SOMETIMES
even the best Words
need not to be spoken or sung
but still understood
just the same. . .
P L E A S E
just listen
not to hear
not to reply
but to actively respond. . .
a n d
p l e a s e
Who Cares - What Matters
SOMETIMES
even the best Words
need not to be spoken or sung
but still understood
just the same. . .
P L E A S E
just listen
not to hear
not to reply
but to actively respond. . .
a n d
p l e a s e
s o m e t i m e s
the best poem is the one that
i s n ‘ t
SOMETIMES
the best poem is a
T r U t H
that goes beyond
idyllic pandemic
o r
iambic pentameter
past rhyme or reason
free verse
or some fancy syllabic haiku
Sometimes
poems forget themselves
. . .their nicely arranged words
and go directly to a
f e e l
without a touch. . .
sometimes
Physically
Emotionally
Mentally
Socially
Symphonically
Lyrically
All waysically
I am so lessically
Without you
The greatest take-away from the COVID-19 Pandemic. . . ?
BE THE PROOF
of this
LESSOR LEARNED
I was never
an academic all-star;
I most likely
was a classic undiagnosed ADHD
Kid who was often classified as a
“SMART KID WHO CAN’T SEEM TO STAY FOCUSED”
during parent/teacher conference
who excelled with
anything to do with
Reading
and nothing to do with
Math. . .
Who
was often writing poetry
and putting together lyrical phrases
that I wrote in the margins of books
or large lined notebooks
that made me look like
I was ferociously
taking notes. . .
I was often motivated to do well in school
so I could play sports
and not to embarrass my
school teaching, coaching dad
and school secretary mom
. . .but it always felt
foreign
distant
and far from a home
my heart beat to reside
UNLESS
I had
THOSE
teachers
who didn’t
look to grade
penmanship
sentence structure
or what I could recite back
after nights of intense memorization. . .
THOSE TEACHERS
that wanted a piece of my mind
and a part of my heart
by inspiring me
with theirs;
who challenged me to read
WHAT WASN’T
on the syllabus
but more in my dreams;
IT
was the one thing that shaped me then
and still drives me now
T H I S
EDUCATION OF THE HEART
which you never graduate
nor receive a degree
but something far
F A R
more important:
A DEEPLY MEANINGFUL LIFE
. . .PAY ATTENTION, CLASS
The Lectures have ended
but the Teaching
is in a never-ending
S E S S I O N
and it’ll not only assure
that your heart will beat differently
IT WILL GUARANTEE
you’ll cause other hearts
to be
forever significantly better
THIS
Education of the Heart
Sometimes
Winning the Lottery
has so much more than
a dollar amount. . .
Sometimes
it’s something so much more
valuable
E X P E N S I V E
P R I C E L E S S. . .
that’s what I thought
THE FIRST TIME
I saw Titus Kaphar’s painting
and then read his poem
which painted many different
i m a g e s
in the pages of my mind
Painting by Titus Kaphar for TIMEIDEASBY TITUS KAPHAR JUNE 4, 2020 6:19 AM EDTTitus Kaphar is an American artist whose work examines the history of representation
Artist Titus Kaphar painted the portrait that appears on the cover of this week’s TIME. He has written the following piece to accompany the work which hopefully now will be a part of our work:
I
can not
sell
you
this
painting.
In her expression, I see the Black mothers who are unseen, and rendered helpless in this fury against their babies.
As I listlessly wade through another cycle of violence against Black people,
I paint a Black mother…
eyes closed,
furrowed brow,
holding the contour of her loss.
Is this what it means for us?
Are black and loss
analogous colors in America?
If Malcolm could not fix it,
if Martin could not fix it,
if Michael,
Sandra,
Trayvon,
Tamir,
Breonna and
Now George Floyd…
can be murdered
and nothing changes…
wouldn’t it be foolish to remain hopeful?
Must I accept that this is what it means to be Black
in America?
Do
not
ask
me
to be
hopeful.
I have given up trying to describe the feeling of knowing that I can not be safe in the country of my birth…
How do I explain to my children that the very system set up to protect others could be a threat to our existence?
How do I shield them from the psychological impact of knowing that for the rest of our lives we will likely be seen as a threat,
and for that
We may die?
A MacArthur won’t protect you .
A Yale degree won’t protect you .
Your well-spoken plea will not change hundreds of years of institutionalized hate.
You will never be as eloquent as Baldwin,
you will never be as kind as King…
So,
isn’t it only reasonable to believe that there will be no
change
soon?
And so those without hope…
Burn.
This Black mother understands the fire.
Black mothers
understand despair.
I can change NOTHING in this world,
but in paint,
I can realize her….
This brings me solace…
not hope,
but solace.
She walks me through the flames of rage.
My Black mother rescues me yet again.
I want to be sure that she is seen.
I want to be certain that her story is told.
And so,
this time
America must hear her voice.
This time
America must believe her.
One
Black
mother’s
loss
WILL
be
memorialized.
This time
I will not let her go.
I
can not
sell
you
this
painting.
and then. . .
I saw this little thumbnail picture
way down in the right hand corner of
Titus’s poem
and these words spilled out of me
from heart
through my eyes
down my cheeks
onto a crumbled piece of discarded paper
that missed the garbage can
from short range:
Why
NOW
am I always on the
Verge of Tears
With a movie clip
Or just the mention of it
A poem
Or just a well spoken phrase
A song
With or without lyrics
A scene
A smell
A glance
A touch
A sound
An indescribable feeling
And then
THERE
A flow of tears
No lash can hold back
Or no longer Dam
Flows a liquid saltiness
That can’t be
Diluted
But can only
Water
Nourish
What’s waited to grow
But never been fully planted
Or hardly nurtured
But now no longer
Ignored
I’m always on the verge of tears
Now
F I N A L L Y
(And hopefully for an ever)
Lump in the throat
Unswallowable
that never chokes
but makes the breath
in and out
different
Sometimes
Winning the Lottery
has so much more than
a dollar amount. . .
Sometimes
it’s something so much more
valuable
E X P E N S I V E
P R I C E L E S S. . .
Mr Kaphar
can’t sell me his painting
not because
he’s holding out
so much as us
HOLDING ON
(to all of the wrong things)
Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
are you
FEELIN’ IT?
. . .not a whole lot of joy right now in the world,
huh. . . ?
Who
W H O
would have ever thought we’d forget about
COVID-19
in less than a week
with all of the riots
lootings
shootings
protestests
U N R E S T
It feels like the World
is getting tossed about
like a big beach ball
that everyone wants to
bat around
or kick
BUT NOT GRAB A HOLD OF
or just
C A T C H
. . .has it ever felt like
THIS
b e f o r e
searching for a
pulse
a heartbeat
that just doesn’t seem to
exist
I was in seventh grade, just a 13-year-old boy the night at Martin Luther King, Jr was assassinated. I distinctly remember it as if time stood still as my parents watched a news cast, that interrupted our regular programming; it wasn’t so much what my parents said as what their faces were shouting: HORROR. SHOCK. SADNESS. . .
I had seen that look on their faces when I came home from school as a nine-year-old boy the day that John F. Kennedy was assassinated.
I remember telling them that night as Walter Cronkite tried telling us the facts, setting the scene, maybe this was a good thing so now people wouldn’t riot anymore or protest and remember even more distinctly how they explained to me how this was a terrible thing and that there may be even more unrest and violence and protesting.
It was only a few days later when my dad was at a meeting and my mother and my two brothers and sister were at home and we heard a commotion out on the street and we went out on the porch there were hundreds of African-American people walking down our street from The Projects’ a few blocks away. Just walking. Not shouting. Not rioting. Not looting or burning anything. . .
Just walking. . .
They were going downtown for a peaceful protest in memory of Dr King.
I was terrified,
I had never seen a sea of people moving methodically down
a city street and its sidewalks;
I never wanted the protection of my father more than at that moment.
I have had other moments of being terrified and there’s a certain way your heart beats like at no other time than during
THAT FEELING. . .
My heart has beaten that way over this past week making me feel like a scared-trying-to-figure-it-all-out-13 yr old boy. . .
This Christmas tree is in my office overlooking my desk;
It was a gift a couple of years ago from my office buddies,
two great Social Workers,
Jen and Rachel
who have done of some of their best work on me;
they appropriately celebrated my Birthday by proclaiming it,
MERRY CHUCKMAS
. . .the 25th of every month
I usually post some Christmas scene as a reminder that it’s
MERRY PRACTICE CHRISTMAS
and everyone on FaceBook gets really annoyed
and tells me
“DON’T RUSH IT”
or
“IT’S WAY TOO EARLY”
as if it was a curse for them to carry
or a chaotic Season to be avoided,
BUT HERE’S THE TRUE REASON:
Because I want the World to be now
what it is
T H E N
kind
caring
loving
accepting
forgiving
giving
peaceful
happy
content
and I just don’t want it to be contagious
I want it to be
e v e r l a s t i n g
I want the message of Christmas
to be a message of
N O W
To be a
LIGHT
no one was looking for
AND FINDS,
a n y w a y. . .
So on the 25th of every month
I play Christmas Carols
but I’ve been playing them a lot since
George Floyd
was brutally killed
in front of all
us. . .
My Favorite?
O HOLY NIGHT. . .
2nd verse:
Truly He taught us to love one another;
His law is Love and His gospel is Peace;
Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother,
And in his name all oppression shall cease,
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful Chorus raise we;
Let all within us praise his Holy name!
and then the
CHORUS
which now forever haunt me:
FALL ON YOUR KNEES
(Fall on your knees,)
(Fall on your knees,)
(I can’t get the image out of my head of a police officer’s bent knee on the neck of Mr. Floyd)
Oh hear the angel voices!
O night divine! O night when Christ was born.
O night, O holy night, O night divine.
SO
so, so many
UN-HOLY NIGHTS
knowing that ultimately
LOVE CAN’T BE LEGISLATED
but it can be
abundantly given
making us all
hopeful
grateful
affected
victims
of its power. . .
We need a little Christmas
in all of its shapes and sizes
with an ample amount of flavor
to keep it fresh. . .
talk about a different heart beat
B E
I T
S O M E T I M E S
A
B R E A K D O W N
is really just
A
B R E A K T H R O U G H
. . .until it’s not . .
I remember mentioning this a few times to patients who have asked me,
“WHY AM I STILL HERE?”
It’s a lopsided
Q U E S T I O N
that has no straight
or crooked answers
just
w O N d e r I n G s
that bring little understandings
and less comfort. . .
which is why
I usually flip the question back to a patient by asking,
“Wow, what a powerful question;
I don’t know. . .
(P A U S E)
WHAT DO YOU THINK?”
When I was asked this question
(again)
this week and I gave the reflective,
“Wow, what a powerful question; I don’t know, what do you think?”
response,
she answered me by saying,
without
RHYME OR REASON:
“WILL YOU JUST HOLD MY HAND”
I told her that she deserved a warm hand
(I really was trying to protect her)
as I went over to wash my hands and then came back and sat down,
and held her hand. . .
no questions
no answers
no rhyme or reason
just held her hand
she closed her eyes and
though I couldn’t make
RHYME OR REASON
I didn’t hear
but just watched her lips move
without a whisper. . .
a prayer
a request
a wish
a hope
a beggar asking for a slice of mercy
with an extra slab of peace. . . ?
and then I felt her grip soften
r e l a x
and she was sleeping
softly
making her breathing in and out
a sacred symphony
with an audience of one. . .
I gently laid her hand down beside her and went back to my workstation
and that’s when the poem found me for the second time this week as I read a beautiful Facebook post by Dr. Mel Davis as he wrote about one of his patients who had not only been infected by COVID-19 but also bacterial sepsis, paralysis, brochopleural fistula, renal failure, chest tubes and long term ventilation and now nearing his end. . .
The poem had already surprised me when I picked up a John Updike book of short stories that I haven’t read in years and it being used as a bookmark, fluttered free
with no
RHYME OR REASON:
Bedside Manner by Christopher Wiseman
How little the dying seem to need-
A drink perhaps, a little food,
A smile, a hand to hold, medication,
A change of clothes, an unspoken
Understanding about what’s happening.
You think it would be more, much more,
Something more difficult for us
To help with in this great disruption,
But perhaps it’s because as the huge shape
Rears up higher and darker each hour
They are anxious that we should see it too
And try to show us with a hand squeeze.
We panic to do more for them.
And especially when it’s your father,
And his eyes are far away, and your tears
Are all down your face and clothes,
And he doesn’t see them now, but smiles
Perhaps, just perhaps, because you are there.
How little he needs. Just love. More love.
And then
without any pen to paper
I recited into my iPhone
without any
RHYME OR REASON:
MY BIRTH
It’s not my first breath
that matters
It’s the one
Called the last
Which is the truest first
How
Has my life seemed so long
And so short at the same time
Bury me not
I came from it’s crusty dust
And have been able to
Sit up and take notice
Countless times
It will be my bones and flesh
That’ll be turned to ash
But not my imprint
I will settle to the earth
But only after the wind
Carries me for a while on
It’s never ending breath
Which neither knows
Inhale or exhale
Just breath
Which carries me from
Life
Death
LIFE
S O M E T I M E S
A
B R E A K D O W N
is really just
A
B R E A K T H R O U G H
with no
RHYME OR REASON
(n e c e s s a r y)
I have said for a long time now
the only day we celebrate 365 days a year
or for that matter;
E N D L E S S L Y
is Halloween
and now for the past few months
(literally and figuratively)
it feels worse than
Halloween gone
Bill Murray’s GROUNDHOG’S DAY
which makes us all begin to
wonder:
Illustration by Nathalie Lees for TIMEIDEASBY; It seems that we may not be the only ones
W O N D E R I N G
BELINDA LUSCOMBE is an editor-at-large at TIME and the author of Marriageology: The Art and Science of Staying Together has pondered a few of these thoughts as well. . .
Miss Belinda shares, “I miss smiling. I don’t miss it in the inspirational poster “the whole world smiles with me” way. I don’t miss it, as another poster says, because I can no longer “intimidate those who wish to destroy me.” I don’t miss it because “happiness looks gorgeous on me,” although I did put in three very formative years of hard time in the orthodontia trenches–20 months of braces and six retainers–so it looks at least marginally better than it used to. . . .”
I miss smiling because it’s one of the handiest utensils in the communication drawer and my mask has locked it away. Yes, it’s just a facial expression: a deployment of the zygomaticus muscles, sometimes authentic, sometimes a placeholder because the real emotion we’re feeling is best not expressed. But as humans, we learn at the age of approximately 42 days that smiling is a useful way of getting people to feel good about themselves and therefore us. (The “world smiles with you” thing actually works–for babies.)
We continue to refine the way we use that smile to communicate information–from “you’re here!” to “you’re cute” to “you’re not meant to take that seriously, although you also kind of are”–until we no longer have teeth. And now, suddenly, those skills, all that practice, are useless. We have lost our favorite communication gizmo just when we need more ways to connect than ever.
Trying to interact with other humans without being able to smile is the facial equivalent of communicating via text message; it’s easy to be misunderstood. Your expression and words lack context. People wonder: Are you wincing at me? Are you grinding your jaw? Do you just have a lot of crow’s-feet? Was what you said an insult or a joke?
According to Paula Niedenthal, a psychologist who heads up the Niedenthal Emotions Lab at the University of Wisconsin–Madison and has studied facial expression extensively, there are three types of smiles: those that express pleasure at a reward or surprise, like when you get to see your friends in person after a prolonged separation (soon, please); those that convey a desire to be friendly, or at least non-threatening, which she calls smiles of affiliation; and those that show dominance, like the one Dirty Harry gives when he asks a certain punk if he feels lucky.
Her studies have shown that it’s harder to tell the difference between affiliative smiles and dominant ones if you can’t see the lower half of the face. In those situations, people have to rely on other clues. She gives the example of walking a dog that suddenly barks at a passerby. A quick look at an unmasked person’s face will confirm whether the passerby is smiling because he thinks he’s much better with his dog than you are or smiling because his dog is also occasionally silly. Behind a mask, this distinction is not so clear.
Niedenthal predicts that as mask use stretches on, people may rely more on the context of the situation to tell them how to interpret an interaction. “They will imagine that the context confers a reaction that is obvious, which of course will get everybody into a lot of trouble, because people in our culture respond with high variability to the same context,” she says.
BUT I have tried to compensate
for the communication gap by enhancing my other gestures. Upon approaching strangers in the street, I want to let them know that I am harmless and wish them well. In hard times, this message feels particularly urgent. Not being able to smile at them has forced me to wave or do a weird fighter-pilot-style salute. If I’m pulling aside to let them pass and can no longer offer an encouraging “you first” smile, I am reduced to airport-marshal gesticulations, which are about as effective as talking more loudly to someone whose language you don’t speak.
But it’s not just the recipient who gains from a grin. Smiling affects the smiler too. Studies have shown that it enhances the mood that produced the expression and helps us recall happier times. “Facial expression is not just out-put from the brain but also feeds back to the brain and has some consequences for subjective experience,” says Niedenthal. “There is good evidence that smiling naturally has some effect on your ambient emotional state.” In other words, masks may be making us more morose.
It almost never helps a situation to tell people to smile, so I won’t, but I’m going to keep beaming, even if it can’t be seen and sometimes is not entirely authentic. A fake smile, after all, is often given with good intentions, just as a mask is sometimes worn not to hide but to protect.
And then there’s
Steve Wilson and The World Laughter Tour. . .
when I went to his two day workshop a few years ago
and became a Certified Laughter Leader
I still remember
one powerful lesson
that even a fake laugh
is a beneficial laugh;
a FAKE SMILE
still,
physiologically
is immensely beneficial
by relieving stress and enhancing
a calm, creative, good mood. . .
So here’s the deal:
(ESPECIALLY)
BEHIND THE MASK
the best way to assure a smile
IS TO
(CREATE)
GIVE ONE
On our morning walk
we didn’t find a parade,
One found and included us. . .
It was different this year,
wasn’t it?
MEMORIAL DAY
Yes, we know it’s the start of summer
. . . it used to be the start of summer vacations
. . . it used to be trips and vacation spots
hotdogs, potato salad, family gatherings,
it used to be a lot of fun. . .
It was different this year
and maybe not even because of the pandemic. . .
Maybe it’s because we remember different this year;
maybe right now even in the midst of
our-at-the-very-moment heartbeats,
we are writing a History
no book has ever held. . .
And maybe
MEMORIAL DAY
with all of its modifications this year
is even more special
than all the years that we’ve celebrated it
in the past. . .
And just maybe
that’s what will remember
about this
MEMORIAL DAY
Instead of us commemorating it,
IT
now commemorates each and everyone of us
in the most special and significant way. . .
Maybe. . .
With a most
sincere
honest
pure
Parade of One
(y o u)
(NOTE THE REASON FOR THIS SPECIAL
SECOND BLOG POST ON MEMORIAL DAY
IS A THING OF RECOGNITION AND HONOR FOR):
I shared this over three years ago under much different circumstances;
C I R C U M S T A N C E S
that could have never have been imagined
and far from understood
C I R C U M A T A N C E S
that still
even at our most current moment
are difficult to imagine
and feel far from being understood. . .
B U T
Maybe there’s another
a different way
of seeing
I T :
There is sowing your oats
and then there is serving them,
eating them
and digesting
all the goodness
that can’t begin to fit on a spoon,
in a bowl
or even on a cafeteria tray
or a table. . .
EAT UP!
and make a NOTE
of BEING
THE GOOD YOU MAKE
(You can find a number of helpful coronavirus resources and all related Tiny Buddha articles here.)
“When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting and less scary.” ~Fred Rogers
If you are a human on earth at the moment, you’re likely feeling the uncertainty and anxiety of living in the time of a pandemic. It’s not something we have seen before in our lifetime, so every step is a new one, and the end is unknown and nowhere in sight.
Everyone is coping in their own way. Some are fearful and anxious right now. Others insist on staying on the positive side. Still others are in denial and perhaps will feel the emotional effects later or when it hits their area. Or, more commonly it seems, we have some combination of all three at various times throughout the same day.
It’s all normal. . .
Until it’s not
I was minding my own business Monday night
when the news slapped me across the face
and alerted me about Dr. Lorna Breen, a front line New York City ER Doctor who had to not only deal with the COVID-19
but herself was infected and had recently recovered from it
and had just started back to work
before being sent back home to Virginia
to recover further with her family. . .
Dr. Breen, 49, did not have a history of mental illness, her father said. But he said that when he last spoke with her, she seemed detached, and he could tell something was wrong. She had described to him an onslaught of patients who were dying before they could even be taken out of ambulances.
“She was truly in the trenches of the front line,” he said.
He added: “Make sure she’s praised as a hero, because she was. She’s a casualty just as much as anyone else who has died.”
Listen,
I haven’t missed a day of work since we have been sheltered in place
but I haven’t knowingly dealt with any patient that has tested positive for COVID-19; I have witnessed thousands of deaths, some terribly filled with suffering but none with this disease who have had to not only endure dying but often without any one, let alone a cherished love one, by there sides.
I HAVE NO IDEA
no understanding
and no personal willingness to find out. . .
I have come to realize there is no right or wrong way to feel emotionally. Everyone is doing the best they can based on their own coping style and I have the awesome blessing of merely
c o m p a n i o n i n g
them
instead of trying to
FIX THEM
As a life-long recovering people-pleaser,
I used to try to talk people out of their feelings,
make them feel better
by taking over responsibility for their emotions. . .
Essentially,
I had to fix them to make myself feel better. . .
H E Y
People have a right to be angry.
Everyone has the right to feel anxious.
It is not my job to judge how anyone reacts to life. . .
It’s theirs. . .
It is my job to be a compassionate witness to their suffering and to my own suffering. . .
Every day
I go back to School to learn this lesson
It’s a hard subject to learn
(if it’s even a possible goal)
Life as an empath
One who feels intensely,
can sometimes feel you are being tossed around
in a tiny boat in an open ocean,
with no solid ground. . .
When some are looking for
GROUND ZERO
others are just looking for a piece of solid sod
to plant their feet. . .
It’s a terrible feeling.
So we struggle,
we fight,
we gasp for air,
and occasionally come up to breathe
for long enough to see
the sun setting on the horizon
and better still–
TO SEE IT RISE AGAIN
in the Morning
We wonder
don’t we
how other people seem to live easier,
to ride the waves smoother
and leave storms behind
as they head for calmer waters. . .
Until we find out that we see and feel things differently,
more acutely,
and have to learn the skills to row efficiently,
with the wind,
and in the preferred direction
without a broken compass. . .
It’s one thing to be a little boat
getting tossed about
and it’s another to do it without
a life jacket. . .
During this time
when the world can feel overwhelming
and too,
too much,
just take the time
to do a little check up
from the neck up
Notice where you are, who you are with, and what you are doing.
Breathe into the tight areas and imagine
breathing out your compassion
into the world.
If someone you are with is anxious, can you stay present and breathe?
If not, take a break and find compassion for yourself.
Notice what you are consuming—news, stressful or needy people, violence in movies or TV;
decrease and take lots of nature breaks. . .
It’s real easy to see
and to know
that we are all in this together
but it means nothing
unless we act like it
BEGINNING WITH OURSELVES
N O W
THAT IS
FEELING IT