You get an idea for a poem or a story, but you're in your car or out walking, somewhere impossible to write. And the idea spins into lines in your head, begging to be recorded. You worry that you'll forget this windfall of words before you can write them down. My advice to you: Don't strain to record them later if they were but temporary traveling partners. You wouldn't try to force a friendship with someone you met on the road unless some surprising, special bond had occurred. The same applies to your words.
I have learned to trust the power of reverberation in my writing life.
Reverberation is a quality directly proportional to the quality of the words. Great words tend to stick around and echo in your head till they're recorded. They are memorable because, by definition, they are "able to be remembered"--by the author as well as the reader. If you've forgotten your own words, chances are that someone else will forget them, too.
Trust the power of reverberation, and recognize that memorable words flow--they can never be manufactured.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Sunday, November 22, 2009
On Passion: Thanksgiving-Related, Spiritual Thoughts
If we are vehicles traveling various roads to spiritual fulfillment, then passion is our driving fuel. Yet the price for that fuel is the full investment of oneself in living in the present—our Gift from God. Those who constantly live in the past, muttering over the “good old days,” or fretting over the “could’ve-would’ve-should’ves,” cannot feel true passion for any aspect of their existence; the best they can feel is heartfelt reflection, or a sentimental ache. And those who live longingly for the future, murmuring “Someday…” and gazing off to imaginary “better days,” sacrifice the chance for experiencing passion by miring themselves instead in mere anticipation. Those who never experience any intense inspiration, any awe for a process, any fervor for a cause or another living thing, or any overwhelming gratitude for an experience, merely exist, rather than live. Thus, the discovery and nurturing of passion brings with it a heightened awareness of the Now, and an acceleration toward what I call “Shalom Shalem,” meaning “complete peace” in Hebrew.
To pursue one’s passion with love for God and our fellow humans—that is the key to balancing the universe and healing the universe, for in receiving the joy of self-fulfillment, we give our fulfilled selves to our world. We “heal” the breaks between the pieces of God that we all are, those breaks representing the egos that separate us. We abandon our egos and glue ourselves together, thereby solving the puzzle that is GOD. In sum, the pursuit of passion along a road paved with awe, gratitude, and love, is a sublime journey toward Oneness with all.
We must find the sparks within us to be lights unto others.
To pursue one’s passion with love for God and our fellow humans—that is the key to balancing the universe and healing the universe, for in receiving the joy of self-fulfillment, we give our fulfilled selves to our world. We “heal” the breaks between the pieces of God that we all are, those breaks representing the egos that separate us. We abandon our egos and glue ourselves together, thereby solving the puzzle that is GOD. In sum, the pursuit of passion along a road paved with awe, gratitude, and love, is a sublime journey toward Oneness with all.
We must find the sparks within us to be lights unto others.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Dishonoring the Power of the Word "Honor"
“To honor” is a verb applied to one deserving admiration for strength of character and/or good deeds. Why do people today throw it around as a term to apply to anyone who died, regardless of his/her character or the circumstances of the death?
I’m looking at a news article using “honored,” “honoring,” and “honor” multiple times to recount the death and funeral of a seventeen-year-old boy killed in a car accident as the passenger of a drunk teenage driver. The accident occurred at 1:45 a.m., in a wealthy suburb, long past the legal curfew for underage teens. The driver was reportedly drunk enough that his three passengers could easily have recognized that getting into the car with him posed a danger to them and any other car they encountered. The kids all attended one of our area’s most highly ranked schools, so they were presumably educated about drunk driving, probably with some special presentation at school involving a smashed vehicle and a tear-jerking reenactment of a fatal crash. In other words, not one kid in that car, even the now dead one being “honored,” had an excuse for breaking the law and the hearts of family and friends by 1) being out driving after curfew (the laws were created to protect kids, after all!); 2) drinking alcohol; and 3) getting into a car driven by a drunk.
And we “honor” the dead boy WHY?
“Mourn,” yes.
“Grieve,” certainly.
“Memorialize,” of course.
But “honor”? Was he an admirable asset to his community, a promising scholar, a selfless do-gooder, a pillar of strength for his family? The article says only that he was a surfer, that kids deemed him “funny and a good friend.” Either the journalist left out some very important details to show why he was worthy of “honoring,” or the journalist and all those quoted in the article who used the verb “to honor” in some form have misused, and indeed desecrated, a term that ought to be reserved for the worthy, not just the dead.
Death doesn’t make you honorable. Life, and good choices, do.
I sympathize with the mourners who feel the needless loss of a young man’s life. I really do. Especially with his parents, since I have precious teenagers of my own.
I am not negating the painful love and loss endured by the people at the funeral. On the contrary, I am calling attention to it, to the fact that his death is about pain and loss. Not about honor.
This seventeen-year-old boy’s funeral was deemed by one interviewee in the article as “a celebration of his life.” I see no cause to celebrate the probable misguidance of an irresponsible kid who died due to his own bad choices, pitiable and tragic though that may be. I do see a cause to mourn. And to memorialize, to prevent similar mourning in the future.
By “honoring” a kid for dying in a drunk-driving accident in which he was an accessory to his own manslaughter, we become accessories ourselves—to the denial of responsibility that will lead to the next drunken killing. Let us honor, instead, the power of words, used appropriately: their power to teach by implication.
I’m looking at a news article using “honored,” “honoring,” and “honor” multiple times to recount the death and funeral of a seventeen-year-old boy killed in a car accident as the passenger of a drunk teenage driver. The accident occurred at 1:45 a.m., in a wealthy suburb, long past the legal curfew for underage teens. The driver was reportedly drunk enough that his three passengers could easily have recognized that getting into the car with him posed a danger to them and any other car they encountered. The kids all attended one of our area’s most highly ranked schools, so they were presumably educated about drunk driving, probably with some special presentation at school involving a smashed vehicle and a tear-jerking reenactment of a fatal crash. In other words, not one kid in that car, even the now dead one being “honored,” had an excuse for breaking the law and the hearts of family and friends by 1) being out driving after curfew (the laws were created to protect kids, after all!); 2) drinking alcohol; and 3) getting into a car driven by a drunk.
And we “honor” the dead boy WHY?
“Mourn,” yes.
“Grieve,” certainly.
“Memorialize,” of course.
But “honor”? Was he an admirable asset to his community, a promising scholar, a selfless do-gooder, a pillar of strength for his family? The article says only that he was a surfer, that kids deemed him “funny and a good friend.” Either the journalist left out some very important details to show why he was worthy of “honoring,” or the journalist and all those quoted in the article who used the verb “to honor” in some form have misused, and indeed desecrated, a term that ought to be reserved for the worthy, not just the dead.
Death doesn’t make you honorable. Life, and good choices, do.
I sympathize with the mourners who feel the needless loss of a young man’s life. I really do. Especially with his parents, since I have precious teenagers of my own.
I am not negating the painful love and loss endured by the people at the funeral. On the contrary, I am calling attention to it, to the fact that his death is about pain and loss. Not about honor.
This seventeen-year-old boy’s funeral was deemed by one interviewee in the article as “a celebration of his life.” I see no cause to celebrate the probable misguidance of an irresponsible kid who died due to his own bad choices, pitiable and tragic though that may be. I do see a cause to mourn. And to memorialize, to prevent similar mourning in the future.
By “honoring” a kid for dying in a drunk-driving accident in which he was an accessory to his own manslaughter, we become accessories ourselves—to the denial of responsibility that will lead to the next drunken killing. Let us honor, instead, the power of words, used appropriately: their power to teach by implication.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
A Little Alliterative Commentary on Idiotic Idioms
All Litter Rationalized
By Susan L. Lipson
“My bad!” they say,
Moralizing minor mistakes,
Like leaving litter lying,
Forgetting familiar faces,
Dripping dirty dishwater,
Clumsily creating clutter,
Erroneously erasing email—
Instilling immorality in innocent interactions
by saying, “My bad.”
Whatever happened to “Oops—sorry”?
By Susan L. Lipson
“My bad!” they say,
Moralizing minor mistakes,
Like leaving litter lying,
Forgetting familiar faces,
Dripping dirty dishwater,
Clumsily creating clutter,
Erroneously erasing email—
Instilling immorality in innocent interactions
by saying, “My bad.”
Whatever happened to “Oops—sorry”?
Monday, September 7, 2009
On Truth
What is Truth, really? Does it exist independently of perception? To paraphrase the philosophical question about the sound a falling tree makes in a forest: If a truth shows itself, but no one is there to perceive and record it, how can it exist or be shared? I do not believe that truth can exist independently of perception any more than sound exists without an ear to hear it. Furthermore, one ear might perceive the sound of a dropping tree as a crashing death, while another hears it as a soft thud marking a natural cycle; the same applies to our perceptions of truth. Thus, Truth appears to be a relative concept.
Given this philosophical theory of relativity (I nod to Einstein here), I have concluded that truth exists only in the intersection between all of our ideas. In other words, in a Venn diagram of disparate beliefs, the section where our circles overlap is the closest thing to “absolute” truth we can find. Ironically, humans have based most of our world religions on relative truths declared by prophets who received their “revelations” while alone, without numerous witnesses to corroborate and establish an intersection between their relative perceptions of the so-called “revelation.” Why do we accept one person’s perception as a basis for our beliefs? Why do we accept that someone else would be closer to God than we are, as if our own search for truth is unnecessary and meaningless because of some preexisting hierarchy of closeness with God? Are we so sure that our search for truth would only reveal the same truths revealed to some lone prophet from another time, culture, and spiritual place? Or are we lazy, satisfied to have let someone else’s search set precedents for us, without daring to overturn any outdated ideas of the “lower courts” by bringing our contemporary thoughts before the most Supreme Court of all?
In imagining this common view of a hierarchical access to God—through prophets and priests, popes and pastors, rabbis and imams, monks and nuns—I see a mathematical factor tree, with the individual believer viewed as the lowest common denominator. And then I think: but the individual, best represented by the number 1, is part of the top tier of every factor tree. Isn’t it “absolutely” true that 1 multiplied by any and every number equals itself? I don’t think that particular truth is a matter of perception, is it? One is the most important, closest factor of all. You can find it in any Venn diagram of factors, too.
The Venn diagram can thus illustrate figuratively that we, as factors in the calculations of Truth, are all One. Our Oneness is the common thread that connects each to the other. Therefore, we all should have the same power in the equation resulting in Truth, if we seek the intersection of ideas, rather than focusing solely on our own.
My goal as a person, and as a writer, is to share my perceptions, my truths, with the hope that others will find an overlapping point between their views and mine, and then share their findings with me, so that we can move closer to Truth together. That is how writers and readers come together, and how person and person come together as People.
Given this philosophical theory of relativity (I nod to Einstein here), I have concluded that truth exists only in the intersection between all of our ideas. In other words, in a Venn diagram of disparate beliefs, the section where our circles overlap is the closest thing to “absolute” truth we can find. Ironically, humans have based most of our world religions on relative truths declared by prophets who received their “revelations” while alone, without numerous witnesses to corroborate and establish an intersection between their relative perceptions of the so-called “revelation.” Why do we accept one person’s perception as a basis for our beliefs? Why do we accept that someone else would be closer to God than we are, as if our own search for truth is unnecessary and meaningless because of some preexisting hierarchy of closeness with God? Are we so sure that our search for truth would only reveal the same truths revealed to some lone prophet from another time, culture, and spiritual place? Or are we lazy, satisfied to have let someone else’s search set precedents for us, without daring to overturn any outdated ideas of the “lower courts” by bringing our contemporary thoughts before the most Supreme Court of all?
In imagining this common view of a hierarchical access to God—through prophets and priests, popes and pastors, rabbis and imams, monks and nuns—I see a mathematical factor tree, with the individual believer viewed as the lowest common denominator. And then I think: but the individual, best represented by the number 1, is part of the top tier of every factor tree. Isn’t it “absolutely” true that 1 multiplied by any and every number equals itself? I don’t think that particular truth is a matter of perception, is it? One is the most important, closest factor of all. You can find it in any Venn diagram of factors, too.
The Venn diagram can thus illustrate figuratively that we, as factors in the calculations of Truth, are all One. Our Oneness is the common thread that connects each to the other. Therefore, we all should have the same power in the equation resulting in Truth, if we seek the intersection of ideas, rather than focusing solely on our own.
My goal as a person, and as a writer, is to share my perceptions, my truths, with the hope that others will find an overlapping point between their views and mine, and then share their findings with me, so that we can move closer to Truth together. That is how writers and readers come together, and how person and person come together as People.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Choosing Our Convictions Through Contrast
As the dusk defines the day, and sadness defines joy, knowing who we're not helps us define who we truly are. To fully discover and appreciate who we are as individuals, we must get to know individuals outside of our familiar social circles. Only by understanding the concepts and customs of those whose views differ from ours can we understand the meaning, and our acceptance, of the ways we call our own. We see most clearly with the help of contrast.
Contrast in our social groups enables us to see that many people's choices and actions often amount to no more than the circumstances of our births: our parents and our communities drive our earliest expressions of identity, until those expressions are challenged by contrasting expressions from very different kinds of people. And opening ourselves to challenges to our beliefs is a risky action. We risk developing doubts, or discarding our lifelong ideas. We also risk not even entertaining doubts, and stifling our thoughts with dogmatic certainty. Personally, I'd rather think, even if it does confuse or upset me; I'd rather know other perspectives to broaden my own views. I purposely choose friends who differ from me in fundamental ways, because I enjoy learning and growing from simply knowing them. That's not to say I can't experience growth with my "comfort zone" friends, who share my kind of background and beliefs; I can indeed grow with them, but not necessarily from them.
Exploring other perspectives via unlikely friendships can change us profoundly. We may reject our former identities, but that would mean they had weak foundations. On the other hand, we may discover that our own identities, by contrast, now ring much more true than ever before. In that case, we grow from knowing that we have chosen our beliefs and actions consciously and wholeheartedly, based on knowledge, rather than on social pressure or apathetic acceptance.
Recently, while helping a college-bound senior evaluate her college application essay, we discussed an article offering guidance in choosing the best college for one's specific needs and desires. The article posed a guiding question about the composition of the student body: Do you prefer to live among mostly people like yourself or among those who are very different from you? The student said she preferred to be among people like her. I found my eyebrows rising, despite my effort not to judge her answer. She preferred a lack of contrast because it felt safe to her. I imagine seeing her after four years in such a homogeneous environment. She will look older, have a bit more book knowledge, maybe even some social skills she never had before, but fundamentally, she will have the same externally formed sense of her identity that she had as a teenager. The passion of her convictions will stem from fear, insecurity, and ignorance, as well as from group expectations.
To know ourselves enough to assert our convictions credibly and passionately, we must get to know a stranger or two. The brown cliff viewed against a brown sky would not inspire a painter, nor would a blue seagull skimming a blue ocean. Beauty and truth illuminate us via contrast.
Contrast in our social groups enables us to see that many people's choices and actions often amount to no more than the circumstances of our births: our parents and our communities drive our earliest expressions of identity, until those expressions are challenged by contrasting expressions from very different kinds of people. And opening ourselves to challenges to our beliefs is a risky action. We risk developing doubts, or discarding our lifelong ideas. We also risk not even entertaining doubts, and stifling our thoughts with dogmatic certainty. Personally, I'd rather think, even if it does confuse or upset me; I'd rather know other perspectives to broaden my own views. I purposely choose friends who differ from me in fundamental ways, because I enjoy learning and growing from simply knowing them. That's not to say I can't experience growth with my "comfort zone" friends, who share my kind of background and beliefs; I can indeed grow with them, but not necessarily from them.
Exploring other perspectives via unlikely friendships can change us profoundly. We may reject our former identities, but that would mean they had weak foundations. On the other hand, we may discover that our own identities, by contrast, now ring much more true than ever before. In that case, we grow from knowing that we have chosen our beliefs and actions consciously and wholeheartedly, based on knowledge, rather than on social pressure or apathetic acceptance.
Recently, while helping a college-bound senior evaluate her college application essay, we discussed an article offering guidance in choosing the best college for one's specific needs and desires. The article posed a guiding question about the composition of the student body: Do you prefer to live among mostly people like yourself or among those who are very different from you? The student said she preferred to be among people like her. I found my eyebrows rising, despite my effort not to judge her answer. She preferred a lack of contrast because it felt safe to her. I imagine seeing her after four years in such a homogeneous environment. She will look older, have a bit more book knowledge, maybe even some social skills she never had before, but fundamentally, she will have the same externally formed sense of her identity that she had as a teenager. The passion of her convictions will stem from fear, insecurity, and ignorance, as well as from group expectations.
To know ourselves enough to assert our convictions credibly and passionately, we must get to know a stranger or two. The brown cliff viewed against a brown sky would not inspire a painter, nor would a blue seagull skimming a blue ocean. Beauty and truth illuminate us via contrast.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Polite Executioner: A Summertime Poem
Standing in an unusually slow line at the drugstore,
two spray cans of ant killer in my hands,
disgruntled customers in front of, and behind me,
cursing under their breaths and aloud
(one storming out after he slams his unpurchased bottle of mouthwash on the counter),
I imagine the ants in my house having a dance party,
celebrating their stay of execution
as I wait patiently and politely, thanks to my amusing imagination,
and to the notion that this ridiculous line at the store could very well be part of some divine plan to enable a certain, special ant to escape certain death,
or simply to give my six-legged houseguests a chance for a last hurrah
before I succeed in buying and applying their chemical nemesis.
And as the cashier sighs with relief when I greet her with a friendly voice,
I smile at my own method of anger management,
and at the irony of this civilized prelude to a mass murder.
two spray cans of ant killer in my hands,
disgruntled customers in front of, and behind me,
cursing under their breaths and aloud
(one storming out after he slams his unpurchased bottle of mouthwash on the counter),
I imagine the ants in my house having a dance party,
celebrating their stay of execution
as I wait patiently and politely, thanks to my amusing imagination,
and to the notion that this ridiculous line at the store could very well be part of some divine plan to enable a certain, special ant to escape certain death,
or simply to give my six-legged houseguests a chance for a last hurrah
before I succeed in buying and applying their chemical nemesis.
And as the cashier sighs with relief when I greet her with a friendly voice,
I smile at my own method of anger management,
and at the irony of this civilized prelude to a mass murder.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Thread that Connects Us All
Nothing exists by itself; everything is part of a greater whole, an unwritten, unspoken Covenant of Being. Isolation is an artificial state contrived to work against the interconnectedness of the natural world. Even actions, as Newton proved, have equal and opposite reactions, and never occur without interconnection. The rock is part of the crumbled mountain—or the sandy beach, solidified. The lone wolf is still part of the pack, and part of his environmental system. The seed, via photosynthesis, is connected to the oxygen that sustains us, as well as the chemicals that break down our bodies when we die. The suicide bomber is connected to a community and to his victims, despite his attempt to sever that connection. The atom is part of a larger cell, and part of the universe. Humans are all part of each other’s existence, and the existence of every being, sentient or not, with whom we share this planet. Natural laws show us that a common thread always connects disparate things in this universe. Again, nothing exists by itself, and no one can deny this unavoidable connectedness between all things.
So, what is the common thread that connects everything? I ask atheists to identify this supreme Connector. They will, of course, try to find some scientific explanation, something that does not in any way acknowledge religious beliefs—despite the fact that many of the world’s most brilliant scientists acknowledged that their answers ended with that very question. But no one can deny the existence of this unifying thread, whatever they choose to call it. Both simple and brilliant minds identify it as “God,” or some alternate name related to this intangible entity. Thus, without any better name, I assert that GOD is the thread that connects you to me, and us to everything. And even the atheist, who denies that which connects him to his world, will learn this truth someday, when his brain expires and mere thinking gives way to understanding—the soul’s domain.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Raising Admirable Kids
To be an admirable Mom, one of my main goals in life, I need more than admiring kids. After all, it's no feat to get KIDS to admire you; if you simply show them gentle love, fierce support, and calm trust, you're a virtual superhero in their early years. But to get my grown-up children to admire me...now, that's the kind of admiration that really matters, for it is based not only on how I treat them, but on how I treat the world. And such admiration from them results, most importantly, in their becoming admirable themselves. My desire for their admiration is thus not about feeding my ego, but about contributing to the world.
When my son spontaneously hugs me after I've come home from visiting a sick relative, and whispers down (DOWN now, he's so tall!) into my hair, "You're such a good woman, Mom," I've begun to meet my goal. When my youngest teenage daughter says, "Mom, thank you so much for helping me follow my passion for acting and singing; I'm going to be the same way with my own kids," then I see HER as a future admirable Mom. When my oldest daughter, from college, tells me that her new friend is interested in reading my newest novel manuscript, I feel awed that my daughter admires me and my work enough to make it a topic of discussion with some young woman whom I've never met. "Oh my gosh, you told your friend about my novel?" I gush. And she replies matter-of-factly, "Well she loves poetry novels and yours is great, so I recommended it. I wish it would get published already!" My daughter, my fan. Sigh.
As I continue to raise my daughters and son into adulthood, I try to remember to ask myself, "Now how can I set the best example for the sake of my grandkids and great-grandkids (if I am so blessed)?" And though I might gripe about their lack of help with dishes or laundry, or try to instill responsibility with too many "No's" and not enough "Okay's" sometimes, I honestly, earnestly, try to be the kind of parent who catalyzes, rather than stifles, growth. Some of the most important words I can say as a Mom are "I trust you to make the right choice;" however, the importance of those words is contingent upon the value of my trust. Admirability must precede admiration.
When my son spontaneously hugs me after I've come home from visiting a sick relative, and whispers down (DOWN now, he's so tall!) into my hair, "You're such a good woman, Mom," I've begun to meet my goal. When my youngest teenage daughter says, "Mom, thank you so much for helping me follow my passion for acting and singing; I'm going to be the same way with my own kids," then I see HER as a future admirable Mom. When my oldest daughter, from college, tells me that her new friend is interested in reading my newest novel manuscript, I feel awed that my daughter admires me and my work enough to make it a topic of discussion with some young woman whom I've never met. "Oh my gosh, you told your friend about my novel?" I gush. And she replies matter-of-factly, "Well she loves poetry novels and yours is great, so I recommended it. I wish it would get published already!" My daughter, my fan. Sigh.
As I continue to raise my daughters and son into adulthood, I try to remember to ask myself, "Now how can I set the best example for the sake of my grandkids and great-grandkids (if I am so blessed)?" And though I might gripe about their lack of help with dishes or laundry, or try to instill responsibility with too many "No's" and not enough "Okay's" sometimes, I honestly, earnestly, try to be the kind of parent who catalyzes, rather than stifles, growth. Some of the most important words I can say as a Mom are "I trust you to make the right choice;" however, the importance of those words is contingent upon the value of my trust. Admirability must precede admiration.
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