Book blogger

I'll be posting less often in the near future because I am writing a book blog for a new website. Check it out: www.ocinsite.com. Look for blogs, look for me. Will be fun to write book reviews. Sadly, few newspapers include book reviews any more and it's hard for great books to find their audience. Maybe this will help.

I'm learning to live 2-weeks at a time now, that's the time between refitting my Invalign braces, the latest adventure of mid-life. Teeth too far gone, too much trouble, they need to be corrected. Will take a year. I'm on day 4. It's wierd but not awful. They say it will take roughly 10 months, which means 20 molds. So I'm thinking of my next year in 2-week increments. Not exactly the Zen day-to-day, but close enough. The only upside is that it makes me feel a little like a teenager - does this mean I also get to be perpetually testy, moody and generally obnoxious? Nah, been there.

Cheers, xx

Change happens

I started this blog on the subject of change, personal change, life changes, the changes that alter and mostly improve one woman's journey. It's a broad concept that incorporates lots of thoughts and thus works well for a blogger.

But today I write, and with a heavy-heart, of things that simply don't change. Let's take the human race for starters. Despite all the technological advances and toys at our disposal, we still use very little of our brains, tend to be tribal and barbaric, and we don't embrace change, we pretend. I heard on NPR yesterday that an estimated 60 million men are considered to be descendents of Ghenkis Khan [why only men are tracked is an interesting question] and this might explain some of our natures, were it not that this represents barely 3% of that race.

I read this morning that 1/5th of Americans believe our President is a Muslim, despite a clearly Christian heritage and lifestyle. And that's more than believed before. Has to do with his contention of religious freedom and the rights of private enterprise, related to the Mosque planned for lower NYC. This comes right back to the cradle of civilization, the tower of Babel - human beings clinging to the familiar, from faces and skin color to ideology.

That's almost as bad as the 1/4th of Americans who continued to believe that Bush was doing a good job, right down to the bitter end. On the one hand, we employ a high level of selective memory, and on the other, we project extremists to the norm. Inconsistency is predictable.

I believe in change. I believe in Obama, but he is one man, only a man, not a Messiah, and he needs his people, all his people, to buy into the future if we are ever going to be able to carve out a new way of life. I, usually an optimist, find myself despairing. Human beings, like fellow animals, follow the scent they know, and when in crisis, are reduced to the basist of human emotions. This is not a pretty time.

The bell curve principle applies, but if so, then change by design cannot happen because the curve is always rising to a mid-point, and that mid-point is static unless the whole curve shifts. Thus the principle of status quo remains supreme.

90 years ago yesterday American women got the right to vote. 40 years ago the modern women's movement launched women into a new paradigm. We've come a long way, but those in the know know that we've not come nearly as far as we would like, as just as bad as being shephered into lifeboats with children first, we would be catapulted into stormy waters at the first sign of trouble - evidenced by recent rhetoric that perhaps high unemployment has as much to do with so many women in the workplace. A little like Jews this way, always the scapegoats. And so many other minorities. I am pained over the continued struggles of black women. Lesbian women. They've got miles to go before they rest. All women are not created equal. Even if we were, men are always at the door of the cave.

Change it seems wears blinders when it comes to equality.

Foot in Mouth

This morning was one of those moments... moments we are reminded of our own hubris, or lack of, depending on the circumstance. Just yesterday, I was impressing a neighbor with my very high-minded sense of the world, constructed carefully by watching only PBS news or listening to NPR. [I didn't mention the New York Times as that would have been beyond arrogant to a blue-collar Californian.] He had actually asked me what news I listened to, as he passed my house the other night and, with the shutters on the window at the front-door open to capture the evening breeze, he heard the British accent of the newscaster. Just wondered he asked, perhaps a little embarrased to have eavesdropped. I didn't mention that I hear his baseball games regularly. BBC I answered, and I am fairly certain I raised my chin a bit as I spoke. And then, not satisfied to have simply answered the question, which was sufficient, I went on to tell him that PBS and NPR are my favored news sources because I believe these are the only media that present the case with only a bias towards fully educating the public. I actually said to the neighbor that I prefer these sources as I would never hear about the nasty low-class lives of people who in my view are not news-worthy and, by example, said that I would not expect to hear these two words on NPR: Lindsay Lohan.

Ah, the vicissitudes of life. The lessons the universe hands down to us when we get smug. This morning, I lifted my head, aimed my cable remote at my little TV in the bedroom, through which I am able to listen to several NPR news stations, among other things, otherwise blocked by this crazy hilly SoCal terrain, and nestled back into the pillows to listen for a bit, and then jumped up, truly, as I heard, at the tail end of the lead-in to the morning edition, that Lindsay Lohan will move back to NYC when she completes her rehab!

OMG. Just hours after I pronounced the near impossibility of such a thing, there it is. My trusted high-minded news source succumbs to the gossip of the day. What is this world coming to? More to the point, what was I thinking posturing in this way? Clearly, the message was meant for me - one must be careful before climbing on too high a horse. Humility, that's the ticket.

I turned down NPR and picked up my guide to Buddhism - clearly I need a reset.

Another Birthday

A friend of a friend heard the following line from her shrink: What makes you think that every day has to be extraordinary? [This is neither a joke nor a hypothetical.]

My immediate reaction is that we [as in middle-class American baby boomers] are basically brats, and good enough is never good enough for us. However on second thought I realize that we have every right to believe that every day and every life should be extraordinary, but the word itself requires reconsideration.

This year I woke up in New York City at the quintessentially upper west side apartment of my deaf friend Carol. I awoke up in my comfy bed, turned on the tap and hot water came rushing out so that I might take a brisk shower and emerge clean and fresh. I opened a double-door refrigerator that protects our food and grabbed a handful of fresh blueberries... while Carol walking the dog, got me a hot fresh bagel, the real deal.

For much of humanity, any of these things are extraordinary.

My children are healthy and forging solid meaningful lives that will benefit others and bring them a lot of satisfaction. I talk to my friends on a regular basis, and see them when I can, and thankfully most are healthy and living mostly fulfilling lives. I earn just enough money doing work that is mostly satisfying and makes use of my [considerable] skills. My wireless internet connection at the moment is "excellent” so I can receive birthday greetings, ditto on the cell phone, which rings enough times this day to make me feel lovable.

Because of where I have chosen to live, I am rarely cold. When needed, I enjoy the warmth of my fireplace or heat running through pipes in the walls.

I make choices for myself. I do not fear for my life. I am occasionally hungry but never starve. I take long walks. I listen to great music. I read great literature. Some or all of these things every single day - is this not extraordinary?!

I read a good newspaper, including a hard-copy of the Sunday NYTimes, the New Yorker, Atlantic and Newsweek, more than enough to digest each week, as well as several on-line news sources that are well-written. And lots of books, books always in piles awaiting my attention. I have had the benefit of a good education so that I can think with some clarity about the world and sometimes hold lofty conversations with other smart folk.

I survive sadness and loss as we all do, and most of our losses are less than most others around the globe. I try not to think too often about refugees, victims of floods and earthquakes and the Taliban, or the plight of the poor and the incredible number of those unemployed, but I think about them enough to serve as witness. I consider this to be important – we need to bear witness and pay attention to what happens to others of our human race. My dear immigrant mother who had such high hopes and ultimately so little would look at my life as extraordinary. The little girl from the Bronx who has traveled and lived in beautiful places, and has the most wonderful friends. Not to mention two master's degrees and a lifetime of interesting work experiences. And the option of working less, from home, and hopefully traveling more, including more time in places like New York/CT and London where the people I love most reside.

I have health insurance, which I pay for, but I can afford to, and if I get sick, I have options. If needed, I can buy pain killers, although I have a personal naturopath, even better. And before too long, I will have access to that great public option: Medicare. One of the blessings of age.

I am learning to speak Spanish, slowly, painfully, as the synapses don’t quite connect as rapidly as they have, but I am learning to do this, and learning is the most natural of highs. Learning, and spending my birthday in the big apple.

We all seek higher levels of self-fulfillment and there is no reason not to aspire to more but, in truth, we all live extraordinary lives. Simple, satisfying, opportunistically extraordinary lives. Every single day. Happy birthday to me. xx

Battle of the BookWorld

Hot news in the business press this morning - Barnes & Noble is for sale. Stockholders are disenchanted with the giant retailer's performance. Over the past three years, B&N's annual profits have slid from $135.8 million to $75.9 million to $36.7 million. They blame the e-book, even though their own Nook sold 600,000 last year. Still, Amazon is cleaning their clock. According to the Wall Street Journal, in 2001, Barnes & Noble was worth $2.2 billion and Amazon $3.6 billion. Now Amazon has a market capitalization of $55 billion and B&N barely $950 million. The times they are a changin.

Here's the good news. In the battle between the behemoths - And one must include apple in this mix, versus Barnes & Noble - new bookselling independents are opening their doors and many [of those left after the last decade's bloodbath] are holding their own, providing what the giants cannot: a truly personal experience, which is what readers crave and thrive on. What is more personal than reading? One of the last truly intimate experiences besides sex, and sometimes, almost as good.

Those of us who love the printed word are happiest when we are reading, talking about books, recommending books, surrounded by books, but in a way that feels like the good old fashioned cozy bookstore, not the giant bookseller. Even Costco, with its vast distribution channel and insane prices, cannot capture a serious reader. And even Kindle, which I confess has many wonderful qualities and will surely become more integral to the reading experience as time goes by, will never capture the minds and hearts of those of us who love to feel the page between our fingers and the indescribable pleasure of holding that bound package in our hands.

My prediction: In a very short time, we will all move from our desktop or laptop computers to some sort of Ipad experience, which will include reading books and magazines and newspapers, and possibly obviate Kindle [I always put my money on Apple] and perhaps move us beyond reading emails and other stuff on tiny phone screens. Giant bookstores will have no place - like libraries, they will become repositories of many forms of media, including opportunities to perhaps sample a book in printed form before downloading to the appliance of choice - but they won't be selling music much bc iTunes has already captured that market quite nicely. The worst news is for malls who may potentially lose that important anchor retailer, but good news for independents on Main Streets throughout the country who will continue to be an important gatekeeper for the literary world, but only if they provide true added value even beyond being the "great good place" we all need to meet and greet when we lift our eyes from the internet or get out of our cars to stretch both legs and intellect.

Someone will buy B&N, of course, believing they will create the new paradigm, and that may be so, but in the interim, perhaps, dare I hope, that as a country we might just be coming closer to the truth that bigger is not better.

Photo compliments of Laguna Beach Books, a thriving community bookstore!

Friends: Then and Now, Here and There

My old friend Jane has broken her foot. Once, long ago, our lives were seamless; now we visit rarely on Facebook or email, face to face in summer. There is great affection there that distance does not end. I want to show up at her door, prepare her dinner, sit by her side, but she has others and I am visiting for just a short time. Still, my heart reaches out to her, I want to bring her comfort. This is what old friends do in time of need.

Other friends are dealing with less tangible hurts. The woes of children, unemployment, transitional futures. I listen. I sympathize. I proffer a few words of comfort or commiseration. This is all I can do. I am a long-distance friend now. I made a move across country, thusa different sort of friend now. Neither good weather nor bad weather friendship, merely occasional, in the truest sense of the word. We share big birthdays, weddings, seasonal holidays. On summer visits we walk at the beach, dine, sit by a pool, or take a day in the city, a trip to the theater. Good times, albeit few and far between. In between, emails and phone calls and comfort provided long-distance when possible.

My friend Ginger would say that I have exiled myself, and perhaps there is some truth to this. Those of us who make a move suffer the distance, despite the joys of creating a new life. Nothing is perfect, these are the trade-offs of a late-life change. The very essence of change, for better and not.

When I make my way East, I try to see all those most dear, and I am grateful to have so many to visit. I make the effort to visit regularly mostly for me, but also to ensure that they know there is someone who loves them still, despite distance. We pick up conversations as if sentences still hanging from a recent conversation, and for many this is true, as email and Skype and cell phones keep us close. I often wonder what it was like for pioneers who ventured across oceans and vast landscapes without any contact, loved ones left permanently behind. Refugees and holocaust victims who never again enjoy the sound of voices that warm their hearts or see the smiles that sustain their lives. Imagine the wait for letters that never arrive?

Visiting CT, where for 26 years I built home and career, is like walking backward in my own footsteps, and, as if stepping into old shoes, there is great familiarity and comfort. Although, as one might expect, footsteps don’t conform quite as perfectly to my prints these days; perhaps age, perhaps the effect of sandals and flip-flops worn more often now, my arches fallen a bit, my toes spread closer to the ground.

Time together now is what we once called quality time. Quantity is no longer possible. Quantity without quality is acquaintance, not friendship, while quality keeps a friend forever. I miss the spontaneity of a trip to town, a quick cup of tea and conversation, the days and nights of friendship that cement bonds over time. Still, the time we spend together has meaning, and each year we reconvene, picking up where we left off. We raised our children together. We struggled through job losses, kids’ heartaches and missteps, divorces, depression, loss of our parents, illness, joy, and all the joys of the good lives we've had. In our old age we elevate good times in our minds and hearts, and forget those that are best left forgotten. We share values and have shared experience, irreplaceable and unforgettable, and these keep us bonded.

My women friends are my sisters, replacing those I never had, and their husbands my anchors and adopted brothers. These are the people who ground me, the link between childhood and age, east coast and west. If I belong to anyone, I belong to them, although I am the one who left home, returning each summer like a college girl to recharge before returning to my adopted life. Most of them remain in place, cemented to community and family. Many in the same jobs, the same houses. I admire their steadfastness, their connection to community. I slide myself in for a while like a thief and slip away again to another life. So far, it works, but not without the tug on my heart, always.

I have found lovely new friends. Common ground in a sense of place, late life choices, life in transition, shared pastimes. In the current vernacular, we are present. New friends are made largely through work, paid or volunteer, or neighborhood connections. We are friendly companions. Fellow wanderers. True friendship takes time. It is an evolution. Cemented each time we laughed and each tear shed and thus as deeply constructed as bricks with slowly dried mortar, bonds that last forever, no matter the frequency of contact. I suspect I will never have friends in California that match my friends in CT and NYC. But, different is not necessarily less worthy, and lucky the woman like me who has both.

Facing the Face of Age

When I was 25 years old, a young boy, son of a friend, told me I was middle-aged. I smiled of course, concealing the outrage, and without asking he explained. “If people live to be 72, and life is split up between young, middle aged and old, then 24 – 48 is middle-aged.” Apparently the kid was a math genius. One could not argue the logic, I suppose.

Now that boy would surely find me to be quite old. 62 next month, only a decade from my demise, according to his logic. And while I certainly don’t look or feel 25 or even middle-aged, I am surely not old, and I don’t feel much older than, perhaps, 45. Statistically, all Americans feel themselves to be younger than they are, all except new parents, who feel older. Understood. Been there as well. In truth, I feel quite young most of the time. Oh yes, I look in the mirror and see a woman who looks close to my real age. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself. But my energy levels are quite high. I can walk miles without breaking a sweat, and continue to walk almost every day. I was even able to keep up with my older daughter’s pace while we were wandering Scotland recently, the London girl who walks like her New Yorker mother [something about the apple and the tree.] At Pilates class I keep up with my much younger cohorts. I sleep through the night, most of the time, and sleep well, which is terribly important to me as I get really grouchy when I don’t get enough sleep, which those of you who know me well will attest to. I rarely have bags under my eyes and even the wrinkles, and there are plenty, aren’t too deep. My teeth are moving around and my bite is off but orthodonture will fix that, and would have fixed that when I was a girl if my parents could have afforded that. So I'll compensate for the sins of my youth.

I try not to look back [a sure sign of age] and almost always look forward. I still have a desire for adventure, in fact more so than ever before, and continually scour the Internet for affordable travel. Even a visit back to the east coast is cause for celebration; homecoming, albeit less exhilarating, is as satisfying as distant shores.

I do continue to play the geographical destiny game, that existential dilemma that plagues so many people my age [an expression that I’ve already grown to despise] in which we’re not sure where we truly belong. I ran into an associate the other day who has lived in Laguna Beach 20 years and loved it, but while he longs for a more citified environs, not sure where he will go. I came home from Scotland thinking I want to live in an Edinburgh in a temperate climate, preferably by the Pacific, but not sure such a place exists. What are we willing to give up at this stage of life [another abhorrent expression] and what are acceptable compromises? How do we balance the need for change with the need for permanence and security in the midst of old age? Yes, old age. Ouch.