I knew not from where it came.

“Hop on in – both of you,” he said generously. “I’ll run you up to the next exit. You know what to do, boy.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred, nodded dully. “I know what to do.”

I glanced uneasily over at Alfred. He looked grim. Fearful. Subdued. All sign of his sparkle and his swagger were gone.

His head hung slightly forward, suggesting deference. His swagger was looking more like a shuffle.

I sat meekly between both men on the high seat of the cab and as we bumped down the highway, I tried to figure out what was going on. I knew some essential message had been transmitted but what it was I couldn’t figure out.

When we got to the next exit, Alfred jumped down and bee-lined it to the phone booth. I prepared to follow.

“Not so fast, missy,” the trucker admonished. And that’s when I saw the gun.”You best not follow your friend. People down here don’t take to niggers with white women.”

I started to protest. I started to explain the relationship, the circumstances, the truth behind the appearance but blind terror stilled my tongue. I lost my voice.

“Now I don’t know what your situation is, missy,” the big, burly trucker continued, “but if you want your pal to get to where you two are headed in one piece, you best be disappearing. So go check yourself into that motel up there. And don’t you come out til your help comes.”

I did as I was told. And I spent the fading hours of that late afternoon uneasily watching TV and cautiously peering out the window to look at Alfred. Most of the time he sat on the curb of the parking lot, the sun beating down on his uncovered head, looking at the ground, fiddling with a stick.

Towards dusk, another company truck and driver arrived. Alfred and the new guy went back to the immobile truck to transfer the inventory to the new one. My husband picked me up about the same time and together he and I drove to Daytona.

I didn’t see Alfred for many weeks. And when I did, I thought I discerned a hesitancy in his manner toward me – an imperceptible stiffness, an embarrassment bred of shared humiliation and defeat. Our old, easy camaraderie borne of innocence and kindled in a safe, warm environment had dissipated. It was never re-kindled.

After my divorce, I moved away from Tampa. And a few years later, I heard Alfred had died.

That was long before fiery rhetoric and grievance tweeting. Long before George Floyd was yet another fatal victim of excessive force.

A few days ago, a long time friend, Michele, sent out the following:

Hi to all my dear friends and family,

I know how much we all feel the pain and would love to do whatever we can to help repair the systemic racism that all black people are, and have been, living through in our country for the past 400 years

I have a very dear friend, Lyz Riley-Sanders, who is currently in her last year of law school in St. Louis.  For many years, Lyz has devoted her life helping undeserved communities in both Denver and St. Louis and really understands the quality and integrity of organizations. Yesterday, I asked her if she would give me the names of her favorite worthy organizations that could use my help. 

If/when you are looking for ways to help, please give Lyz’ list some consideration, and feel free to pass it on to others. 

http://irisruthpastor.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/Untitled-document.pdf

Sometimes we have to help others preserve their blooms too,

Iris

Okay. Who Am I Kidding?

Okay. Who am I kidding?

I keep telling myself how well I am coping during this pandemic and period of national and global unrest.

Then I look at my ravished cuticles – picked at incessantly.

Then I acknowledge my poor sleeping situation.

Then I realize how often I walk around my house gnashing my teeth.

And then I notice how I numb my mind with hours of online Maj Jong playing with bots.

On the other hand, I have established a great morning routine:

I’m reciting the Jewish prayer for renewal.

I’m listening to each daily entry from the app Calm.

I’m faithfully performing my stretching exercises.

And I’m baking some good stuff like Peanut Butter Banana Muffins.

In spite of all this, I still feel unsettled  – thrown about by so many external forces of evil, unrest and disruption.

As restrictions relax, a trip to the grocery store proves both disconcerting and enlightening. I hate the restrictiveness of the face covering but wear it for other’s protection. I’m pushing my cart down the aisles, dodging the plethora of other shoppers. Under my mask, I smile as I pass each one and offer a cheerful hello. Realizing my smile can’t be seen (and smiling with just your eyes is no easy feat), frustration unsettles me.

After all, experts cite 55 percent of communication is visual – when we miss seeing facial expressions, we miss the emotions behind the visual too.

Traditional masks inhibit communication and make compassion hard to express – and communication abnormal, stilted and unnatural. A sense of loneliness, isolation and disconnection ensues.

Voila!

A new project idea strikes me: TRANSPARENT (SEE-THRU) MASKS

They exist. Check out: www.theclearmask.com and Etsy.

Think of moving through your day with your facial expressions normalized and visible? Think of the ease hearing impaired people could feel if they are conversing with a person whose mouth they can actually see?

Getting through this perilous period calls on us to be innovative.

Getting through this perilous period calls on us to be caring of others and caring of ourselves.

As always, it’s about Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris

Peanut butter and banana nut muffins

Peanut butter and banana nut muffins

From Thug Kitchen

Ingredients:

2 cups whole wheat pastry or all purpose flour

1 tbsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 cup peanut butter

1/2 cup packed light brown sugar

3/4 cup plain almond or other non-dairy milk

1 1/2 cups mashed ripe bananas (about 3 regular size bananas)

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 cup chopped walnuts, peanuts or pecans

Makes 12 standard muffins

Directions:

Heat oven t 373 degrees F and grease a muffin tin

Mix together flour, baking powder and salt. Set aside.

Mix together peanut butter and brown sugar til creamy. Stir in milk, banana and vanilla until all mixed up. 

Pour wet ingredients into the dry and stir until just combined. Fold in nuts.

Scoop batter infot muffin tins. 

Bake 18-22 minutes. Cool for 15. 

It All Sucks or Does It?

Eating your weight in Doritos and Oreos while binge watching all that you can on Netflix? Unmotivated to clean closets, tackle the rising wave of clutter, ride your bike, take an online yoga class?

You are not alone.

Dave Portnoy tweets: Quarantine is like airport rules for eating. Everything is fair game.

Moiz Ali tweets: Is anyone else eating three day’s worth of food in one day during the quarantine? If not, me neither.

I think we are numbing ourselves in one manner or another because we are paralyzed by the realization that we are in choppy, uncharted waters. And the safe harbor is not in sight.

Where’s the light house?

A recent New York Times headline screams “No One Knows What’s Going to Happen Next.”

We don’t know if warm weather will save us from more deaths. We are finding many Covid tests to be inaccurate and contact tracing to be more than challenging. Unemployment rates are soaring and confidence in a quick economic recovery is waning. Food insecurity is rampant among the recently unemployed – people who have never experienced empty pantries are queuing up in lines of 200 cars or more to stave off hunger.

Can we trust statistics? Put our faith in science? Believe our politicians? Place faith in our leaders?

I – like you – am struggling with these issues and trying at the same time to be hopeful and upbeat and resourceful.

It’s true that in the United States, over 100,000 people have died from the Corona Virus. At the same time, 400,000 people have recovered. And Recovery is Hope. And Hope keeps us going.

Here’s a story I’d like to share:

A young woman was diagnosed with a terminal illness and given three months to live. She contacted her Pastor to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.

She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in. As the Pastor was preparing to leave her home, she excitedly exclaimed, “Wait, there’s one more thing. I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.”

The Pastor was puzzled.

“My grandmother once told me this story” the young woman explained. “She always remembered during social events that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, ‘Keep your fork.’ It was her favorite part because she knew that something better was coming…like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!

“So, I just want people to see me there in that casket – with a fork in my hand – and I want them to wonder ‘What’s with the fork?’ Then I want you to tell them: ‘Keep your fork…the best is yet to come.’”

Let this simple tale remind us to have faith that our ideals will be upheld, the constitution adhered to, the country united and, that truly, the best is yet to come.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris

75 Year-old Letters Yield Secrets and Stories

Memorial Day is fast approaching – a holiday which honors those who died while serving our country in the armed forces. This week’s newsletter is composed of short vignettes about my dad’s experience in the Army Air Corp as a ball turret gunner on a B-17 during World War 2. Most of these reminiscences were found in a packet of letters written to my aunt from my dad in the closing days of of the war – May, 1945.

My dad got mad at his girlfriend and for spite enlisted in the Army Air Corp even though he had a deferment because he had been working in a factory supplying the war effort during WW2. During basic training, he met my mom and he continued his defiant behavior by going AWOL to marry her before being shipped overseas. When he reported back for duty, the officer in charge said, “Sit down, Sergeant Levine.” At the end of the conversation, the officer concluded with, “You may return to your unit, Private Levine.”

All departing soldiers from the Cincinnati, Ohio region said good bye to their families at the train station known as Union Terminal. The art deco rotunda was famous for tearful partings and joyful reunions. The couple embracing in the lower right was based on my parents – who were actually there at the exact time the artist was sketching the scene. My mother didn’t find this out until years later – through a random phone call from another soldier who had also been there that day. She was unable to share this happy coincidence with my dad, who had passed away just a few months before.

My dad’s life as a soldier was of two dual existences. One was as the Yank out on the town in England in between bombing missions. The Brits weren’t enthralled with the American soldiers invading their drinking spots. They referred to them as “oversexed, overpaid and over here.”

His second existence centered on incessant bombing missions over Germany. Starting at 2am in the morning, the B-17’s would begin their formation in the sky and as the sun rose, they headed out – never knowing if they’d be returning alive and unharmed or whether they would be shot down in enemy territory. When late in the day they returned from their mission and spotted the White Cliffs of Dover, pictured above, the entire crew gave a collective sigh of relief – indicating they had completed yet another successful bombing mission.

My dad was a ball turret gunner on a B-17 bomber during World War 2. The plane was better known as the Flying Fortress – for its uncanny ability to bring its crew back safely. Fatalities were sky high – no pun intended. But, again, my dad was fortunate. By the time he became a crew member, the B-17’s began being escorted by fighter planes on their missions – greatly reducing the number of soldiers blown to bits in the air. My dad completed thirteen successful runs and was awarded induction into “The Lucky Bastard Club.” Yep. There really was such a thing. And every Memorial Day, he trekked up to Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio – with his grandsons in tow – to re-tell this tale.

My dad’s no longer with us but his memory lives on in the stories he’s told and the gear he’s left behind – like his dog tag – pictured below.

Happy, safe Memorial Day Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor