MYOB and Junk Food

“I mind my own business and I don’t eat junk food,” had said Besse Cooper when asked by the Guinness Book of World Records for the key to living a long life. At the time, Besse Cooper was the oldest person alive at the age of 116 in the year 2011. (She passed away shortly after that). There is much wisdom in Cooper’s advice, and I don’t doubt that her mantra of minding her own business saved her from unwanted stress and unnecessary drama of gossip. And by not eating greasy junk food, she kept a lean and healthy body for all those years. Woe is me, for I’m afraid I’ve broken her mantra on many occasions.

Sitting in a pub away from home and enjoying the best double fried chips and a pint of beer with my dear companion, I am relishing the finger licking and lip smacking goodness of one of the high caloric, cholesterol encouraging pairing of “junk” food. I’m minding my own business, yet I can’t help overhearing the conversation of a well-dressed man talking to a young girl about a job offer. His language is smooth, clean and educated. He is convincing her, with tactful coercion to engage in sexual activity for payment, not for himself, but for others whom he would recommend. Basically, he is a procurer; a pimp. She is an attractive, younger woman/girl who is not quite convinced and is making a few excuses about how she isn’t sure she should leave her existing job of housekeeping in a hotel. The slick man is working to recruit her, telling her it wouldn’t interfere with her current job. She could see to pleasing a customer or two, or, at most, three a day, and still keep her job if she wanted to. He continues to procure her interest by adding that she needn’t do any soliciting. He would send her the customers some of whom might conveniently be old men and would be less “work.” “It’s easy good money,” he says. “I send you the customer, you do the job, we split 50/50 on the fee.”

The conversation goes on for almost 45 minutes. I’m on my second order of fries and drink. He’s still insisting that she gives it a try, take a chance, her fears are unfounded, and that he’ll take care of her. She’s still hesitant… or is she playing him along? Is she being taken advantage of, or is she taking advantage of the situation?

Meanwhile, my outrage at the situation is steeping inside like a dam holding back the waters. If I dare open one small hole, one tiny fissure, the pressure of that outrage would destroy and flood everything and perhaps jeopardize the girl’s safety. I’m about to burst. My companion holds me back. He says she sounds quite capable of handling the situation. “Maybe she’s undercover,” he says hopefully. He tells me to consider who is at risk. “You live life passionately, and sometimes, that can be dangerous,” he says. Fine! I could just pretend I didn’t hear the conversation and simply block it out. It’s none of my business. But that would negate everything for which I stand. All these years, I have been advocating against cultures that supports violence and coercion, human trafficking and the use and abuse of women and children. I can’t put a filter over my ears and eyes and ignore the situation by saying it’s none of my business, regardless in what part of the world I am. Minding my own business doesn’t mean evading responsibility or ignoring the world around me. It means knowing what I stand for, distancing myself from the unimportant and unnecessary drama of gossip, and doing what needs to be done by holding myself accountable to my ideals.

I search the internet for a help beyond the streets hotline. The man steps away from the table to get the girl another drink from the bar. My heart is pounding. There’s no time for conversation. I write the number of the help line on a cocktail napkin, turn around and place it by her hand, next to her phone. I see her expression of surprise, and then a faint smile of apprehension. I can’t honestly say that I feel victorious, but I must trust she’ll do what needs to be done in a way that serves her best.

I return to minding my own business and eating more chips. Unlike Besse Cooper, I have once again shortened my life years.


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Tug at my Heartstrings

This past month has been one where things on my mind truly hit my heart with a new depth of understanding.  I feel the pull on my heartstrings, a tug-of-war between letting go and holding on, which is familiar to all parents from the day their child is born. But this month, I finally understood what my parents and thousands of other parents have felt in their heart when their child or children make a choice to move abroad. My daughter and her family are moving to Europe.

When I consider that nearly twenty years of our lives as parents are devoted to raising, nurturing, and caring for our child/children, it’s easy to see why letting go of that role is a frightening task. Childrearing consumes our time, energy, concern and love for at least two decades. We invest our hearts, minds and spirits into our children’s physical, emotional, social and spiritual well being, and it can be very difficult when that part of our lives comes to an end. But does it really come to an end? With every separation, with every distance, our heartstrings are pulled again and again. We are constantly confronted with the reality of our children growing up. Whether it’s weaning them off breastfeeding, the first day in day care or kindergarten, sending them to camp, going away to college, or walking the bride down the aisle to give her away, or knowing that our son has found a soul mate, we experience the tug-of-war with our heartstrings. And with each step, we are faced with letting go of a parental attachment held from birth. We do so with a pull at our heartstrings and a prayer on our lips.

Years ago when the world was not as small and connected as it is today, my parents moved to the Arabian Gulf to make a life of new discovered opportunities. It was daunting for them and for the families they left behind. The families trusted their choices and sent them off with a constant prayer on their lips. When I was 16 years young I first chose to leave home to study abroad. When I was 20 years young I made the long trek to the US to continue an education, find employment, choose a spouse, marry, have two beautiful children, move to Europe and then take a huge leap of faith to relocate to the US, and from there, continue to add to my story. My parents trusted and honored my choices with constant prayers on their lips.

Now it is my turn. As a parent I must honor the choices my children make. I may not always like the choices, but it is their own life story they must write, just like I did mine with the trust and prayers of my parents. And yes, it is hard. It is a daunting task not knowing what lies ahead. But I do know I have taught my children enough and well. I do know I have given them the tools to make choices that contribute to the functioning of home and family. And I do know an immense pride for their accomplishments and wisdom that percolates deep beneath the surface of my heart. Hard as it is to face the unknown, I also know that my daughter, like me, loves the adventure that comes with the freedom to choose. It is at the core of our experiences in this life. Ever since she and her brother were children, I have allowed them choices that acknowledged mistakes, embraced pain, and required a deep level of acceptance and trust.  It also brought strength, passion, energy, a closeness and purpose to both our experiences.

I’ve loved.  I’ve taught. I’ve shown up to cheer. I’ve encouraged their independence. I’ve embraced them in their worst moments and in their best moments. I’ve set aside my own fears and let them know that mistakes are part of the journey and there is no shame in living and learning.  I’ve asked. I’ve listened. I’ve given support and guidance.  I’ve seen triumph in decisions made. I’ve gained from their wisdom. And today, I know their strength, I see their dreams, I feel their heart, and I trust in their path.

Today, I send my daughter and her family of four over oceans and across continents with a tug at my heartstrings and constant prayers on my lips.


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Mending, Not Fixing

A decorative button on my jacket was missing. It left a noticeable gap in its design as the buttons were unique to the jacket and could not be matched without altering all of them. I searched for my sewing box with the false hope that I might find four matching decorative buttons to replace the ones on my jacket. Amid the pillowcases and sheets in my linen closet I found my sewing box that has been with me for over 40 years. It is an old, round shortbread biscuit tin. Nothing elaborate. It has no compartments or layers, but it has all the essentials for mending. As I went through it, I found a plastic container full of buttons of all shapes, sizes and colors. A kaleidoscope of memories brought a smile to my lips. There were pearl buttons that once belonged to a silk embroidered shirt my grandmother owned. There were shirt buttons, coat buttons and various ladies’ suit buttons. Some of those were beautiful ones from hand tailored suits, which my mother (like many women of her time) had removed and kept to re-use and re-cycle. I couldn’t help but recall how as a child I used to watch intently while the women in my life would spend time mending and repairing things. They hemmed, they altered, they patched and darned, they sewed and repaired tears. And with every stitch it was as though they were repairing, renewing and restoring not just the fabric or item, but mending relationships, creating a deeper more sustainable bond between people, their communities and their material things.

The art of repairing and reusing some of our personal belongings like footwear, nylons, school bags, umbrellas, upholstery, and clothing is a world away from today’s pressures of new purchases and consumption. In truth, most people know very little now about mending. We live in a world of throwaway culture, having given in to fast fashion, disposable items, replaceable people and throwaway values. Mending and repairing has lost its appeal. We may talk about “mending the social fabric of our nation,” “patching the gaps,” “hemming the boundaries,” “tears in community,” “repairing the social safety nets,” “stitching together a strategy,” or “darning our relationships,” but instead of mending and repairing, we replace with new our policies, boundaries, strategies, relationships, people, and values assuming the new will fix what’s broke.

Fixing is NOT the same as mending. Fixing suggests that evidence of the problem will disappear, whereas mending is a preservation of history, and a proclamation of hope. When we mend, we find the common thread, and weave the value of our differences into the colorful pattern of the fabric we wear or share as in the social fabric of a nation. When we mend broken relationships we realize the value of a shared past and perhaps we are even stronger for the rip and the repair. When we patch the gaps in our humanity, we don’t ignore the scars of previous tears and assume that by making them disappear they will be fixed. We mend. Because mending is an affirmation of worth. Mending doesn’t say, “This never happened.” Instead, it says that something or someone was definitely broken here, but by paying attention to the frays and rips we tenderly raise it to new life. Just like my jacket, or a friendship torn by misunderstanding, even a country ripped apart by frayed politicians, or a nation stressed at the seams of economic and social inequity, and a global split of enormous proportions — they all need mending.

I believe in mending. Mending is a commitment. It re-centers us to embrace the beauty of what we have and to notice the places of friction that need the most repair. It reorients us to look carefully and examine the frayed edges. It helps us to resist the disposability of people and things. Mending is an act of devotion. It isn’t simply about saving a piece of clothing anymore. It is about choosing to repair instead of disposing of the evidence of “the problem,” whether it is a relationship gone sour or a nation torn apart. Just like the women of my childhood memory, mending gives me time to stop and to think, a time to value what exists and a chance to sew actual rips together. While I can’t solve world conflict, or reverse global warming, I can definitely work to repair things at hand, stitch-by-stitch.

I start with my jacket.

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From Zero to One, An Infinity

Numbers fascinate my grandson. He tries to grasp the concept of infinity. “Can we count to infinity? What is infinity plus one? Does the sum of infinite numbers produce a finite number?” The questions are endless, or should I say infinite.

Mathematics has never been my strong subject, and the concept of infinity is difficult to explain. But I too am fascinated by the concept of infinity, and at best, all I can offer is that there is a gap that exists between each number, and each gap contains it’s own infinity. Well that didn’t explain much to my inquisitive grandson. I finally found it easier to explain infinity that exists between Zero (a nothing) and One than trying to visualize the infinity in each gap. There is a gap between Zero and One, and the numbers that exist in that gap are an endless string of rational and irrational numbers. (There’s .1 and .12 and .112 and .113 and so on with an infinite collection of others.) In order to move from Zero (a nothing) to One, then, we have to pass through an infinite number of numbers.

So how do I explain it in simple terms? How do I explain the change that occurs when moving from complete absence to a single presence? How do I explain that we encounter “infinity” routinely in our daily lives? And that having Zero to having One can make an infinite difference in one’s world.

My father and I came up with a simple explanation years ago after we would share our thoughts on various episodes of “The Twilight Zone.” Some episodes left us thinking deeper into the philosophy of the known unknowns. Sometimes we tried to understand what it would be like to be the only survivor of a catastrophe that hit the earth. Assuming you, the survivor, had enough food, water, and breathable air, and could find some decent shelter, your greatest challenge would be loneliness. You’d wander around in search of other survivors, and gradually lose hope. But what if you did find another person? Just one. What difference would it make? Zero people, or one person? The difference would be enormous. In fact, the difference would be immeasurable. Infinite.

Or imagine that for some reason you are in solitary confinement. You’re in a cell, which consists of a cot, pillow, blanket, toilet, and sink. A single light bulb burns for a few hours a day. Your food is sent to you on a conveyor belt. There are no sounds. There is no mirror, no window to the outside. Nothing moves, except you. How long would you last before you became insane? Now add one item. A book. Would it matter whether it was a biography, or a fantasy novel? A chemistry or quantum physics textbook? A dictionary? Each of these would be infinitely better than no book at all. That single volume could keep your mind from disintegrating. You would read every word, every equation, slowly, repeatedly. The book would change your whole world. From Zero to One.

After our hypothetical discourse, my father and I would bring the discussion to home. He would point to the coat closet and say; “You have a coat closet in your house that’s filled with all kinds of jackets. Adding or removing one item will probably not make a difference. But what if you were outside in the middle of winter and you had no coat? One coat would make the infinite difference.” And we would continue to find examples in our daily lives that routinely made an “infinite” difference from Zero to One.

I continue the discussion with my grandson. You’re in the desert. You have no canteen of water or you have one canteen of water. A life changing difference. From Zero to One. There are people who own five homes. There are other people who have nowhere to live. To whom would the addition of one house make the greatest impact? The change from Zero to One is felt and appreciated infinitely greater.

But my grandson is at an age where larger numbers appeal to him. He says he wants to be the scientist who can change the world for more than just one. As for me, I’ll stick to changing one life at a time from having Zero to having One. And the difference for me would be just as great, because changing the world for someone would be infinitely greater than changing the world for no one. Zero to One, an infinity of numbers that fill the gap.

To the memory of my father who taught me to see the known beyond the unknown.

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Tuesday Nights With Nane

There are women in my life who are critically important to me in my circle of family, relatives, friends and co-workers. They range in age from teens to mid nineties. They are daughters, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, oldest friend, newest friend, married, unmarried, gratefully single, remarried, mothers, childless (for a variety of reasons and emotions), homemakers, and professionals. They are Middle Eastern, American, Armenian, European and African. Some are devoutly religious, while others are absolutely not interested in the divine, but most all have questioned divinity at some point in their lives. Some are spiritually challenged, while a few have “negotiated” personal agreements with God. Over many years of coffees and teas and drinks (including much hard liquor) I have sat with these lovely individuals and have had conversations and discussions about family, responsibility, work, autonomy, marriage, men, divorce, intimacy, fidelity, love, sexuality, cultural stigma, traditions, faith, life and death. I have laughed with all and I have cried with all.

I could write a memoir or a tribute for each of these fine women built on the bones of those conversations. But today, when I piece together the pages of my life story I find a common denominator with an extraordinary woman, my aunt Nane. The first memory I have of my aunt is perhaps when I was 4 or 5 years of age. At the time she and her husband had no children of their own and I was to spend a couple of days with them for reasons unknown. I marveled at her slender body, her beautiful green eyes and her radiant smile whenever she looked at me. But what struck me tender was how she would bend her knees to come to my level when she helped dress me or speak to me. Over the years I established a habit of spending summer days with her and her family. During those times, between her daily chores of tending to home, three children, and a husband, we bonded. She, like many of the women of her time, has had her share of wrestling with her role as a loyal daughter, woman, wife, mother. With every motion and emotion, with every difficulty or trouble, I saw in her a frailty that over time began to gain muscle. My mother would say of her sister, “the ferocity of her human spirit comes from her faith driven stubbornness.”

She is a pianist. Music, (a love she instilled in all three of her children) is her friend. The notes rebound off the walls, invisible waves of sound making imprints in time and in my memory. I listen. She is also an avid reader spending hours among books, magazines, newspapers and the Bible always sharing reflections and insight. Being a middle child among 5 siblings she was the assigned “mediator” and “messenger,” the “peacemaker,” for family and friends when argument stirred among neighbors and couples; a gift she continued to spread through her benevolent volunteer duties for the Blue Cross in Lebanon. Yet the demon of guilt always makes her question whether what she does now in her life adds to anything worthwhile. I remind her that benevolence is how she continually gives of herself to her friends and family, with her strength, her faith, her care, and her unspoken love.

During my college years, in between Biology and Math classes, Tuesdays were spent in her kitchen or in the dining room with conversations over lunch. It became a ritual. We trusted that our thoughts were not only safe in each other’s presence, but that they were also positive influences to our sometimes-troubled souls. It was as though we replenished the parts of ourselves that were missing in the different stages of the lives we were living. There were good days and there were ugly days. In the 70’s and 80’s war in Lebanon landed a brutal blow to many who lost sons and daughters, and Nane was there comforting friends who suffered the agony. The memories stay in her mind’s eye for decades. It was years later when she would stand at her youngest daughter’s grave, stoically suffocating the torment in her afflicted heart. She believes in good and evil. She believes in God. Torn in so many places, she finds her footing. Her faith doesn’t falter. Nane is a woman of few words about her own feelings and emotions. Her world is private. She puts up a harsh front for herself, yet she is lenient with others, validating their existence and their thoughts and actions.

The ritual continues. I spend my Tuesday nights with Nane. We pour a glass and set the table to start our night of nibbling on our thoughts. The conversation shifts to current wisdom and the advantage of age, but behind the mask of her advancing years is the woman I knew as a little girl. She does not make excuses for who she is and what she feels. She has thrown away the censors and the cultural stigmas of the past. She is open and loving.

Life is finite and fragile. Which is why I want only to tell this dear woman that her spirit and soul are the most beautiful I’ve ever felt; that she is beautiful, too, in every important way. I’ll hold on to the memory of what she’s shared for as long as I live.

(Dear Reader, share with me one of the beautiful souls in your life whose spirit will linger in your memory.)

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Not As Planned

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”  Victor Frankl

I woke up this morning to the intermittent sound of a chirp. It wasn’t unusual. I often hear a chirp or a whistle floating through my bedroom window just before the early sunrise. Most of the time, the chirp becomes a melodious sequence of bird whistles and songs. A beautiful sound to wake, rise and shine to. I rolled out of bed and prepared myself to take on the day in uplifted spirits. A new month was already in progress and today was the start of another new day. It stretched ahead of me, waiting to be shaped. And I was the sculptor who would do the shaping. I was absolutely giddy with motivation and excitement for how I envisioned the day would develop. I identified little targets to hit by certain hours until dinner. At the end of each target reached I was to tick ‘done’ in my planned and bullet journal.

I had much to accomplish in terms of writing in the morning, and in the early afternoon, I programmed my mind to run a few errands, and nothing was going to stand in my way. First things first, a cup of coffee, a few early morning phone calls, a shopping list, responding to email, (tick, tick, done) and then I settled down to spend a couple of hours doing research for a speech preparation. The chirp escalated, becoming more intense. I followed the sound into the hallway leading to the other end of the home. Ah, there it was again. A chirp. Had a bird flown into the house? It had happened once before when I had left open the balcony door. I was excited to perhaps have a visitor from nature’s avian beauties if only for a moment before I would set it free to fly out to the open. I followed the rhythmic sound as it became louder. I reached the source. To my utter dismay, it was the smoke detector on the ceiling indicating batteries needed replacement! I checked the batteries and realized I didn’t have the correct replacement size available in the house. I would need to purchase one. No problem, I thought. I’ll just add that to my afternoon schedule of running errands.

I set to work on my writing, which soon became an exercise in futility as I realized that my internal unconscious bias had been turned on. In a matter of a few moments, what I had thought was the most pleasant chirp of a bird had become the most annoying, aggravating, repetitious dissonance. I needed to take care of it if I wanted my day to go as planned. I immediately shifted my schedule to run my errands in the morning.

In the car, I made a few stops, took care of essentials, dropped off some groceries to an older friend, picked up the batteries and headed toward home when a light in the instrument panel indicated that one of my tires was low or flat. I pulled over at a gas station and, true to the indicator, I had a nail lodged in the rear passenger side tire. Probably a slow leak which needed to be taken care of right away. I filled air in the tire and drove to the tire company to take care of the flat. It would be an hour before anything could be done. I waited. Tire fixed, I returned home to address the chirping smoke detector. I felt really smug about myself as I changed the battery. I waited. No chirp. Yes! Mission accomplished… I thought. In the midst of settling down to do my writing, to my surprise, there it was again. The chirp. This time I tried removing the entire detector and realized it was one that was electrically wired into the home system. I did my research and after a number of calls to professionals, I was told the entire system would need to be changed as this was an old one and not worth the repair. Could anything else go wrong?

Which made me think– how often in life we allow a word, a sound, a smell, or an event to transform our emotional state from happy to unhappy. With only an hour left to myself before my numbered planned hours would expire, I had no other control over this external situation; I did however, have control over my internal one. I would have to shift my perspective from thinking the day went “wrong” to “not as planned.”

“How was your day?” asked my husband.
“Not as planned,” I answered.
“Let’s go out for dinner,” he said.
Sometimes, the best moments happen unplanned.


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It’s Your Day, It’s My Day

“Today is your day and mine, the only day that we have to play our part. What our part may signify in the great whole we may not understand, but we are here to play it, and now is our time.” (David Starr Jordan)

March 8 is International Women’s Day, a day to honor and celebrate the women in our lives and those whose work has paved the way for so many of us. We have all been raised on the shoulders of one or more women who have embraced bravery despite personal or professional obstacles. Their persistence has made a powerful impact in our lives and that of the world. Through their work in the arts, education, healthcare, STEM, law, public service, policy implementation and more, women have fought for rights, telling their own stories and advocating for others. They have and continue to break barriers and challenge discrimination based on gender, economic status, sexual orientation and race in the name of equality. They are –enabler, nurturer, motivator, entrepreneur, believer, supporter, leader, optimist, powerful, legend– women who deserve our praise. They possess the tenacity and drive to step up to the podium and raise their voices so that others may find their voice. I applaud the women.

As you celebrate International Women’s Day (IWD),  remember to also focus on innovative ways in which we can advance gender equality and the empowerment of women, particularly in the areas of social protection systems, access to public services and sustainable infrastructure. This year’s theme for IWD, “Think equal, build smart, innovate for change,” is crucial for all women to think and build on that understanding of change because the original aim – to achieve full gender equality for women in the world – has still not been realized. A gender pay gap persists across the globe and women are still not present in equal numbers in business or politics. Figures show that globally, women’s education, health and violence towards women is still worse than that of men. According to the World Economic Forum, the gender gap won’t close until 2186. It is an embarrassment for all women if we accept that as the status quo and not work harder to achieve the goals set in in the Fourth World Conference on Women in Beijing 24 years ago. (For further read please refer to my March 6, 2015 post Empowering Women).IWD BELONGS TO ALL WOMEN, EVERYWHERE, INDIVIDUAL AND COLLECTIVE.   The road is long, the journey tough. Together, we can change the world in which we want our children to live.

“Think equal, build smart, innovate for change,”

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