Karen Devaney's Blog
June 27, 2014
Where Have All the Thank You's Gone
Saying thank you is rapidly becoming a relic, a thing of the past, a nuisance. After all who the hell has time for frivolous gratitude’s when we are busy busy busy updating our Facebook fans, waiting for critical phone calls from clients, and pontificating the next tweet to send? Knowing how, when, where, and why to say “thank-you” will be a high-school or college elective or a required course if you are a student studying business, marketing, or communication. Children, if they are lucky, will be exposed to this art form at school if their teacher happens to be a certified “thank you” specialist. It will become a daring podium closer leaving audiences aghast that these simple out dated sentiments lingered in the air.
Really though, sliding all hyperbole aside why is uttering (let alone writing) thank-you a scarcity these days? It is a simple way to share gratitude for the little (or big) incidentals. When I hold a door for someone, allow a driver to merge in front of me, or let a person ahead in line I do expect a “thank-you” but have been sorely disappointed time and time again. I heard on the radio the other day that there are now business seminars on how to thank customers for their business such as stock thank you cards or coasters for their coffee tables. Hmmm, see there is an ulterior motive behind that kind of a thank-you that comes with a greasy sales smile that is as insincere as an atheist preacher. I like thank-you’s that are gracious and genuine; blurts if you will. And what about writing thank you? When is the last time you sent a thank you card? Perhaps I will start teaching this type of writing in my composition courses. Techie students will glare at me with unyielding disdain but I will stand firm in my quest to resurrect the thank-you.
Perhaps saying thank you has fallen out of fashion for reasons unseen like a secret plot to sabotage any demonstration of respect. Or perhaps parents are petrified or paranoid to discipline their rude little ones for fear of not being politically correct. I grew up with an Italian mother that reinforced respectfulness as if my life depended on it. I was slapped across the face many a time (during those infamous teen years) for speaking insolently. A few weeks ago I witnessed a five year old slapping his parents in a restaurant when they asked him to thank the waitress for bringing him a "special plate". These pathetic parents did nothing to scold little Johnnie for his actions other than mentioning in a half whisper “now now I can see you are feeling angry.” My mother would have beheaded me but first I would have had to say thanks!
How can this dilemma be solved, where can we seek solace for the weary desperate to hear a thank you now and again. We could form thank you groups who trudge the malls and coffee cafes revolutionaries daring to resurrect a custom that for centuries has kept societies civil towards strangers. Or maybe calling everyone out that fails to say “thank you” would bring back this dying tradition. A thank-you Facebook page may help where like minds can gain thank you’s fans and friends. Whatever it takes, I implore all of us let’s not rescind this simple symbol of politeness but rather partake in its practice on regular basis. Let's breathe in a sigh of recognition when thoughtfulness has been bestowed upon us and breathe out the wonderous words..Thank you, Gracias, Merci!
Really though, sliding all hyperbole aside why is uttering (let alone writing) thank-you a scarcity these days? It is a simple way to share gratitude for the little (or big) incidentals. When I hold a door for someone, allow a driver to merge in front of me, or let a person ahead in line I do expect a “thank-you” but have been sorely disappointed time and time again. I heard on the radio the other day that there are now business seminars on how to thank customers for their business such as stock thank you cards or coasters for their coffee tables. Hmmm, see there is an ulterior motive behind that kind of a thank-you that comes with a greasy sales smile that is as insincere as an atheist preacher. I like thank-you’s that are gracious and genuine; blurts if you will. And what about writing thank you? When is the last time you sent a thank you card? Perhaps I will start teaching this type of writing in my composition courses. Techie students will glare at me with unyielding disdain but I will stand firm in my quest to resurrect the thank-you.
Perhaps saying thank you has fallen out of fashion for reasons unseen like a secret plot to sabotage any demonstration of respect. Or perhaps parents are petrified or paranoid to discipline their rude little ones for fear of not being politically correct. I grew up with an Italian mother that reinforced respectfulness as if my life depended on it. I was slapped across the face many a time (during those infamous teen years) for speaking insolently. A few weeks ago I witnessed a five year old slapping his parents in a restaurant when they asked him to thank the waitress for bringing him a "special plate". These pathetic parents did nothing to scold little Johnnie for his actions other than mentioning in a half whisper “now now I can see you are feeling angry.” My mother would have beheaded me but first I would have had to say thanks!
How can this dilemma be solved, where can we seek solace for the weary desperate to hear a thank you now and again. We could form thank you groups who trudge the malls and coffee cafes revolutionaries daring to resurrect a custom that for centuries has kept societies civil towards strangers. Or maybe calling everyone out that fails to say “thank you” would bring back this dying tradition. A thank-you Facebook page may help where like minds can gain thank you’s fans and friends. Whatever it takes, I implore all of us let’s not rescind this simple symbol of politeness but rather partake in its practice on regular basis. Let's breathe in a sigh of recognition when thoughtfulness has been bestowed upon us and breathe out the wonderous words..Thank you, Gracias, Merci!
Response to Reparations
During a recent trip to Kansas to visit my sister I had time to kill before my flight. Browsing an airport bookstores the Atlantic magazine caught my eye due to the compelling front cover which read:
The Case for Reparations
Two hundred fifty years of slavery. Ninety years of Jim Crow. Sixty years of separate but equal. Thirty-five years of racist housing policy. Until we reckon with our compounding moral debts, America will never be whole.
Nestled in the middle seat of a Southwest plane, I opened the magazine and poured over this lengthy piece that gave astonishing testimony to the realities of racism in America. I imagine mutterings from readers echoing responses that “slavery was a long time ago and Jim Crow is dead” or “I think slavery was abominable I would have never owned a slave. African Americans need to move on. ” Like the tragedy of the Holocaust—moving on requires reparations and acknowledgements. Yes, slavery and human trafficking is no longer legal and laws preventing racial discrimination have been written but prejudice sentiments remain. They simply went underground and donned a disguise.
What struck me about this article was the rippling effect slavery has had on the African American race and on America in general. One such glaring result, for many many years fair housing was limited to whites only. The author of the article, Ta-Nehis Coates writes; “Blacks were herded into the sights of unscrupulous lenders who took them for money and for sport. Families were robbed of land that was rightfully theirs. They were evicted from homes they bought under contracts that unknown them were falsified. They were bamboozled told they owed more than the amount of the agreed mortgage or handed unexplained sudden property taxes with an impossible price tag. These contracts were scams that charged high interests and were exempt from any laws but there was no alternative or recourse. F.H. A. loans were not available to black families. And if you missed one payment; they seized the property no questions asked all of the money that had been invested up until that time (which included hefty down payments) was confiscated with no ramifications for the crooks selling the contracts.
“This was hardly unusual. In 2001, the Associated Press published a three-part investigation into the theft of black-owned land stretching back to the antebellum period. The series documented some 406 victims and 24,000 acres of land valued at tens of millions of dollars. The land was taken through means ranging from legal chicanery to terrorism. “Some of the land taken from black families has become a country club in Virginia,” the AP reported, as well as “oil fields in Mississippi” and “a baseball spring training facility in Florida.”
Restrictive covenants created by the Federal Housing Association were deemed illegal in the late forties and early fifties but like many of our laws that are left to interpretation, this didn’t translate to enforcement. Whites were encouraged to keep their neighborhoods segregated at all costs. If you sold to a Negro you were terrorized. Groups of Catholics and Christians formed a membership in Chicago that using scare tactics drove any ethnic group other than whites, out. Coates recounts: “On July 1 and 2 of 1946, a mob of thousands assembled in Chicago’s Park Manor neighborhood, hoping to eject a black doctor who’d recently moved in. The mob pelted the house with rocks and set the garage on fire. The doctor moved away.” Neighborhoods where black families lived were propagandized “undesirable” plummeting property values and promoting the great white flight. A vestige of slavery, the upshots of unfair housing has yet to really be rectified. And here in lies the crux of this article, which I recommend every American should read (it is available online) that we cannot pretend restitution has been made. We as a country need to keep this conversation alive not for the sake of lingering in the past but in order for healing to truly happen acknowledgements and reparations need to be made.
As a white female, I have no idea what it feels like to be condemned for the color of my skin. My neighbor, Charlie, does. He is a delightful African American man who was raised in Georgia. He is a Vietnam veteran, a seasoned carpenter, and has been married for thirty-seven years to a wonderful white woman whom he still “adores.” Charlie will only divulge his past experiences when I hound him (which is frequently). It is a past fraught with slavery as his mother picked cotton as a child and worked all of her life for a white family as a domestic. Charlie recalls that he was served supper from the backdoor of the main house and was forbidden to enter any other way. On the backs of those that toiled in the fields, southern whites benefitted financially. Charlie claims he harbors no resentment towards any one. He rose above the chains of segregation bought a house here in California and raised a family. But he notices things; things such as the gentrification of the neighborhood or how there are only a limited number of black people at a particular place or event.
A few years ago when I lived in Philly and taught for DeVry University I had several students who were from the projects; their family destitute yet they were clawing their way out of a destructive cycle of poverty and limited choices. One young man in my speech class recited a poem that brought me to tears. “I Can’t Read.” The poet spoke of being pushed through the system for his skills in basketball but still he couldn’t pick up a book and read. It was a reflective piece of work that gives pause to the deep-seated issue of race and reparations. It was a smack of reality tossed in my face. I thought of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs; how the hell are you going to care about an education when you’re hungry or living in a place over run with vermin and drugs. It’s not enough to say oh geez that’s too bad, or geez those people are disgusting how could they live that way and yes how can they! A paralysis as pervasive as a pandemic has settled into generations. Of course the same can be said for any ethic group that trudged to America but the difference--families were not shredded by slavery. Fathers or mothers or children were not sold off and never seen again.
As my plane began its descent, I was still engrossed in the contents of this article. I wondered where do we begin? I thumbed over the claims of Coates that “Liberals today mostly view racism not as an active, distinct evil but as a relative of white poverty and inequality. They ignore the long tradition of this country actively punishing black success—and the elevation of that punishment, in the mid-20th century, to federal policy. President Lyndon Johnson may have noted in his historic civil-rights speech at Howard University in 1965 that “Negro poverty is not white poverty.” But his advisers and their successors were, and still are, loath to craft any policy that recognizes the difference.” Perhaps it is in the most basic of places we need to start that of our own consciousness and cognition. Realization of how the past continues to influence the present. Perhaps it is in the re-writing of history to include the African Americans that paved the way for not only freedom but for advancement side by side the portrait of racism. Like all communication problems, if there is no discourse there is no resolution. Reparation may not lie in finger pointing and resentment but it does lie in fessing up to the damage and to ending blatant disregard for equality. We may not have been the owner of slaves but we may be the owner of residual attitudes. All races have their nuances and that is what makes for cultural diversity and a rich tapestry we call America. But there lies an inherent elephant in the room if we as a country continue to tiptoe around the issue of race and reparations. If we stand around and watch a person get bullied and do nothing—how does that distinguish us from the bully?
The Case for Reparations
Two hundred fifty years of slavery. Ninety years of Jim Crow. Sixty years of separate but equal. Thirty-five years of racist housing policy. Until we reckon with our compounding moral debts, America will never be whole.
Nestled in the middle seat of a Southwest plane, I opened the magazine and poured over this lengthy piece that gave astonishing testimony to the realities of racism in America. I imagine mutterings from readers echoing responses that “slavery was a long time ago and Jim Crow is dead” or “I think slavery was abominable I would have never owned a slave. African Americans need to move on. ” Like the tragedy of the Holocaust—moving on requires reparations and acknowledgements. Yes, slavery and human trafficking is no longer legal and laws preventing racial discrimination have been written but prejudice sentiments remain. They simply went underground and donned a disguise.
What struck me about this article was the rippling effect slavery has had on the African American race and on America in general. One such glaring result, for many many years fair housing was limited to whites only. The author of the article, Ta-Nehis Coates writes; “Blacks were herded into the sights of unscrupulous lenders who took them for money and for sport. Families were robbed of land that was rightfully theirs. They were evicted from homes they bought under contracts that unknown them were falsified. They were bamboozled told they owed more than the amount of the agreed mortgage or handed unexplained sudden property taxes with an impossible price tag. These contracts were scams that charged high interests and were exempt from any laws but there was no alternative or recourse. F.H. A. loans were not available to black families. And if you missed one payment; they seized the property no questions asked all of the money that had been invested up until that time (which included hefty down payments) was confiscated with no ramifications for the crooks selling the contracts.
“This was hardly unusual. In 2001, the Associated Press published a three-part investigation into the theft of black-owned land stretching back to the antebellum period. The series documented some 406 victims and 24,000 acres of land valued at tens of millions of dollars. The land was taken through means ranging from legal chicanery to terrorism. “Some of the land taken from black families has become a country club in Virginia,” the AP reported, as well as “oil fields in Mississippi” and “a baseball spring training facility in Florida.”
Restrictive covenants created by the Federal Housing Association were deemed illegal in the late forties and early fifties but like many of our laws that are left to interpretation, this didn’t translate to enforcement. Whites were encouraged to keep their neighborhoods segregated at all costs. If you sold to a Negro you were terrorized. Groups of Catholics and Christians formed a membership in Chicago that using scare tactics drove any ethnic group other than whites, out. Coates recounts: “On July 1 and 2 of 1946, a mob of thousands assembled in Chicago’s Park Manor neighborhood, hoping to eject a black doctor who’d recently moved in. The mob pelted the house with rocks and set the garage on fire. The doctor moved away.” Neighborhoods where black families lived were propagandized “undesirable” plummeting property values and promoting the great white flight. A vestige of slavery, the upshots of unfair housing has yet to really be rectified. And here in lies the crux of this article, which I recommend every American should read (it is available online) that we cannot pretend restitution has been made. We as a country need to keep this conversation alive not for the sake of lingering in the past but in order for healing to truly happen acknowledgements and reparations need to be made.
As a white female, I have no idea what it feels like to be condemned for the color of my skin. My neighbor, Charlie, does. He is a delightful African American man who was raised in Georgia. He is a Vietnam veteran, a seasoned carpenter, and has been married for thirty-seven years to a wonderful white woman whom he still “adores.” Charlie will only divulge his past experiences when I hound him (which is frequently). It is a past fraught with slavery as his mother picked cotton as a child and worked all of her life for a white family as a domestic. Charlie recalls that he was served supper from the backdoor of the main house and was forbidden to enter any other way. On the backs of those that toiled in the fields, southern whites benefitted financially. Charlie claims he harbors no resentment towards any one. He rose above the chains of segregation bought a house here in California and raised a family. But he notices things; things such as the gentrification of the neighborhood or how there are only a limited number of black people at a particular place or event.
A few years ago when I lived in Philly and taught for DeVry University I had several students who were from the projects; their family destitute yet they were clawing their way out of a destructive cycle of poverty and limited choices. One young man in my speech class recited a poem that brought me to tears. “I Can’t Read.” The poet spoke of being pushed through the system for his skills in basketball but still he couldn’t pick up a book and read. It was a reflective piece of work that gives pause to the deep-seated issue of race and reparations. It was a smack of reality tossed in my face. I thought of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs; how the hell are you going to care about an education when you’re hungry or living in a place over run with vermin and drugs. It’s not enough to say oh geez that’s too bad, or geez those people are disgusting how could they live that way and yes how can they! A paralysis as pervasive as a pandemic has settled into generations. Of course the same can be said for any ethic group that trudged to America but the difference--families were not shredded by slavery. Fathers or mothers or children were not sold off and never seen again.
As my plane began its descent, I was still engrossed in the contents of this article. I wondered where do we begin? I thumbed over the claims of Coates that “Liberals today mostly view racism not as an active, distinct evil but as a relative of white poverty and inequality. They ignore the long tradition of this country actively punishing black success—and the elevation of that punishment, in the mid-20th century, to federal policy. President Lyndon Johnson may have noted in his historic civil-rights speech at Howard University in 1965 that “Negro poverty is not white poverty.” But his advisers and their successors were, and still are, loath to craft any policy that recognizes the difference.” Perhaps it is in the most basic of places we need to start that of our own consciousness and cognition. Realization of how the past continues to influence the present. Perhaps it is in the re-writing of history to include the African Americans that paved the way for not only freedom but for advancement side by side the portrait of racism. Like all communication problems, if there is no discourse there is no resolution. Reparation may not lie in finger pointing and resentment but it does lie in fessing up to the damage and to ending blatant disregard for equality. We may not have been the owner of slaves but we may be the owner of residual attitudes. All races have their nuances and that is what makes for cultural diversity and a rich tapestry we call America. But there lies an inherent elephant in the room if we as a country continue to tiptoe around the issue of race and reparations. If we stand around and watch a person get bullied and do nothing—how does that distinguish us from the bully?
July 31, 2013
Stop Judging Start Listening: A reflection of similarities between religions and spiritual practices
Arguing for the sake of religion is an innate absurdity that denies the very essence of a spiritual tradition in the first place. There is not one religion or spiritual practice that advocates killing other humans who are non-believers. Indeed, compassion and navigating life with love is the bedrock of both Islamic and Christian beliefs. The same can be said for the Jewish religion, Buddhism, Sufism, Hinduism and all philosophical and divine traditions. Why then, do we demonize one religion or practice over another? They all follow rituals that essentially bring us to the same place. The place of Oneness that connects should not divide us.
The very word peace comes from the Arabic word salaam, the Hebrew word shalom, and the Aramaic word shlama. Three words all meaning peace and originated in the Middle East. Here in the West we have been hoodwinked into thinking Islamic religion is bad and Christian religion is good. The campaign that all Islamic people are terrorist is as ruthless as any other tyrannical crusade. We Westerners have amnesia for historically it was not the Islamic people who initiated such terrors as the Inquisition or the destruction of Native people for the sake of Christianity. The holocaust, Chechnya, the bloody battles in Northern Ireland, and the occupation of Palestine were not orchestrated by people of the Islamic faith. The expansive list of who did what is not my reason for writing this blog but rather to clarify. Extremists are extremists no matter what faith or persuasion they sprouted from. It is time to call a meeting of the hearts for Salaam, Shalom, Shlama, for Peace. It is time to stop harping and finger pointing and to remove the veils of ignorance.
I grew up in a Catholic family who went to church every Sunday and abided the Catholic rules to a point. Lent was a sacred time of fasting and prayer—no different than Ramadan or Yom Kippur (known as the day of atonement) or Nyungne the Buddhist practice of fasting and meditation for purifying the spirit. Hinduism fasts, called a vrat, vary depending on the day of the week and the need of the individual. Sunday is for the Lord Sun or Surya and red is the color to be worn if you are fasting. The threads of commonality are as pervasive as the differences. Jesus and Muhammad were both from Arabic backgrounds. The saints and sages and Buddha were graced with divine wisdoms that they shared with their followers. Because cultures of the world are now exposed to one another; it is the perfect point in history to embrace our similarities.
My exploration of other religions and rituals began as a child. I used to go to Synagogue on Friday evenings with my friends; it was at a Bar mitzvah that I had my first kiss! My babysitters were Indian and wore beautiful Saris. I met my first Buddhist in high school; she had a calmness about her that was radically different from my Irish/Italian high strung mother. At the time though I thought the Buddha was a strange little fat man who promoted un-emotionalsim!
It was not until I was an adult that I really began to delve into spiritual beliefs and practices. I was driving a lot at the time and decided to get a few books on tape (yes no CD’s for me at that point—they were too expensive). Quotes from Native Americans was the book that snagged me by the nose. Listening to profound statements such as; “You ask us to go inside a building to praise God once a week, yet I give thanks to God every day when I see a sunrise or kill a deer for my family.” (a Cherokee Chief to a Missionary) conked me over the head as if suddenly waking up. Not that it is a terrible thing to subscribe to one faith or religion, after all that is the crux of tradition. But can’t we live in harmony with the array of spiritual practices—toss them in a blender and come out with an enlightening treat?
When I began studying yoga my spiritual world blasted open. The idea that God is within not one religion or belief but in each individual brought a sense of freedom. I began reading the works of Mahatma Gandhi, the Quran, and finally books on Sufism. Sufism is brilliant because it honors all the prophets and is inclusive using Rumi, Jesus, and Muhammad to name a few as teachers. Depending on the semantics, meanings could be misconstrued unless studied and compared. For example Jesus said in one of the Beatitudes in his native Aramaic language "Ripe are those who whole heartedly follow their passion, by being Unified they see unity everywhere." Rumi exclaimed, "Whether you love God or love another human being, if you love enough, you will come into the presence of love itself." Each of these statements speak about unification through love. Each section of ourselves comes together in the heart.
My question again then is why can’t we stop judging and start merging. Why not incorporate religious teachings—why can’t we teach the different religions purely as a study like history or social studies? Is it not knowledge all of us are seeking? Knowledge that spreads unity, understanding, and ultimately brings each of us and therefore the world to a place of Salaam, Shalom, Shlama, Peace.
The very word peace comes from the Arabic word salaam, the Hebrew word shalom, and the Aramaic word shlama. Three words all meaning peace and originated in the Middle East. Here in the West we have been hoodwinked into thinking Islamic religion is bad and Christian religion is good. The campaign that all Islamic people are terrorist is as ruthless as any other tyrannical crusade. We Westerners have amnesia for historically it was not the Islamic people who initiated such terrors as the Inquisition or the destruction of Native people for the sake of Christianity. The holocaust, Chechnya, the bloody battles in Northern Ireland, and the occupation of Palestine were not orchestrated by people of the Islamic faith. The expansive list of who did what is not my reason for writing this blog but rather to clarify. Extremists are extremists no matter what faith or persuasion they sprouted from. It is time to call a meeting of the hearts for Salaam, Shalom, Shlama, for Peace. It is time to stop harping and finger pointing and to remove the veils of ignorance.
I grew up in a Catholic family who went to church every Sunday and abided the Catholic rules to a point. Lent was a sacred time of fasting and prayer—no different than Ramadan or Yom Kippur (known as the day of atonement) or Nyungne the Buddhist practice of fasting and meditation for purifying the spirit. Hinduism fasts, called a vrat, vary depending on the day of the week and the need of the individual. Sunday is for the Lord Sun or Surya and red is the color to be worn if you are fasting. The threads of commonality are as pervasive as the differences. Jesus and Muhammad were both from Arabic backgrounds. The saints and sages and Buddha were graced with divine wisdoms that they shared with their followers. Because cultures of the world are now exposed to one another; it is the perfect point in history to embrace our similarities.
My exploration of other religions and rituals began as a child. I used to go to Synagogue on Friday evenings with my friends; it was at a Bar mitzvah that I had my first kiss! My babysitters were Indian and wore beautiful Saris. I met my first Buddhist in high school; she had a calmness about her that was radically different from my Irish/Italian high strung mother. At the time though I thought the Buddha was a strange little fat man who promoted un-emotionalsim!
It was not until I was an adult that I really began to delve into spiritual beliefs and practices. I was driving a lot at the time and decided to get a few books on tape (yes no CD’s for me at that point—they were too expensive). Quotes from Native Americans was the book that snagged me by the nose. Listening to profound statements such as; “You ask us to go inside a building to praise God once a week, yet I give thanks to God every day when I see a sunrise or kill a deer for my family.” (a Cherokee Chief to a Missionary) conked me over the head as if suddenly waking up. Not that it is a terrible thing to subscribe to one faith or religion, after all that is the crux of tradition. But can’t we live in harmony with the array of spiritual practices—toss them in a blender and come out with an enlightening treat?
When I began studying yoga my spiritual world blasted open. The idea that God is within not one religion or belief but in each individual brought a sense of freedom. I began reading the works of Mahatma Gandhi, the Quran, and finally books on Sufism. Sufism is brilliant because it honors all the prophets and is inclusive using Rumi, Jesus, and Muhammad to name a few as teachers. Depending on the semantics, meanings could be misconstrued unless studied and compared. For example Jesus said in one of the Beatitudes in his native Aramaic language "Ripe are those who whole heartedly follow their passion, by being Unified they see unity everywhere." Rumi exclaimed, "Whether you love God or love another human being, if you love enough, you will come into the presence of love itself." Each of these statements speak about unification through love. Each section of ourselves comes together in the heart.
My question again then is why can’t we stop judging and start merging. Why not incorporate religious teachings—why can’t we teach the different religions purely as a study like history or social studies? Is it not knowledge all of us are seeking? Knowledge that spreads unity, understanding, and ultimately brings each of us and therefore the world to a place of Salaam, Shalom, Shlama, Peace.
Dinner Rituals
Dinner Rituals and Reflections
As I minced the basil and tomatoes fixing to toss them in the mix of squash and mushrooms sautéing on the stove, I began to ponder the many rituals of dinner. Dinner was and is my favorite meal as this is the time when the family crawls in from their weary day ready to chat and laugh and eat. Well, at least that is always how it was and is with my family. When my daughters were still living with me, no matter how late in the evening, dinner was sacred and roll call was taken. Absences were ill tolerated and therefore rarely happened. This was not accomplished through threats and defaming rather it was the ritual itself that quelled objections. The dinner ritual became the fortress against the world where we could defuse the harsh demands of modern life. Light candles, put on soft music, prepare and break bread over good old fashion conversation.
The dinner ritual began when I was a child--I would race in asking what was on the menu. I loved to eat in those days, a habit I have continued. I relished the telling of tales and laughter that floated through the air. There was a real sense of belonging. We never ate in front of a television or separately--if one of us in the family was delayed--dinner was as well. Dinner was where you spilled your guts over happy/sad events of the day. It was in a way a conflict resolution forum. Airing grievances over meatloaf and mashed potatoes was easier that a mere conversation in the hallway.
As a single mom, I insisted on keeping the dinner rituals as a way of unifying the family, however small or large it was at that particular time. Misfit friends often supped with the girls and I marveling at the fact we actually ate together-- every night. When asked about their personal family dinner traditions, often they would lament that there were none.
The dinner ritual had a sense of collaboration. As the girls got older they became proficient sous chefs, table decorators, and meal planners. Often we wouldn't sit down to eat until after nine (the European style I suppose) when all the outside activities; dance, theatre, soccer, or whatever had ended. But there was always a feeling of "ahhh" a sense of renewal. Savoring these moments, both of my daughters are ardent keepers of the sacramental meal. When we are re-united the sentiment is the same--one chops, one sets, all clean. My new husband (who grew up deprived of dinner rituals) has fallen in tow and we too never eat in front of a machine. Rather we sip our wine and beer, then plop down to converse while stuffing our faces.
With the barrage of distractions, honoring dinner rituals is declaring war on technology. Shut off any semblance of a screen light some candles and sit down to a meal together. Ease family tensions away with even the simplest of meals; soup and salads or home cooked burritos or pasta--reinvent your personal cuisine. My new favorite is Indian recipes. Tune the world out and say yes to an age old tradition of breaking bread with those you love!
As I minced the basil and tomatoes fixing to toss them in the mix of squash and mushrooms sautéing on the stove, I began to ponder the many rituals of dinner. Dinner was and is my favorite meal as this is the time when the family crawls in from their weary day ready to chat and laugh and eat. Well, at least that is always how it was and is with my family. When my daughters were still living with me, no matter how late in the evening, dinner was sacred and roll call was taken. Absences were ill tolerated and therefore rarely happened. This was not accomplished through threats and defaming rather it was the ritual itself that quelled objections. The dinner ritual became the fortress against the world where we could defuse the harsh demands of modern life. Light candles, put on soft music, prepare and break bread over good old fashion conversation.
The dinner ritual began when I was a child--I would race in asking what was on the menu. I loved to eat in those days, a habit I have continued. I relished the telling of tales and laughter that floated through the air. There was a real sense of belonging. We never ate in front of a television or separately--if one of us in the family was delayed--dinner was as well. Dinner was where you spilled your guts over happy/sad events of the day. It was in a way a conflict resolution forum. Airing grievances over meatloaf and mashed potatoes was easier that a mere conversation in the hallway.
As a single mom, I insisted on keeping the dinner rituals as a way of unifying the family, however small or large it was at that particular time. Misfit friends often supped with the girls and I marveling at the fact we actually ate together-- every night. When asked about their personal family dinner traditions, often they would lament that there were none.
The dinner ritual had a sense of collaboration. As the girls got older they became proficient sous chefs, table decorators, and meal planners. Often we wouldn't sit down to eat until after nine (the European style I suppose) when all the outside activities; dance, theatre, soccer, or whatever had ended. But there was always a feeling of "ahhh" a sense of renewal. Savoring these moments, both of my daughters are ardent keepers of the sacramental meal. When we are re-united the sentiment is the same--one chops, one sets, all clean. My new husband (who grew up deprived of dinner rituals) has fallen in tow and we too never eat in front of a machine. Rather we sip our wine and beer, then plop down to converse while stuffing our faces.
With the barrage of distractions, honoring dinner rituals is declaring war on technology. Shut off any semblance of a screen light some candles and sit down to a meal together. Ease family tensions away with even the simplest of meals; soup and salads or home cooked burritos or pasta--reinvent your personal cuisine. My new favorite is Indian recipes. Tune the world out and say yes to an age old tradition of breaking bread with those you love!
Where Have All the Daydreams Gone?
Where Have all the Day Dreams Gone?
Sitting in a window seat of a packed café in Sonoma (Norcal)—I glanced around noticing the young mother with a baby bundled in pink—its little fur shoes bobbing up and down, to her left was a chiseled chin man in a black overcoat clutching his briefcase, and to the right a teenager huddled away from an old man with a cane. No one was speaking—the drone of the espresso machine brought me back to Italy where I had visited a few years back. Italians are talkers! Everyone, except the older man with the cane and myself, had either headphones or some sort of device plugged into their ears—their minds and imaginations prisoners of technology. Like the old Peter Paul & Mary song, Where Have All the Flowers Gone, I wondered Where did all the daydreams drift? As we whirl about in our busy schedules, there is little time for daydreaming. Daydreams are reflections of our passion and creativity. Mp3 players, Ipods, cell phones, mini televisions the size of your pinky toe nail, and itsy bitsy computers have robbed and muted this innate and healthy form of escape and problem solving.
Daydreaming entices the mind to wander, (it has been scientifically proven if you don’t believe me Google it). Daydreams help us relax the analytical brain and allow the creative self to see things from a different vista point. Daydreaming takes your cooped up mind for a walk. As a writer, daydreaming is part of my job. Heck it was a daydream that prompted this piece. Had I been listening to music or working on my computer thoughts and scenarios would have snuck past me like a tip toeing burglar robbing me blind. Daydreams can be useful counselors helping you sort out difficulties. How? By letting the mind relax, deflect fear, and visualize innovative solutions
Daydreams remind us who we are. They tap us on the shoulder and show us images we can either disregard (the negative ones) or embed (the positive ones) soaking our psychic with affirmations. Daydreams help us manifest our desires. As children, daydreaming comes naturally; one of my personal favorites was picturing myself as a famous dancer. Martha Graham had nothing on me when I was starring in my own daydream. Although I may not be a famous dancer, I do teach and dance African, Haitian, and Brazilian styles of dance. I literally became my daydream performing and adoring the joys of dancing.
Daydreams unlock our imagination, which for many of us is as rusty as an old bicycle that has been left out in the rain for years. Daydreaming is a potent catalyst to creativity. My first children’s book, Frederick the Forgetful Rattler was born from a walk in the woods and a humorous daydream I see (and hear) many people now, even when in nature, stuffing their ears with music or a chat (over nothing) on the cell phone. Just the other day strolling down Sonoma’s peaceful bike path (the red winged blackbirds were in a full concerto) I had a woman come up behind me discussing her boyfriend’s sexual dysfunction! Sadly my daydreams took flight, fearing for their lives.
Speaking of nature—I may sound Ralph Waldo-ish but please, Mother Nature offers a plethora of melodies without a download fee. Listening to the wind whistle through the leaves or the babbling of a stream soothes my nerves and makes me feel connected once again to the earth. How many of us find that when listening to the swooshing sounds of waves on the sand a sense of tranquility drapes around us? A natural relaxant.
Back to the cafe, the older gentleman and I dropped into a marvelous conversation about how things have changed (Did I mention I am part Italian). He was the last of his family to survive a WWII camp and had one fascianting sentence after the other. He was the source of my daydream on the way home and the inspiration for this blog. We were basically having a private conversation as everyone else was tuned out. Wake up—unplug—let your mind plunge into a warm memory that makes you smile or relax or recalls your strength—Daydream about the book you will write or the vacation you will have or the countries you will visit while dressed up as a clown spreading laughter to children the world over. Whatever your daydream is indulge it—you can Twitter about it later.
Sitting in a window seat of a packed café in Sonoma (Norcal)—I glanced around noticing the young mother with a baby bundled in pink—its little fur shoes bobbing up and down, to her left was a chiseled chin man in a black overcoat clutching his briefcase, and to the right a teenager huddled away from an old man with a cane. No one was speaking—the drone of the espresso machine brought me back to Italy where I had visited a few years back. Italians are talkers! Everyone, except the older man with the cane and myself, had either headphones or some sort of device plugged into their ears—their minds and imaginations prisoners of technology. Like the old Peter Paul & Mary song, Where Have All the Flowers Gone, I wondered Where did all the daydreams drift? As we whirl about in our busy schedules, there is little time for daydreaming. Daydreams are reflections of our passion and creativity. Mp3 players, Ipods, cell phones, mini televisions the size of your pinky toe nail, and itsy bitsy computers have robbed and muted this innate and healthy form of escape and problem solving.
Daydreaming entices the mind to wander, (it has been scientifically proven if you don’t believe me Google it). Daydreams help us relax the analytical brain and allow the creative self to see things from a different vista point. Daydreaming takes your cooped up mind for a walk. As a writer, daydreaming is part of my job. Heck it was a daydream that prompted this piece. Had I been listening to music or working on my computer thoughts and scenarios would have snuck past me like a tip toeing burglar robbing me blind. Daydreams can be useful counselors helping you sort out difficulties. How? By letting the mind relax, deflect fear, and visualize innovative solutions
Daydreams remind us who we are. They tap us on the shoulder and show us images we can either disregard (the negative ones) or embed (the positive ones) soaking our psychic with affirmations. Daydreams help us manifest our desires. As children, daydreaming comes naturally; one of my personal favorites was picturing myself as a famous dancer. Martha Graham had nothing on me when I was starring in my own daydream. Although I may not be a famous dancer, I do teach and dance African, Haitian, and Brazilian styles of dance. I literally became my daydream performing and adoring the joys of dancing.
Daydreams unlock our imagination, which for many of us is as rusty as an old bicycle that has been left out in the rain for years. Daydreaming is a potent catalyst to creativity. My first children’s book, Frederick the Forgetful Rattler was born from a walk in the woods and a humorous daydream I see (and hear) many people now, even when in nature, stuffing their ears with music or a chat (over nothing) on the cell phone. Just the other day strolling down Sonoma’s peaceful bike path (the red winged blackbirds were in a full concerto) I had a woman come up behind me discussing her boyfriend’s sexual dysfunction! Sadly my daydreams took flight, fearing for their lives.
Speaking of nature—I may sound Ralph Waldo-ish but please, Mother Nature offers a plethora of melodies without a download fee. Listening to the wind whistle through the leaves or the babbling of a stream soothes my nerves and makes me feel connected once again to the earth. How many of us find that when listening to the swooshing sounds of waves on the sand a sense of tranquility drapes around us? A natural relaxant.
Back to the cafe, the older gentleman and I dropped into a marvelous conversation about how things have changed (Did I mention I am part Italian). He was the last of his family to survive a WWII camp and had one fascianting sentence after the other. He was the source of my daydream on the way home and the inspiration for this blog. We were basically having a private conversation as everyone else was tuned out. Wake up—unplug—let your mind plunge into a warm memory that makes you smile or relax or recalls your strength—Daydream about the book you will write or the vacation you will have or the countries you will visit while dressed up as a clown spreading laughter to children the world over. Whatever your daydream is indulge it—you can Twitter about it later.
