A STICK, A STONE, AND SOME WORDS

Taking my hike this morning, I started to think (must have been the blood pumping while going uphill) about how unkind some people have become. Civil discourse is a thing of the past, and conversation has become a garbage dumping ground.  Johnny Depp warns us; “You gotta be careful: don’t say a word to nobody about nothing anytime ever.” 

It seems as if people have forgotten that everything you say and everything you do affects someone else. Words can hurt and damage another person in profound ways. 

Every morning, I first read the sports page and then the funny papers. I want to know what’s going on in sports, so I won’t look like a total fool when my friends wax poetic about football or basketball. And I know that occasionally I can glean some wisdom from the funnies. 

In the balloons above a little cartoon character’s head, I recently read, “Before you say something, ask: Is it true? Is it kind” Is it necessary?” Sage questions indeed. Friendship can end in an instant because of a stupid word. However a sense of humor helps when it’s more of a slip of the tongue than an intentional slur.

Atlanta, Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, Ralph McGill was often criticized for his forthright columns in the Atlanta Constitution supporting the Civil Rights Movement. He was a Southerner who loved the South, but recognized the destructive effects of bigotry. His response to the poisonous criticism he received from some of his readers was always, “You just may be right,” which left no room for argument, and also intimated, “ And, you just may be wrong.” It was a powerful response given with civility.

Unfortunately, there are intrusive people who don’t know boundaries. Several years ago, I was taking a stroll in my neighborhood, happily talking to myself, when a neighbor, renowned for his boorishness, interrupted my conversation and said; “I just put a new roof on my house. It was very expensive. Do you want to know what I paid for it?”  “ No, I don’t,” I replied. “But, I want to tell you,” he said.
“Sorry,” I replied.  “I still don’t want to know.”  It was a truthful statement.  I don’t think I was unkind, and it was certainly necessary since his roof was of no interest to me.  Now, his house is on the market.  I’m sure that when he sells it, he will send me a bill of sale---including the price of his roof. Some people are just like that.

Esther Blumenfeld  (“Be careful what you say---It has a habit of coming back to boomerang you on the bum.”) anonymous Australian

DREAM ON

Many years ago, when I graduated from the University of Michigan, I was informed that I had an over-abundance of credits in philosophy, psychology and English. Because of University policy, I could only claim two of those areas of study as “minors”. I can’t remember which two I selected. However, I do remember immersing myself in the works of Sigmund Freud, and discovering early on that the good doctor had provided himself escape hatches to some of his theories involving dreams.

I remember clearly that he wrote, “All dreams are wish fulfillment, attempts of the unconscious to resolve a conflict of some sort---something recent or from the past.” Then he covered his butt by discussing dreams that “do not appear to be wish fulfillment.” Whew!

When I worked full-time as a deadline writer, my friend Nancy, who was an artist used to call me and describe her dreams. They appeared to her in vivid colors, and then she would translate them to canvas. I kept my mouth shut during these glowing descriptions, because my dreams consisted of words running across a piece of paper, and they were in black and white. All night long, I dreamed words and more words. I never knew if the occasional “cha-ching” was the paper moving through my dream machine, or my husband’s snoring. A few times, I woke up and scribbled something on a piece of paper in the dark, but it never made any sense in the morning since I couldn’t read what I had written.

One of the most famous dream stories is the one about Jacob, who put a stone under his head, fell asleep and dreamed of angels running up and down a golden ladder. If I had put a stone under my head, I’m sure I wouldn’t have such a dazzling dream, but rather I would have awakened with a headache and a very stiff neck.

In his early works, Freud would have found a sexual connotation to Jacob’s dream, but in his Interpretation of Dreams (Fifth edition, 1919, Chapter 6, Section E) Freud said that he never claimed that all dreams require sexual interpretation. At some point he even said, “Even a cigar may be just a cigar.” Rest easy, Jacob!

So, why all of this talk about dreams? It’s because for the first time in my life, I had a colorful geometric dream, and this is a big deal for someone who almost flunked geometry. I dreamed of a solid, golden sculpture made of squares, triangles and rectangles---gleaming in the distant sunlight. I woke up feeling good.

My first impulse was to call my broker to advise him to invest in gold bricks, but I thought better of that. Don’t know why I dreamed it, or why I remember it, but I suspect that my dream was more Tiffany than Freud. 

Nightmares are a different kind of dream. When my nephew was a very little boy, he had a bad dream about monsters in his closet. I told him that I would stuff them into my suitcase and take them home with me. Now that he is an avant-garde artist in New York, I guess I should ask him if he wants them back.

Actors have nightmares about forgetting their lines on stage. With some plays, that might not be such a bad thing. I often have nightmares about my computer, and I’m not even asleep. The best dreams are those that when you wake up and have to think, “Did that really happen?”

Joseph, a prisoner in Pharaoh’s hoosegow had the best political dream. He dreamed about 7 fat cows that were eaten by 7 lean cows, and 7 fat ears of grain eaten by 7 lean ones. Joseph got out of prison when he predicted that a famine was coming. Pharaoh put enough grain aside to save his people and Joseph became something like Vice President of Egypt.
  
And, I learned that grain has ears.

Esther Blumenfeld (Sleep tight, but first check the mattress for bedbugs)

BLAME THE BRAIN

           
Sitting on an airplane got me to thinking about space. No, not the vast space of the floating astronauts, but rather the crammed cabin space afforded an airplane passenger. Why is it so uncomfortable to be jammed close to a stranger?

Anthropologist, Edward T. Hall, set forth the notion of personal space in 1966, when he introduced the concept of proxemics, describing the physical distances people try to keep from one another. He broke it down into: intimate space, personal space, social space and public space.  Later scientists discovered a brain structure called the amygdalae in each temporal lobe that controls fear and the processing of emotion.

So, when someone says, “Get out of my face!” They are not just being rude; it’s their amygdalae talking. The intimate zone is reserved for lovers, close friends, children and some family members (unless they are “Get-out-of-my-face relatives). Personal space is a bit more complicated. It depends on what distance is comfortable for you. It involves setting boundaries. If you are talking to someone, and they take a step back, it’s a tip off that you are invading their personal space.

President Lyndon Johnson would get his way by backing an adversary into a wall, and confronting him nose to nose. Personal space is also affected by a person’s position in society. Rich people expect a lot of personal space. That’s why they prefer a limousine to a subway at rush hour.

The first time I rode a subway at rush hour in New York, I stood hanging on to an overhead strap, and a little man with a beard rested his chin on my arm. There was nowhere for me to escape, except to imagine that I was on the Mongolian steppes instead of a subway. Even rich people don’t go there.

By replicating, “The dining room place setting experiment,” you can test the---“Too close for comfort” theory. When everyone is seated at the table, slowly move your water glass, and then your cutlery, and plate into your neighbor’s space. Eventually, he will move his place setting.

My husband’s, Uncle Max was an expert in invading social space. He hated asparagus. At one dinner party, when the stranger on his left was engaged in conversation, with the person on her left, he surprised her by dumping his asparagus on her plate. She kept right on talking and eating, and never knew what hit her space. 

 Social space is reserved for conversation with friends, a chat with associates or group discussions. I’m sure there is an overlap of invasion here when someone gets too close for comfort at a cocktail party. One woman managed to splash red wine on my shoes, while at the same time spitting on my silk dress. I don’t remember the gossip, but it was juicy.

The last invasion of space is public space. Ever spread your blanket on a deserted beach. For some reason, that is an invitation for a family with bratty children to plop next to you, while kicking sand on both you and your space.

When someone cuts in front of you, at a checkout line at the grocery store, you might want to try standing very close to that person. Push that cart as close as you can. It won’t make the line move faster, but with will play havoc with his amygdalae.  And, if you want to really test the theory of public space, the next time you get on an elevator, instead of not making eye contact and facing the doors, try facing the people on the elevator and say, “We have to stop meeting like this!”  But be sure to get off on the next floor.

Esther Blumenfeld (“I’m the only person standing between Richard Nixon and the White House.”) John Kennedy

GETTING OFF THE FENCE

I recently realized that I have fallen into the trap of over thinking---worrying too much about the future---about decisions that I may or may not have to make. I have vowed to stop driving my friends crazy. I have made the decision that by not making a decision, I am making a decision. Richard Bach said, “The best way to avoid responsibility is to say, “I’ve got responsibilities.” However, like it or not, everyday we are confronted with choices.

A newly wed once told me, “Being married is great! Finally, I can have cheese and popcorn for dinner without my mother scolding me.” Often choices involve how much you want to get out of your comfort zone. As far as I know, the young bride never fed her husband some crispy grasshoppers, but, sadly, the marriage didn’t last.

Mr. Google gives us these rules for making decisions:

1. Thank about what you are doing before you do it. My husband and I came to Tucson in the summer. The temperature was 105 degrees. We bought a house in a week.
2. Avoid rash decisions. When our son, Josh asked us. “What did you do on your vacation?” My husband said, “We bought a house.”
3. Don’t over think. It causes stress.  Our son was speechless for the first time in his life.
4. Trust yourself and have faith in your instincts. We loved our realtor, Diane. She invited us to her home for a party. She and her husband went to San Diego for the rest of the summer, and we stole many of their friends.

I always told my son, “Are you going to regret the choices you made, or the ones you didn’t make? Follow your dreams while you are young,” Consequently; he pursued careers in science, journalism, flying, theatre, meteorology, and television. As a former Science Writer for NASA, he has been able to combine many of his past experiences, and he better never say, “I wish I had.” Flying lessons were, of course, the hardest on his parents.  When I asked him, “How are the lessons coming along?”  He said, “Great!” but I have to perfect my landings.” A mother does not want to hear that!

Everything in life is timing. Playing the, “Would’a, Could’a, Should’a“ game is not productive. There is no time machine to send us back. The best I can figure out is that it is always a good idea to base my choices on the facts at hand rather than fiction, and to see the big picture.  If that doesn’t work, I can always toss a coin.

Mark Twain said, “People fall into three categories: Those who make things happen. Those who watch things happen. And, those who are left to ask, ‘What happened?’” 

Esther Blumenfeld (“ If Pavlov tested his cat, he would have failed.”) Patrick H.T. Doyle

GARBAGE DISPOSAL

When I was a little girl in the 1940’s my Mother would wrap the family garbage in our daily newspaper. That’s because plastic didn’t become affordable, or mass produced, until after WWII, and that led to a boon for consumers in the 1950’s.  Now, garbage can be disposed of in big plastic bags.

GARBAGE—wet organic waste from the kitchen, and TRASH—non-organic waste going to a landfill are terms often used interchangeably.  Of course, RECYCLING is a whole different process involving material for re-use. However,  paper can’t be reused to create new trees.
However, words can be recycled as information, and information can be disseminated either in written form or verbally. 

Consequently, verbal communication is often referred to as, “Talking Garbage.” This involves speech filled with useless, insulting and often dishonest or disparaging communication used to intimidate opponents.  And then there is, “Trash Talk” talking RUBBISH—obvious nonsense that makes no sense at all— purposefully meant to confuse. 

The definition of RUBBISH is, “unwanted things.” In speech it is useless talk that lacks meaning. In Britain  (excuse the language of the Brits) “Talking Shit” means, “Talking Utter RUBBISH.” 

If a person only speaks RUBBISH, 100% of people will eventfully think of him like they think of their overfilled GARBAGE. It’s time to dump the useless. We can’t wrap him into a newspaper and put him in a bin, but we can stop and listen to what’s being said.

We can begin to listen to people whose words mean something.  It’s called THE TRUTH.

Esther Blumenfeld