I'm writing this on a standard lined writing tablet (not yellow but a subdued gray color). I admit this because I'm trying to kick the habit, the dreaded habit of buying electronic gadgets that are a "must" as rationalized by me for their timesaving characteristics. 'Timesaving" is an oxymoron like "Army Intelligence" and, likewise, is "bass ackwards." Wait a second! I'm getting ahead of myself. "My name is Kevin and I'm an electronics addict." That's how I start each "EA" meeting (Electronics Anonymous). Yes, they have a 12-step program for those of us afflicted with this disease. (Excuse me for a second. I need to call my sponsor. I just fell of the wagon and used my Franklin electronic Merriam-Webster dictionary and thesaurus to look up how to spell "disease.") Now where were we? (By the way, he told me to trash the electronic dictionary immediately; they have books now that you can use to look that stuff up.) It started simply enough by buying a small electronic Spanish-English dictionary and using it occasionally, just on weekends, recreationally really, just taking a break from the monotonous task of fingering the little red covered book I used with my Spanish lessons. Now I'm into an electronic five language translator with currency calculator. Where will it stop? Let's inventory my extra bag before I started rehab. Yes, roller bag, black bag and electronics carry all. In no particular sequence I'll just pull them out: ∑ iBook (12" computer with 1100 digital pictures) ∑ i Pod (MP-3 player, of course, with 3,200 songs, all purchased by CD or bought in the itunes store online) ∑ cell phone (with camera that can send pictures to any and all e-mail addresses or phones worldwide) ∑ digital camera with 3x zoom ∑ electronic dictionary (aforementioned) ∑ five language translator and currency calculator (also aforementioned) ∑ noise canceling earphones ∑ digital bedside clock with snooze feature ∑ charger for the cell phone ∑ charger for the iPod ∑ charger for the iBook ∑ USB cable for the digital camera ∑ telephone line for on-line access ∑ extra batteries for the digital camera and noise-canceling head phones and, of course, ∑ a bag of plugs to fit European, Scandinavian and South American wall sockets to ensure 100 percent charges for all devices at all times. (Did I mention I was "OC" (obsessive compulsive)? But that's another story.) I'm sure I forgot something but that's enough electronics for now. Total weight is 11.33 pounds. Whew! I need an ibuprofen just thinking about lifting it. When I realized I was using electronics excessively (headache, bleary eyes, thinking about my e-mail all the time), I tried to cut down by myself. Only two electronics a night and not before 5 p.m. (it worked for alcohol, I think). At first I couldn't decide which two electronics I'd use, then, after deciding, I would watch the clock for the appropriate time. It worked for a while but then I'd move the time up a little each day. Then it happened. Twelve noon and I was online checking my e-mail, then on the cell phone checking voicemail, then both at once when I got a text message and call waiting at the same time. I had a melt down and went cold turkey that afternoon. I shut everything off. I'm still an electronics junkie but with the help of my new friends at EA I "choose not to use." Thank goodness there is a government program to help us addicts wean ourselves off the need for electronics and the rush it gives us. They give us paper products to ease our pain of withdrawal. This morning I received note cards, postcards, this writing tablet and a newspaper. This will keep me busy till the meeting tonight. I can't wait for the coffee they serve at the meetings. I think Starbucks gives it to them for free. I wonder if that's a marketing tool. It worked for Phillip Morris.
I'm standing outside a large, open room and feeling mentally ill-equipped for the moment. I enter to find fit-looking women territorially positioned and casually dressed in either loose garb or body-clinging tights and tops. Though there’s plenty of space, the ladies congregate in the middle of the room. Each woman has a mat, some sort of rubberized blocks, and a strap. I'm wearing running shorts and T-shirt and feel pretty much clueless about what’s coming next. Why am I here? I need to do something for my health and sanity. Running took its toll on my lower back and right hip, and I get agitated if I can’t do meaningful exercise. It’s my first yoga class, and I'm wary. I meekly stake out my own eight by four foot hardwood real estate in the first available opening. Then, I lay down my mat in the midst of the group, and mimic my classmates. I sit quietly wondering whether this was a good idea.
The instructor introduces herself and queries us regarding our experience with yoga and our physical condition, specifically pregnancies and existing injuries. As the class begins and I go through the gentle warm-up exercises and listen to the instructor, a change comes over me.
"It's all in the breath," she explains.
After a few more minutes, I think, "This is great stuff. Too bad I didn’t take this up 20 years ago. It might have helped my running." My mind started racing and tried to capture how I breathe when running. Though I experimented with various techniques, for the most part, breathing “just happened.” The faster I ran, the more rapid the breath. But after a few yoga breathing cycles I realized that my breath was actually quite shallow and uncontrolled. In yoga breathing is almost always through the nose. Deep breathing requires use of diaphragm and expansion into the chest and shoulders. Advanced deep breathing adds abdominal muscle control following complete exhalation. It sounds easier than it actually is – at least for me.
There’s a simple explanation why breathing is a fundamental tenet of yoga. We all draw energy from our breath. And in class after class with different instructors, the theme is consistent and a simple truth emerges: We can live without food, water, and rest for extended periods, but without breath, we expire - and pretty quickly! Breath is first and foremost. This is a central doctrine of Hatha Yoga.
I've learned much in this journey to practice yoga. My motives were purely physical initially - restore the back, alleviate past abuses, and balance the body. But as I acquired competence with the poses and developed greater flexibility, the philosophy of the practice penetrated my thoughts. At first, none of this interested me. I favored instructors who taught “power yoga.” I just wanted to muscle my way through the routines. Gradually, I began to appreciate the innate insight one gains of one's self through yoga. Now, we are all different so I don’t suppose this will apply universally, but yoga has improved my self-patience, and as a result, my patience with others. I attribute this change to the concentration one applies while controlling the body and mind during yoga routines. The effort required far differs from swinging a bat or tennis racket. In the latter cases, one looks outward to align the body to respond to an external stimulus. With yoga, the look turns inward to align body and mind to task. To help their students, yoga instructors will often remind their classes to clear their minds of distracting thoughts to improve the benefits in performing a pose. I believe the ability to achieve both inward and outward control of one’s actions improves one’s quality of life. Prior to yoga my emphasis seemed exclusively outward (response) directed.
In Western societies yoga still lags in popularity, particularly among men. My past reveals why. I grew up in the typical public school environment where personal popularity depended on how well one played competitive team sports. The workplace is no different. You must be competitive and conventional. And yoga is neither of these, nor flashy, nor public. Yoga requires introspection, but who today promotes the inward look? Are we not manipulated and encouraged not to pursue self enlightenment to better fulfill our roles as consumers? Our distractions and addictions - drugs, sports, alcohol, television, computers, overwork, and pursuit of material and fame - help eliminate the need for self intimacy.
Yoga, however, helps extract the individual from social pressures, generates a communal spirit with fellow yogis, and eliminates any need for competitiveness or adversarial interaction. Skeptics may argue that running, tennis, golf or popular team sports stimulate mental discipline and the self-criticism required to motivate self-improvement. Further, working as team members and developing strategies of play enhance our social skills, ultimately improving our societies. While these premises have merit, they overlook several critical aspects of self-intimacy and self-awareness that yoga naturally incorporates.
In yoga there is no need to critique or analyze performance. You are in control of your body and mind, not outside influences. You are who you are, and you perform a pose or routine to whatever level you're at. Try your best and benefit by focusing the mind on your body and how it is responding to what you are doing with and to it. Inhale relaxation. Exhale tension. Regarding teamwork, yogis share an intimate bond through self-acceptance and inner peace that ease contact with others.
Can walking or hiking, combined with a solid stretch and flex routine, substitute for yoga? Perhaps. But I have found a deeper appreciation of these activities from my practice of yoga.
Yoga can be very challenging for some and still is to me. When I first started and got into the basic seated posture, my stiffness and lack of flexibility showed. It was painful after a few minutes. Not now. And my breathing is no longer shallow. I have even used yoga breathing to calm myself prior to key meetings – and I was CEO-equivalent of a 5,000 person organization. Whether standing before a large crowd of hundreds of employees, hosting VIPs, or conducting a staff meeting, the slow, methodical breathing helped to clear my mind, relax me, and subsequently focus on meeting objectives. I could be sitting at my desk prior to a meeting or standing near a podium waiting to speak, and all I had to do was clear my mind and take a few deep yoga breaths. The result: Little or no stress and improved confidence. I also no longer feel I have to live up to some idealized wannabe manufactured by society. All these benefits, and more, emerged by embracing yoga without being obsessive about it. I just stuck with it and kept an open mind.
I encourage everyone to consider yoga as part of an exercise routine. And if you’re male, I doubly encourage you to break out of that traditional mold and experience a refreshing yet still physically challenging experience, with health benefits for mind and body. Sure, you may have to endure some classes being the only of your gender, but how bad can that be? Also, find a branch of yoga that best suits your objectives. Since yoga means a union between self and either a supreme being or an ultimate principle, it fits within any major religious doctrine, agnosticism, or atheism. Yoga, then, is both universal and highly personal. Enjoy the journey, and may you find your own internal synergy along the way.
The little girl sat on the end of her bed and started to cry. She could not understand why she felt so sad and lonely, as if she had done something wrong. It wasn�t anything she had wanted to happen. She felt dirty and confused.
She honestly felt like everything in her life had changed that day.
It all started with her dad calling her into his bedroom. She had been downstairs playing with her two little brothers, watching them while her mom was in New York City catching a show with an old friend. She loved her little brothers, although they were hard to play with since she was so much older. They never really understood the games she wanted to play, and all of their toys were so babyish and boring. Her older sister was a lot more fun, but she was at her friend�s house that afternoon. Lately her older sister treated her like she was a tag-along, as if she was too young to play with. It was depressing to think that her best friend was outgrowing her, that she was more interested in boys and makeup than playing tag and softball in the yard. At least she still had her little brothers as playmates.
Anyway, her dad called her upstairs, saying he had wanted to see her. She had thought she was in trouble, although she couldn�t think of a thing that she had done. Her dad was almost like two dads in one. He could be really nice and fun, taking them for hikes and playing soccer with them, but he could also be really mean. He had a bad temper, and was not afraid to scream or hit his children. Lately it seemed like the slightest thing would set him off, so the three of them tried to be extra quiet and good that day to avoid his fury.
She crept up the stairs, trying to be both quick and quiet. She really did not want to do anything to make him mad. As he shut the door behind her, he patted a spot next to him on the bed. She was anxious, afraid to be in more trouble, but also wanting to be back downstairs where it was safe. An unsettling feeling washed over her as she made her way onto the bed. Something seemed off about her dad; he didn�t seem like he was about to yell, but he wasn't really in a good mood, either.
What happened upstairs made her feel sick in her stomach and cold in her heart. The way he touched her made her feel scared and dirty. She hated every minute of it, and wanted to go back downstairs to be like a child again. But almost worse than what he did was what he told her: never tell anyone because he would deny it. He was an adult, and she was just a kid. People would believe him and not her. They would call her a liar and be mad at her. And if mom ever knew, she�d be mad and might leave her forever.
After she was finally allowed to go back downstairs, she could not stop feeling bad. She was able to push the memories from the forefront of her mind to focus on other things, at least temporarily. But the dirty feeling inside wasn�t going away, even after she was playing again. Even after she took a bath and scrubbed every inch of her body raw.
After her bath, she went straight to bed, an unusual move for a kid who tried to stay up past bedtime almost nightly. Mom got home and came up to ask how her day was. She just didn�t feel like talking, so she lied and said she felt sick (well, it wasn�t a total lie since her stomach still hurt her) and she was going to bed. It wasn�t until after everyone else turned their lights off that she felt safe enough to huddle at the end of her bed and cry.
It was a feeling that would last for years. It was a feeling that no hot soak in a tub would ever wash away.
The boot came down on the back of the neck at about age 14, curiously coincidental with those adolescent boyhood stirrings that had me wanting to get in with the wrong crowd and do all the wrong things. There was no way this kid was going to become – summing up my parents’ fears – a ‘juvenile delinquent’. They had left the Bronx just after I was born in 1945 for an apartment in Providence, Rhode Island, and then, two years later, to a newly built home of their own in a subdivision a few miles south in Warwick. That ‘element’ they left behind them in the cities would most definitely not find its way into their – or my – life here. To my way of thinking, I just wanted to see, through my now pubescent eyes, what life was really all about, what the world had to offer. I just wanted to do what I wanted to do, and there were kids who were actually doing it – of course they were the ones I wanted to hang around with. Hell, all I really wanted to do was smoke cigarettes and try to feel up a girl if the opportunity ever arose, which was a pretty rare thing in those days, at least in my neighborhood. But there would be no discussion of how I would live my life, no common ground, no agreement to disagree. On this subject, the subject was closed. Our positions were clearly marked out. Theirs (mostly Mom’s): you are and will continue to be a good and decent young man. Mine: I’m going to do what I’m going to do. So life became a little like a cat-and-mouse game. By and large, I did all the things I was supposed to, like get good grades, plan to go to college and all the rest of it. It was just those extracurricular activities that made the three or four years I’m talking about seem like ten: drinking beer down by the river and trying to sneak into my room unnoticed, wanting to go to the drive-in with ‘a brazen hussy’ – my mother’s take on a slightly boisterous, fun-loving broad – that’s what we called them then – who probably would’ve let me feel her up (I’ll never know), going out with guys who would drop me off late and then (again, Mom) “peel out in the middle of the night and wake the whole neighborhood,” and deciding to date an Armenian girl and thinking it was okay. I found her exotic – dark skin, deep brown eyes, long black hair, white blouses, colorful skirts and hoop earrings that made her look like a gypsy, I thought; someone who held the key to a mysterious world I’d not yet discovered. I should have been prepared for the reaction I got, as I knew what it would have been had I taken up with, say, an Italian or some other type who was not just exactly the way we were. I had sort of sussed out some time ago that this had to do with being white, Christian Scientist – which meant definitely not Catholic – Republican (whatever that was) and generally clean, all-around fine, upstanding people. When I thought I had the idea, I mentioned to my mother that I really liked a girl in my ninth grade class, someone she had met and who I thought would pass muster, only to be told she was ‘too Irish’. I think I must have brought my gypsy home just a little out of spite.
Things kind of came to a head when I was seventeen and announced one evening that I would be going to New York City with some friends for the weekend because the Providence College basketball team was playing in the National Invitational Tournament. “No you won’t!” “Yes, I will!” “No, you will not!” “I’m going.” “You will not go to New York City this weekend and that’s final.” “I’m going to New York with my friends for the weekend.”
I left Friday afternoon and returned Sunday night to find both my parents sitting in their living room chairs reading. We lived in a small Cape Cod-style house with the stairs to the second floor running right up through the middle, so there was no way I would escape an encounter. To my surprise, I was greeted in a normal fashion, without any reference to where I had been all weekend, and allowed simply to say good night and go up to my room. After a few days had passed, my mother’s outrage got the better of her and she let go with the charge that she knew I had gone to New York to drink because the drinking age there was only eighteen and to prove it she pointed out that I was not wearing my high school class ring with the date of my graduation inscribed on it because it would obviously have given me away to any bartender as someone who was not old enough to drink, not even in New York City! The fact was I had given it to my unacceptable girl friend when I asked her to go steady with me just a few days before I left. I mentally threw up my hands and said nothing. I was damned either way.
I am standing in the entrance of our new house, the door is ajar and Walid and his colleagues are walking in with boxes. They are working through Ramadan meaning they won't get to eat or drink until sundown. My duty is to check off all the numbered boxes and direct Walid and the rest where to deposit their loads. The parquet is covered with tape to protect it from the moving furniture and the house smells like fresh paint. White. Everything is white and stark. We hadn't really prepared for this day and we just keep telling the men to bring the boxes upstairs to avoid having to think it out clearly. The wind is blowing in the house and I am freezing. Box 2. Garage. Box 34. Upstairs. Box 120. Small bedroom. Alistair, my boyfriend, is in the next room with another Allied International man struggling to get his TV and couches to fit in the sitting room. We had already argued about where to put the furniture and I decided just to let him do his own thing. The boxes keep coming in and I am sniffling, wiping my nose on my sweatshirt, and trying to keep warm. The heat hadn't been ready so the house is freezing and empty. It is the end of September and winter decided to come a couple of months early to Switzerland. Two weeks before I had turned 38. Things with Alistair weren’t going well, his father was dying and my work was a nightmare. I had planned to live in Switzerland two years for work and it turned into five years. I accumulated 158 boxes of “stuff” in those five years, 60 months or 1,826.25 days. The 158 boxes and this house and my life were slowly suffocating me and pinning me to the ground. I felt trapped and unhappy and needed a break. My sister was about to start a new job in New York and was hankering for a vacation before she began her new role. When she asked me if I wanted to go with her to Israel I accepted immediately. I told Alistair I needed a vacation; I went on line and used my frequent flyer points to book a ticket to Tel Aviv. When I landed in Tel Aviv the heat, the light and humidity hit me immediately. I took a cab and fumbled through some basic Hebrew words that managed to get me to the hotel where my sister was waiting for me. We were staying at the Sheraton Moriah, a big supposedly luxury skyscraper hotel right on the beach. We spent the afternoon walking along the beach, taking in the smells of the Middle East, the incredible mix of people, clothing, colors and sounds. We spent that first night in Jaffa, the old Arab town, and ate in a little restaurant serving homemade Jewish food like schnitzel, in the heart of the flea market. The sun set over the Mediterranean right when the minaret’s load speaker started chanting isha’a, the evening prayer. I felt at home. The following day we took a private tour to Caesaria, the old Roman capital, built right on the sea with amphitheaters, baths, aqueducts and a hippodrome. It was spectacular. We moved further along the coast to Haifa, where the Ba’hai religion built a temple and gardens spending almost 250 million dollars. We moved onto Akko, another Arab village, with the characteristic of having been built on an old Crusader town that had remained intact. Supposedly Al-Jazar, the sultan nicknamed “the Butcher”, after his conquest, decided to completely bury the Crusader city and build his Islamic city on top of it. The Crusader halls were later discovered and dug up and are now intact with the stem of the fleur de lis visibly carved in the stone. We ended the tour at the border with Lebanon at a place called Rosh Naquira. We took a cable down to the grottos formed by the break of the waves and checked out the border guarded by the Israelis, behind the UN zone buffer and finally the actual Lebanese border. On our last day at Tel Aviv we enjoyed the beach until a masturbator decided to use us as inspiration so we headed downtown where we shopped and visited the oldest Jewish neighborhood and ended the day eating at the best falafel joint in town. We left Tel Aviv for the Dead Sea the following day with a wonderful driver, Esteban, originally from Chile. He spoke to us in Spanish and told us he had come to Israel over 50 years ago, lived for some time in a kibbutz and eventually came to Tel Aviv. The ride to the Ein Bokek on the Dead Sea was interesting and it passed very close to the West bank. We passed farmland and then hit the desert. Bedouin camps appeared intermittently along the rode. Esteban said they were “good arabs” and paid taxes and did military service and the Israeli government finally constructed places for them to live. My guidebook said that the Bedouins were trying to retain their nomadic life but were forced into these settlements. We finally saw the Dead Sea, a relieving spot of blue after kilometers of downhill desert to 472meters below sea level. We checked into one of these humongous hotels that one wonders how building permits were given and we went to float in the Dead Sea. The water was warm and slimy and you couldn’t help but float. It was hard to swim and if water got in your eye you were basically blinded and needed to be escorted out to shore. A lot of Russian tourists with big bellies, elder New York Jewish ladies and a couple of French families were floating and smearing their bodies with mud and exfoliating with salt. We were happy to get out of there. We went to visit Masada, another site of an ancient Roman fortress built on top of a mountaintop in the desert. This time we had to take a cable car up the mountain and visited the ruins on the plateau. Once again the Romans had managed to construct palaces, baths, temples and cisterns in the middle of the desert. Our last stop was Jerusalem. Alian, our driver, had the sweetest eyes and temperament. He waited for us to tour Masada and then took us all the way to our hotel in East Jerusalem and made sure we got in safely. Most people stay in the Western part but we wanted to see the more “Palestinian” side. We were offered drinks (freshly squeezed lemonade blended with mint) and had a delicious meal of hummus, tabouleh, olives and pita. The hotel offered political tours like trips to see the huge wall that Israelis are building today to divide the East part of the city from the West (like Berlin during the Cold War) or trips to the West Bank to see firsthand the plight of the Palestinian refugees. We decided not to go on these visits but rather focus on the positive aspects of the city this time around. Jerusalem is truly impressive. A city Judaism, Islam, and Christianity claim Holy and has contributed in making the Old City a labyrinth of churches, mosques, synagogues and a major pilgrimage site for ultra-religious people of all faiths. The born again Christians were singing and swaying, arms outstretched at the place of Jesus’ last supper, the Hassidic were decked our for Shabbat with their fur cats and satin jackets in 30 degree weather with wives in wigs trailing behind with numerous kids, and the Muslims called out from loud speakers from all the Mosques to pray five times a day. What an unbelievable place. We took our time discovering the city. We visited the Jewish section, the Armenian, the Christian and the Arab part of the Old City. We ate at a great Moroccan restaurant, we prayed at the Western wall, we went to an Armenian mass, saw the Ethiopian Coptic church, we bought traditional Palestinian ceramics, we prayed where Mary was laid to rest, we shopped in the Arab souk midst the smell of cardamom and saffron, and on our last night we listened to Arabic music and watched our new friends dance the night away. We bonded as sisters and felt like life is truly about discovery. The security to leave was unbelievable. It didn’t help my passport had stamps from Marrakech, Beirut, and Sharm-el-Sheik from previous vacations. I was put under maximum-security check, which took over three hours. I missed my connecting flight in Milan and spent six hours in the Milan airport. The weather was cold and the sky was cloudy. Alistair called me. He told me his father was getting worse and probably wouldn’t live until Christmas. I agreed to go with him to England the following weekend to help his mother and enjoy the last moments with his father. Then my best-friend Marzia called. We talked about our gay friends, Jim and Simon, who after12 years were breaking up. I knew something hadn’t been right and that something had happened to Jim so I probed until Marzia admitted that he had found out he was HIV. I was stunned and numb. With 4 more hours to kill, I cried and started shopping. I bought a new suitcase so I could roll all the Armenian ceramics I had bought, I bought a scarf at Etro, sneakers and pants from Nike, an ink recharge for my Montblanc pen and also tried to buy beautiful black leather boots from Bruno Magli but luckily they wouldn’t zip over my calves. When I finally got home with all my stuff, the house was dark and cold and I was alone. I unpacked the stuff and made a list of all the things I needed to do to fix the house and my life.
5 comments:
I'm writing this on a standard lined writing tablet (not yellow but a subdued gray color). I admit this because I'm trying to kick the habit, the dreaded habit of buying electronic gadgets that are a "must" as rationalized by me for their timesaving characteristics. 'Timesaving" is an oxymoron like "Army Intelligence" and, likewise, is "bass ackwards."
Wait a second! I'm getting ahead of myself.
"My name is Kevin and I'm an electronics addict."
That's how I start each "EA" meeting (Electronics Anonymous). Yes, they have a 12-step program for those of us afflicted with this disease.
(Excuse me for a second. I need to call my sponsor. I just fell of the wagon and used my Franklin electronic Merriam-Webster dictionary and thesaurus to look up how to spell "disease.")
Now where were we? (By the way, he told me to trash the electronic dictionary immediately; they have books now that you can use to look that stuff up.)
It started simply enough by buying a small electronic Spanish-English dictionary and using it occasionally, just on weekends, recreationally really, just taking a break from the monotonous task of fingering the little red covered book I used with my Spanish lessons. Now I'm into an electronic five language translator with currency calculator. Where will it stop?
Let's inventory my extra bag before I started rehab. Yes, roller bag, black bag and electronics carry all. In no particular sequence I'll just pull them out:
∑ iBook (12" computer with 1100 digital pictures)
∑ i Pod (MP-3 player, of course, with 3,200 songs, all purchased by CD or bought in the itunes store online)
∑ cell phone (with camera that can send pictures to any and all e-mail addresses or phones worldwide)
∑ digital camera with 3x zoom
∑ electronic dictionary (aforementioned)
∑ five language translator and currency calculator (also aforementioned)
∑ noise canceling earphones
∑ digital bedside clock with snooze feature
∑ charger for the cell phone
∑ charger for the iPod
∑ charger for the iBook
∑ USB cable for the digital camera
∑ telephone line for on-line access
∑ extra batteries for the digital camera and noise-canceling head phones and, of course,
∑ a bag of plugs to fit European, Scandinavian and South American wall sockets to ensure 100 percent charges for all devices at all times. (Did I mention I was "OC" (obsessive compulsive)? But that's another story.)
I'm sure I forgot something but that's enough electronics for now. Total weight is 11.33 pounds. Whew! I need an ibuprofen just thinking about lifting it.
When I realized I was using electronics excessively (headache, bleary eyes, thinking about my e-mail all the time), I tried to cut down by myself. Only two electronics a night and not before 5 p.m. (it worked for alcohol, I think). At first I couldn't decide which two electronics I'd use, then, after deciding, I would watch the clock for the appropriate time. It worked for a while but then I'd move the time up a little each day. Then it happened. Twelve noon and I was online checking my e-mail, then on the cell phone checking voicemail, then both at once when I got a text message and call waiting at the same time.
I had a melt down and went cold turkey that afternoon. I shut everything off.
I'm still an electronics junkie but with the help of my new friends at EA I "choose not to use." Thank goodness there is a government program to help us addicts wean ourselves off the need for electronics and the rush it gives us. They give us paper products to ease our pain of withdrawal.
This morning I received note cards, postcards, this writing tablet and a newspaper. This will keep me busy till the meeting tonight. I can't wait for the coffee they serve at the meetings. I think Starbucks gives it to them for free. I wonder if that's a marketing tool. It worked for Phillip Morris.
Turning to Yoga: A Mid-Life Male’s Musing
I am frustrated.
I'm standing outside a large, open room and feeling mentally ill-equipped for the moment. I enter to find fit-looking women territorially positioned and casually dressed in either loose garb or body-clinging tights and tops. Though there’s plenty of space, the ladies congregate in the middle of the room. Each woman has a mat, some sort of rubberized blocks, and a strap. I'm wearing running shorts and T-shirt and feel pretty much clueless about what’s coming next. Why am I here? I need to do something for my health and sanity. Running took its toll on my lower back and right hip, and I get agitated if I can’t do meaningful exercise. It’s my first yoga class, and I'm wary. I meekly stake out my own eight by four foot hardwood real estate in the first available opening. Then, I lay down my mat in the midst of the group, and mimic my classmates. I sit quietly wondering whether this was a good idea.
The instructor introduces herself and queries us regarding our experience with yoga and our physical condition, specifically pregnancies and existing injuries. As the class begins and I go through the gentle warm-up exercises and listen to the instructor, a change comes over me.
"It's all in the breath," she explains.
After a few more minutes, I think, "This is great stuff. Too bad I didn’t take this up 20 years ago. It might have helped my running." My mind started racing and tried to capture how I breathe when running. Though I experimented with various techniques, for the most part, breathing “just happened.” The faster I ran, the more rapid the breath. But after a few yoga breathing cycles I realized that my breath was actually quite shallow and uncontrolled. In yoga breathing is almost always through the nose. Deep breathing requires use of diaphragm and expansion into the chest and shoulders. Advanced deep breathing adds abdominal muscle control following complete exhalation. It sounds easier than it actually is – at least for me.
There’s a simple explanation why breathing is a fundamental tenet of yoga. We all draw energy from our breath. And in class after class with different instructors, the theme is consistent and a simple truth emerges: We can live without food, water, and rest for extended periods, but without breath, we expire - and pretty quickly! Breath is first and foremost. This is a central doctrine of Hatha Yoga.
I've learned much in this journey to practice yoga. My motives were purely physical initially - restore the back, alleviate past abuses, and balance the body. But as I acquired competence with the poses and developed greater flexibility, the philosophy of the practice penetrated my thoughts. At first, none of this interested me. I favored instructors who taught “power yoga.” I just wanted to muscle my way through the routines. Gradually, I began to appreciate the innate insight one gains of one's self through yoga. Now, we are all different so I don’t suppose this will apply universally, but yoga has improved my self-patience, and as a result, my patience with others. I attribute this change to the concentration one applies while controlling the body and mind during yoga routines. The effort required far differs from swinging a bat or tennis racket. In the latter cases, one looks outward to align the body to respond to an external stimulus. With yoga, the look turns inward to align body and mind to task. To help their students, yoga instructors will often remind their classes to clear their minds of distracting thoughts to improve the benefits in performing a pose. I believe the ability to achieve both inward and outward control of one’s actions improves one’s quality of life. Prior to yoga my emphasis seemed exclusively outward (response) directed.
In Western societies yoga still lags in popularity, particularly among men. My past reveals why. I grew up in the typical public school environment where personal popularity depended on how well one played competitive team sports. The workplace is no different. You must be competitive and conventional. And yoga is neither of these, nor flashy, nor public. Yoga requires introspection, but who today promotes the inward look? Are we not manipulated and encouraged not to pursue self enlightenment to better fulfill our roles as consumers? Our distractions and addictions - drugs, sports, alcohol, television, computers, overwork, and pursuit of material and fame - help eliminate the need for self intimacy.
Yoga, however, helps extract the individual from social pressures, generates a communal spirit with fellow yogis, and eliminates any need for competitiveness or adversarial interaction. Skeptics may argue that running, tennis, golf or popular team sports stimulate mental discipline and the self-criticism required to motivate self-improvement. Further, working as team members and developing strategies of play enhance our social skills, ultimately improving our societies. While these premises have merit, they overlook several critical aspects of self-intimacy and self-awareness that yoga naturally incorporates.
In yoga there is no need to critique or analyze performance. You are in control of your body and mind, not outside influences. You are who you are, and you perform a pose or routine to whatever level you're at. Try your best and benefit by focusing the mind on your body and how it is responding to what you are doing with and to it. Inhale relaxation. Exhale tension. Regarding teamwork, yogis share an intimate bond through self-acceptance and inner peace that ease contact with others.
Can walking or hiking, combined with a solid stretch and flex routine, substitute for yoga? Perhaps. But I have found a deeper appreciation of these activities from my practice of yoga.
Yoga can be very challenging for some and still is to me. When I first started and got into the basic seated posture, my stiffness and lack of flexibility showed. It was painful after a few minutes. Not now. And my breathing is no longer shallow. I have even used yoga breathing to calm myself prior to key meetings – and I was CEO-equivalent of a 5,000 person organization. Whether standing before a large crowd of hundreds of employees, hosting VIPs, or conducting a staff meeting, the slow, methodical breathing helped to clear my mind, relax me, and subsequently focus on meeting objectives. I could be sitting at my desk prior to a meeting or standing near a podium waiting to speak, and all I had to do was clear my mind and take a few deep yoga breaths. The result: Little or no stress and improved confidence. I also no longer feel I have to live up to some idealized wannabe manufactured by society. All these benefits, and more, emerged by embracing yoga without being obsessive about it. I just stuck with it and kept an open mind.
I encourage everyone to consider yoga as part of an exercise routine. And if you’re male, I doubly encourage you to break out of that traditional mold and experience a refreshing yet still physically challenging experience, with health benefits for mind and body. Sure, you may have to endure some classes being the only of your gender, but how bad can that be? Also, find a branch of yoga that best suits your objectives. Since yoga means a union between self and either a supreme being or an ultimate principle, it fits within any major religious doctrine, agnosticism, or atheism. Yoga, then, is both universal and highly personal. Enjoy the journey, and may you find your own internal synergy along the way.
As for me, I am no longer frustrated.
The little girl sat on the end of her bed and started to cry. She could not understand why she felt so sad and lonely, as if she had done something wrong. It wasn�t anything she had wanted to happen. She felt dirty and confused.
She honestly felt like everything in her life had changed that day.
It all started with her dad calling her into his bedroom. She had been downstairs playing with her two little brothers, watching them while her mom was in New York City catching a show with an old friend. She loved her little brothers, although they were hard to play with since she was so much older. They never really understood the games she wanted to play, and all of their toys were so babyish and boring. Her older sister was a lot more fun, but she was at her friend�s house that afternoon. Lately her older sister treated her like she was a tag-along, as if she was too young to play with. It was depressing to think that her best friend was outgrowing her, that she was more interested in boys and makeup than playing tag and softball in the yard. At least she still had her little brothers as playmates.
Anyway, her dad called her upstairs, saying he had wanted to see her. She had thought she was in trouble, although she couldn�t think of a thing that she had done. Her dad was almost like two dads in one. He could be really nice and fun, taking them for hikes and playing soccer with them, but he could also be really mean. He had a bad temper, and was not afraid to scream or hit his children. Lately it seemed like the slightest thing would set him off, so the three of them tried to be extra quiet and good that day to avoid his fury.
She crept up the stairs, trying to be both quick and quiet. She really did not want to do anything to make him mad. As he shut the door behind her, he patted a spot next to him on the bed. She was anxious, afraid to be in more trouble, but also wanting to be back downstairs where it was safe. An unsettling feeling washed over her as she made her way onto the bed. Something seemed off about her dad; he didn�t seem like he was about to yell, but he wasn't really in a good mood, either.
What happened upstairs made her feel sick in her stomach and cold in her heart. The way he touched her made her feel scared and dirty. She hated every minute of it, and wanted to go back downstairs to be like a child again. But almost worse than what he did was what he told her: never tell anyone because he would deny it. He was an adult, and she was just a kid. People would believe him and not her. They would call her a liar and be mad at her. And if mom ever knew, she�d be mad and might leave her forever.
After she was finally allowed to go back downstairs, she could not stop feeling bad. She was able to push the memories from the forefront of her mind to focus on other things, at least temporarily. But the dirty feeling inside wasn�t going away, even after she was playing again. Even after she took a bath and scrubbed every inch of her body raw.
After her bath, she went straight to bed, an unusual move for a kid who tried to stay up past bedtime almost nightly. Mom got home and came up to ask how her day was. She just didn�t feel like talking, so she lied and said she felt sick (well, it wasn�t a total lie since her stomach still hurt her) and she was going to bed. It wasn�t until after everyone else turned their lights off that she felt safe enough to huddle at the end of her bed and cry.
It was a feeling that would last for years. It was a feeling that no hot soak in a tub would ever wash away.
The boot came down on the back of the neck at about age 14, curiously coincidental with those adolescent boyhood stirrings that had me wanting to get in with the wrong crowd and do all the wrong things. There was no way this kid was going to become – summing up my parents’ fears – a ‘juvenile delinquent’. They had left the Bronx just after I was born in 1945 for an apartment in Providence, Rhode Island, and then, two years later, to a newly built home of their own in a subdivision a few miles south in Warwick. That ‘element’ they left behind them in the cities would most definitely not find its way into their – or my – life here.
To my way of thinking, I just wanted to see, through my now pubescent eyes, what life was really all about, what the world had to offer. I just wanted to do what I wanted to do, and there were kids who were actually doing it – of course they were the ones I wanted to hang around with. Hell, all I really wanted to do was smoke cigarettes and try to feel up a girl if the opportunity ever arose, which was a pretty rare thing in those days, at least in my neighborhood. But there would be no discussion of how I would live my life, no common ground, no agreement to disagree. On this subject, the subject was closed. Our positions were clearly marked out. Theirs (mostly Mom’s): you are and will continue to be a good and decent young man. Mine: I’m going to do what I’m going to do.
So life became a little like a cat-and-mouse game. By and large, I did all the things I was supposed to, like get good grades, plan to go to college and all the rest of it. It was just those extracurricular activities that made the three or four years I’m talking about seem like ten: drinking beer down by the river and trying to sneak into my room unnoticed, wanting to go to the drive-in with ‘a brazen hussy’ – my mother’s take on a slightly boisterous, fun-loving broad – that’s what we called them then – who probably would’ve let me feel her up (I’ll never know), going out with guys who would drop me off late and then (again, Mom) “peel out in the middle of the night and wake the whole neighborhood,” and deciding to date an Armenian girl and thinking it was okay. I found her exotic – dark skin, deep brown eyes, long black hair, white blouses, colorful skirts and hoop earrings that made her look like a gypsy, I thought; someone who held the key to a mysterious world I’d not yet discovered. I should have been prepared for the reaction I got, as I knew what it would have been had I taken up with, say, an Italian or some other type who was not just exactly the way we were. I had sort of sussed out some time ago that this had to do with being white, Christian Scientist – which meant definitely not Catholic – Republican (whatever that was) and generally clean, all-around fine, upstanding people. When I thought I had the idea, I mentioned to my mother that I really liked a girl in my ninth grade class, someone she had met and who I thought would pass muster, only to be told she was ‘too Irish’. I think I must have brought my gypsy home just a little out of spite.
Things kind of came to a head when I was seventeen and announced one evening that I would be going to New York City with some friends for the weekend because the Providence College basketball team was playing in the National Invitational Tournament.
“No you won’t!”
“Yes, I will!”
“No, you will not!”
“I’m going.”
“You will not go to New York City this weekend and that’s final.”
“I’m going to New York with my friends for the weekend.”
I left Friday afternoon and returned Sunday night to find both my parents sitting in their living room chairs reading. We lived in a small Cape Cod-style house with the stairs to the second floor running right up through the middle, so there was no way I would escape an encounter. To my surprise, I was greeted in a normal fashion, without any reference to where I had been all weekend, and allowed simply to say good night and go up to my room. After a few days had passed, my mother’s outrage got the better of her and she let go with the charge that she knew I had gone to New York to drink because the drinking age there was only eighteen and to prove it she pointed out that I was not wearing my high school class ring with the date of my graduation inscribed on it because it would obviously have given me away to any bartender as someone who was not old enough to drink, not even in New York City! The fact was I had given it to my unacceptable girl friend when I asked her to go steady with me just a few days before I left. I mentally threw up my hands and said nothing. I was damned either way.
Move
I am standing in the entrance of our new house, the door is ajar and Walid and his colleagues are walking in with boxes. They are working through Ramadan meaning they won't get to eat or drink until sundown. My duty is to check off all the numbered boxes and direct Walid and the rest where to deposit their loads. The parquet is covered with tape to protect it from the moving furniture and the house smells like fresh paint. White. Everything is white and stark. We hadn't really prepared for this day and we just keep telling the men to bring the boxes upstairs to avoid having to think it out clearly. The wind is blowing in the house and I am freezing. Box 2. Garage. Box 34. Upstairs. Box 120. Small bedroom. Alistair, my boyfriend, is in the next room with another Allied International man struggling to get his TV and couches to fit in the sitting room. We had already argued about where to put the furniture and I decided just to let him do his own thing. The boxes keep coming in and I am sniffling, wiping my nose on my sweatshirt, and trying to keep warm. The heat hadn't been ready so the house is freezing and empty. It is the end of September and winter decided to come a couple of months early to Switzerland. Two weeks before I had turned 38. Things with Alistair weren’t going well, his father was dying and my work was a nightmare. I had planned to live in Switzerland two years for work and it turned into five years. I accumulated 158 boxes of “stuff” in those five years, 60 months or 1,826.25 days. The 158 boxes and this house and my life were slowly suffocating me and pinning me to the ground. I felt trapped and unhappy and needed a break. My sister was about to start a new job in New York and was hankering for a vacation before she began her new role. When she asked me if I wanted to go with her to Israel I accepted immediately. I told Alistair I needed a vacation; I went on line and used my frequent flyer points to book a ticket to Tel Aviv.
When I landed in Tel Aviv the heat, the light and humidity hit me immediately. I took a cab and fumbled through some basic Hebrew words that managed to get me to the hotel where my sister was waiting for me. We were staying at the Sheraton Moriah, a big supposedly luxury skyscraper hotel right on the beach. We spent the afternoon walking along the beach, taking in the smells of the Middle East, the incredible mix of people, clothing, colors and sounds. We spent that first night in Jaffa, the old Arab town, and ate in a little restaurant serving homemade Jewish food like schnitzel, in the heart of the flea market. The sun set over the Mediterranean right when the minaret’s load speaker started chanting isha’a, the evening prayer. I felt at home. The following day we took a private tour to Caesaria, the old Roman capital, built right on the sea with amphitheaters, baths, aqueducts and a hippodrome. It was spectacular. We moved further along the coast to Haifa, where the Ba’hai religion built a temple and gardens spending almost 250 million dollars. We moved onto Akko, another Arab village, with the characteristic of having been built on an old Crusader town that had remained intact. Supposedly Al-Jazar, the sultan nicknamed “the Butcher”, after his conquest, decided to completely bury the Crusader city and build his Islamic city on top of it. The Crusader halls were later discovered and dug up and are now intact with the stem of the fleur de lis visibly carved in the stone. We ended the tour at the border with Lebanon at a place called Rosh Naquira. We took a cable down to the grottos formed by the break of the waves and checked out the border guarded by the Israelis, behind the UN zone buffer and finally the actual Lebanese border. On our last day at Tel Aviv we enjoyed the beach until a masturbator decided to use us as inspiration so we headed downtown where we shopped and visited the oldest Jewish neighborhood and ended the day eating at the best falafel joint in town. We left Tel Aviv for the Dead Sea the following day with a wonderful driver, Esteban, originally from Chile. He spoke to us in Spanish and told us he had come to Israel over 50 years ago, lived for some time in a kibbutz and eventually came to Tel Aviv. The ride to the Ein Bokek on the Dead Sea was interesting and it passed very close to the West bank. We passed farmland and then hit the desert. Bedouin camps appeared intermittently along the rode. Esteban said they were “good arabs” and paid taxes and did military service and the Israeli government finally constructed places for them to live. My guidebook said that the Bedouins were trying to retain their nomadic life but were forced into these settlements. We finally saw the Dead Sea, a relieving spot of blue after kilometers of downhill desert to 472meters below sea level. We checked into one of these humongous hotels that one wonders how building permits were given and we went to float in the Dead Sea. The water was warm and slimy and you couldn’t help but float. It was hard to swim and if water got in your eye you were basically blinded and needed to be escorted out to shore. A lot of Russian tourists with big bellies, elder New York Jewish ladies and a couple of French families were floating and smearing their bodies with mud and exfoliating with salt. We were happy to get out of there. We went to visit Masada, another site of an ancient Roman fortress built on top of a mountaintop in the desert. This time we had to take a cable car up the mountain and visited the ruins on the plateau. Once again the Romans had managed to construct palaces, baths, temples and cisterns in the middle of the desert. Our last stop was Jerusalem. Alian, our driver, had the sweetest eyes and temperament. He waited for us to tour Masada and then took us all the way to our hotel in East Jerusalem and made sure we got in safely. Most people stay in the Western part but we wanted to see the more “Palestinian” side. We were offered drinks (freshly squeezed lemonade blended with mint) and had a delicious meal of hummus, tabouleh, olives and pita. The hotel offered political tours like trips to see the huge wall that Israelis are building today to divide the East part of the city from the West (like Berlin during the Cold War) or trips to the West Bank to see firsthand the plight of the Palestinian refugees. We decided not to go on these visits but rather focus on the positive aspects of the city this time around. Jerusalem is truly impressive. A city Judaism, Islam, and Christianity claim Holy and has contributed in making the Old City a labyrinth of churches, mosques, synagogues and a major pilgrimage site for ultra-religious people of all faiths. The born again Christians were singing and swaying, arms outstretched at the place of Jesus’ last supper, the Hassidic were decked our for Shabbat with their fur cats and satin jackets in 30 degree weather with wives in wigs trailing behind with numerous kids, and the Muslims called out from loud speakers from all the Mosques to pray five times a day. What an unbelievable place. We took our time discovering the city. We visited the Jewish section, the Armenian, the Christian and the Arab part of the Old City. We ate at a great Moroccan restaurant, we prayed at the Western wall, we went to an Armenian mass, saw the Ethiopian Coptic church, we bought traditional Palestinian ceramics, we prayed where Mary was laid to rest, we shopped in the Arab souk midst the smell of cardamom and saffron, and on our last night we listened to Arabic music and watched our new friends dance the night away. We bonded as sisters and felt like life is truly about discovery.
The security to leave was unbelievable. It didn’t help my passport had stamps from Marrakech, Beirut, and Sharm-el-Sheik from previous vacations. I was put under maximum-security check, which took over three hours. I missed my connecting flight in Milan and spent six hours in the Milan airport. The weather was cold and the sky was cloudy. Alistair called me. He told me his father was getting worse and probably wouldn’t live until Christmas. I agreed to go with him to England the following weekend to help his mother and enjoy the last moments with his father. Then my best-friend Marzia called. We talked about our gay friends, Jim and Simon, who after12 years were breaking up. I knew something hadn’t been right and that something had happened to Jim so I probed until Marzia admitted that he had found out he was HIV. I was stunned and numb. With 4 more hours to kill, I cried and started shopping. I bought a new suitcase so I could roll all the Armenian ceramics I had bought, I bought a scarf at Etro, sneakers and pants from Nike, an ink recharge for my Montblanc pen and also tried to buy beautiful black leather boots from Bruno Magli but luckily they wouldn’t zip over my calves. When I finally got home with all my stuff, the house was dark and cold and I was alone. I unpacked the stuff and made a list of all the things I needed to do to fix the house and my life.
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