What would my mother do?

Sometimes, when I'm in a really tough spot and I just don't know what to do, I think about my mother.

My mother was ninety-one when she died, eleven years ago. She didn't go to college , though I've always thought she should have; but she was wise in a way I would like to be. When she was presented with a problem, she would get to the heart of the matter in seconds. No hesitation; no long, drawn out analysis; no carefully worded delivery, often to the dismay of those on the receiving end.

The dynamics between mothers and daughters are not always smooth, especially when both people are strong and outspoken. Of course, we had our clashes over the years, probably more than I want to recall. But now, when I really want her advice on matters of the mind and heart, I can only surmise what she might say. And, amazing as it sounds, if I go with that imagined advice, I usually do the right thing.

All We Need is Time

You can't learn the important lessons in life from a book, though God knows I've tried. I've read tomes on philosophy, religion, mythology, and other sources of wisdom until I'm bleary eyed. But other than achieving an intellectual awareness of these profound teachings, I can't say I have reached enlightenment.

Years ago, when I was in my twenties, a much older person (he must have been at least forty) told me: "The longest journey in life is between intellectual understanding and emotional understanding." I had no idea what he was talking about then. Now, fifty years later, I get it.

Still, the insights come in their own sweet time. The other day I realized once again that feelings that seem to be cast in stone can change, given enough time. Nothing lasts. Everything in life is born and dies and, in between, is constantly changing. That certainly includes emotions, opinions, and beliefs.

If only we could change the feelings we don't want without waiting for years and years to pass. After all, it's not like we have forever to make that journey.

The What's-it-all-about-Alfie? question

When life perplexes me, as it does often, I find myself singing (well, I can't sing, so I just hum) that line from the original Alfie movie. I usually conclude that I have no more idea of what's it's all about than Alfie did. I remain in the dark as to the meaning of life.

But last night I went to a 75th birthday party for someone I have known since he was sixteen and I was fifteen. That's a lot of years. It's hard to describe the party without telling everyone's life's story. Suffice to say, there were many people there from my past and present lives—people I had not seen for years and people whom are inextricably tied to my heart. I hugged relatives and friends who now have gray hair; I marveled at how much or how little we had changed; I treasured every conversation, no matter how brief.

It was a bittersweet event, tinged with memories and emotion. I drove home replaying the tape of the evening in my my mind, and before I dozed off, I had a single moment of clarity. I knew the answer.

Alfie, pay attention. It's all about the connections we make with others in our brief journey through this life. It's about relationships.

Assessing the Urgency Factor

Sometimes, we just need a “time out”—a break from our obligations, schedules, and to-do lists. It’s nice when we can plan them (a vacation), as opposed to having them descend upon us (an unexpected illness). I’ve had both within the last month: first, a week in Florida to visit my daughter, and, second, a short, strange bout with pneumonia. As time outs go, the pneumonia was more effective.

When I travel, I take my life with me, i.e., laptop computer, files, access to e-mail, cell phone, and anything else that seems likely to be needed. When I get where I’m going, I set up shop in a little corner somewhere and work, work, work. In between, I read, read, read. I love what I’m doing but can hardly consider this a break in the action. It’s just a change of environment.

Pneumonia, on the other hand, even though it wasn’t serious or life threatening, stopped me cold. I abandoned my office as if it were in another location (It’s actually next to my bedroom). I didn’t check e-mail. I didn’t call people or go through my inbox. I didn’t sort mail. I didn’t write. I just dropped out for a week. And what is really strange is that I didn’t feel one minute of guilt.

When I finally felt better, I put on real clothes and went back to work. Something had changed, though. I felt strangely refreshed, though still a bit droopy, and I had a new perspective on the urgency factor. Though much awaited my attention, it wasn’t all equally critical; some of it could wait; and some of it didn’t need to be done at all. Life had not stopped while I did. It just kept on flowing, as it always does.

Like a child slipping into a moving jump rope, when I was ready, I easily jumped back into my world.