Say What?

There’s something important I want to say about memory. Wait a minute. Oh yeah, memory is no joke. Or, joking about its deterioration and loss is not funny and, it may well be that joking might actually pave the way for this downhill slide.

Okay, I’m getting older. I bet you are, too. They say our memories begin to decline around age thirty. They are talking about our ability to remember, not about the quality of those memories. But, somehow, everything was fine until recently. Who cared? I never was good with names. It was when I started to react to my image in the mirror, with shock and despair, and began to notice all the old guys around me, that I began to wonder if there had been something I had forgotten.

I’ve never been particularly organized and misplacing something, like my keys, or having to look for something, like my checkbook, just seemed like a normal thing. And, it still may be, but these occurrences, coupled with what I know about aging and memory, are beginning to make me wonder.

Our world is, without doubt, a busier, more crowded place than ever before. The world population doubles every 35 years. How can I possibly remember all those names? The internet has made all information available all the time. This is a wonderful thing in many ways, but how am I supposed to know all of it?

As a young man, with a good education, I felt that I knew, or if I applied myself, could learn almost everything important about everything. Now, I see how wrong I was. How naïve. It may have been possible, at one time, maybe, in the 1790s, but no more. That’s fine, but I’m getting a complex about it. Perhaps, it’s wrong to see it like this, but I feel it’s a failing of some sort. It makes me question what I do know. And, what is it I do know? I can’t remember, but I’m confident that when a situation and context comes up and calls for this knowledge, I will be able to respond.

I like to think I’m living in the moment. That, with my years of experience, I have acquired wisdom and self-reliance and confidence, but, maybe, it’s really increasing ignorance. A bliss disguised as a moment of enlightenment. A void, instead of restraint.

After all, every one of us gets older. We decline. We enter our dotage. We are not as nimble as we once were. We find ourselves outside of the important activities of the world and in a more observational role. We are commenting on things from that mountaintop of our accumulated knowledge, experience, and wisdom. We now focus more on inner, than outer events and nuances. Nuances like, where are those keys? And, did I leave my checkbook somewhere? Who is that in the mirror? And, what was I watching before this commercial?

I like to think that it is all a matter of attention. You remember things that are important to you. You pick and choose where you place that attention, based on your tried and trusted judgment. Many of the things that I was consumed with before, no longer seem important. No longer merit my interest. Like, love handles or scrutinizing every word that leaves my mouth.

Things that concerned me before, now fall away and I have a more philosophical view of things. If I can’t recall the name of my wife’s cousin, it’s not a sign of dementia; it’s just that I am interested in something else. When I can’t remember my wife’s name, then I’ll get concerned.

After all, I don’t want to spend my life worrying about what I do and do not remember. I want to spend it in this moment. With what’s her name.

Get On The Good Foot

For those of you who don’t know, I am, among other things, a trained and certified Life Coach. That means that, for a fee, I will be your sounding board, partner in brainstorming, and advocate. A guy, confidential and objective, who will nudge you in the right direction. I will applaud your efforts, champion your best self, and hold you accountable to your commitments, as you work toward living your best life.

To become a coach, I trained in groups and individually, for many months, by phone and in person, learning about people in individual, relationship, and corporate contexts. It was a lot of work and considerable expense. But I could have avoided all that, because, for years, though I didn’t know it, I had been studying at the feet of the master. The ultimate coaching machine. The hardest working man in interpersonal relations. The Godfather of Soul and Transformation – Mister James Brown.

Though, sadly, he is gone, he left behind records of his sessions. In these, his worldly experience, his perceptive and wise, not to mention funky, understanding of human relations is there for all time to help us negotiate the rapids of relationships and the intricacies of individual human development.

Many of his teachings have entered the mainstream and taken their righteous place in the collective unconscious. Get Up Offa That Thing, Dance and You’ll Feel Better. Now, that is an essential exhortation and understanding from which everyone can benefit.

The legacy he left us is virtually inexhaustible. And, it will always be relevant and immediate. For example, put on I Got The Feeling and turn up the volume. It is not just an intellectual lesson; it is a somatic one. Just try sitting still clutching the beliefs and self-concepts that no longer match the person you are today. Say the words, I Feel Good. Affirmation is not just some woo woo idea; it’s a cathartic explosion. A reprogramming of your internal computer. Embrace the concept. Hold to that vision of what is and what can be.

Mr. James Brown did not find all this in a book. He found it on the road. In small towns and smoky dives and incorporated the lessons learned there until eventually he could consult with auditoriums and arenas full of people who had sought out and intuitively designed a working relationship with this sage from Augusta, GA.

Throughout his career, James Brown championed and challenged the souls of people who were discouraged, confused, who suffered from low self-esteem, and who were at a point in their lives where they were ready for change. James Brown supplied the words that echoed their deepest feelings. His own journey was one of constant questioning and a determination to move forward.

He shared his own struggle in such great songs as: I’ll Go Crazy, Think, Get It Together, and Talking Loud and Saying Nothing. His moments of desperation come through in: Please, Please, Please, Bewildered, I Can’t Stand Myself, and I’ve Got Ants In My Pants.

As he began to find his way, he shared his inner dialogue of affirmation and encouragement: Pump Up The Volume, Don’t Be A Drop0ut, You’ve Got To Change Your Mind, and Get Up, Get Into It, Get Involved. He celebrated personal triumph and expressed real joy, when he sang: You’ve Got The Power, Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag, It’s a Brand New Day, So Let A Man Come In And Do The Popcorn, and Say It Loud, I’m_____ (you fill in the blank) and I’m Proud.

There’s no denying the influence of James Brown. He, in his way, coached a nation at a critical point in its struggle for equality for all its citizens. He provided the keys for self-development. He challenged us to get up offa our things and get it together. As a coach, he provided inspiration and an energy that may never be equaled. Personally, I am indebted to him for his wise counsel and encouragement at important moments of my life and am forever grateful for his example and his determination to never give up or settle for anything less than the best.

Thank you, Mr. Dynamite! As he said, so often, Get On Up And Get On The Good Foot.

Rocket Number Nine, take off for the planet, Venus.

I am under attack by an alien being! Everything in the kitchen is turning green. I’m getting desperate. There’s no beer, no milk, no chips. The blender screams through the night. The oven is producing things at a frightening rate and I don’t understand any of them. You’ve heard of things growing in the refrigerator. Well, it’s worse than that.

My wife wasn’t always an alien and I have the pictures to prove it. But she has recently revealed herself to me as a Vegan. She tells me this will be a good thing for both of us, but that usually means that I’m going to suffer. My wife loves food and I love her, but my eating habits developed in Minnesota, where, in my formative years, we considered ketchup too spicy and the most ethnic food available was spaghetti, out of a can. My staples were meatloaf, potato chips, and Velveeta. Canned hash, fish sticks, and, if we were really good, some pudding or Jello. Meals, at our house, didn’t involve too much thought. In fact, we spent most of them in front of the television. We were a family who appreciated the basics. I even prepared some of the meals, though I can’t say that I learned to cook much. My mother could only make orange juice and angel food cake. I loved those cakes. If we were bad, she would threaten us with devil’s food.

My wife, Mary Liz, as I call her, is a great cook. A master in the kitchen. An adventuress of unquestioned taste. A gourmet and gourmand of the highest order. Give that girl a couple of tomatoes and some leftovers and be prepared to call it divine intervention. Your taste buds will shoot straight to Heaven. People come over to our house and wash dishes, just to be in the same kitchen with her. We have to throw our friends out.

But, here, I must confess something. I have been a trial to her. A burden of under-appreciation. A philistine set beside such sophistication might be criminal. Her finest creations pass by unnoticed. Desserts that have made other men cry, merely fill me up. I can hear her working in the kitchen at this very moment. Preparing a evening feast that I know I can’t do justice to.

Why she stays with me is a mystery. Sure, I feel guilty. You would too, if your palate were as limited as mine. I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried to expand my idea of what constitutes a good meal, but now this. This Veganism. This organically correct, this life-affirming, this good for your body and soul way of eating somehow sits there on the plate in opposition to everything that has sustained me thus far. No fats. No dairy. No alcohol.

She loves me and is trying to save me from my history and that is something that pierces my heart and I gaze at her gratefully, with a tear in my eye. But that tear, though a sign of the infinite love I have for her, is also a tear for the end of my youth. A tear for the elements that have made up my foundation and have created the cute roll of fat that hangs over the sides of that foundation. A tear that is a sign that, as a great British philosopher once said, all things must pass. All things must pass away.

But, because of my love and my confidence in her ability to transform even the meanest crumbs, well, not crumbs, unfortunately there is no bread involved in this, but, as I was saying, my love and faith in her ability to transform the greenest, the meanest, the most unlikely organic matter into something fit for a king, because of this I follow in the wake of her wisdom. I take the path that she has embraced and can know, with a certainty not unlike the guarantee that comes with a Honda, that all will be well. Me belly full. She satisfy my soul.

Too young? Or, older than you think.

I read in the paper, yesterday, that a kid – 8 years old – was denied admission to Law School. What is happening in this world? I thought lawyers welcomed any support whatsoever. But, maybe it is a bit threatening to think an 8 year old might be able to do your job. And, with the job market as it is…

Admission officials said he must first graduate from high school and college. But why? No can remember those lessons and what’s wrong with moving straight into the profession that is your calling? At least, that’s how I see it.

This conflict escalated to litigation because the applicant’s father, considerably older than eight, and, himself, a lawyer, filed a suit on behalf of his son. There are wheels within wheels involved here and meanings and labels seem to shift every time I try to get a handle on this.

The kid is an obvious prodigy. Or, something. It’s inarguable that he is young. At least, he wanted to pursue something as reasonable as the law. What if he had wanted to go into a less exacting field ? Like literature or therapy?

Imagine, you arrive at your weekly session and the receptionist, Johnny’s mother, asks you to take a seat. This could be reassuring or really disturbing. Instead of Newsweek or Good Housekeeping, the side tables are piled with Highlights for Children and People, Jr.? There is a faint music in the background. It is a medley of the songs of Hannah Montana. Only the truly erudite recognize this.

The door opens and the young, and I mean young, therapist invites you in. He gathers his Batman cape about himself, as you precede him into the room. There are two piles of pillows and he gestures toward one.

After settling on the floor, you face each other and you notice, not only the deep seriousness of his expression, but also the brightly colored toys scattered about his office. He waits for you to begin.

When he notices your puzzled look, he suggests, “Perhaps, we should start with what you are feeling at this moment?

You blink and mutter, “You wouldn’t understand.”

When he answers, you realize that you weren’t aware of speaking out loud.

“Is that a kind of projection?” he asks.

There are still thirty-five minutes left. A therapeutic lifetime. You frantically search for an excuse that might get you out of there without appearing desperate.

Finally, you jump up and, to those calm, knowing eyes, you say, “ I completely forgot.” You lunge toward the door, while at the same time, trying to maintain some semblance of a grownup façade. “I have to pick up the kids! Next week, okay?”

The door slams behind you and you smile and nod to his mother, as you head for the relief of the hallway.

Junior emerges from his office. He instructs his mother, "Get my lawyer! I mean, get Dad on the phone. I've got an idea."