Aug 302018
 

The man at the airport was just like everyone else. He kept his eyes down and on his iPhone. Or maybe he had a Samsung. He read, he texted, he interacted with the phone. All around him were people likewise fixated on their various devices. Some nodded in time to silent music or held murmured conversations with invisible colleagues. Occasionally, they glanced up, only to transfer their attention to an electronic device at some remove—an arrival notice, a gate number, or one of the ubiquitous wide-screens delivering an endless stream of infotainment.

Okay, it’s the airport. Not much to see. On the other hand, nothing alarms me as much as everyone on phonebeing in a crowd of indiscriminately inattentive people. What aren’t they seeing? What might they miss? What if something happens? I feel even worse about people who walk, run, bike, take out the dog, ride or, god forbid, drive with their heads down.

I get the appeal of a smart device. Timely information and instant connection in the palm of your hand. Directions and photos and messages and news. Yes, but also a false sense of control and an opportunity to disengage from the here and now.

We may avoid the ugly and stressful. We may also miss the unusual or the beautiful.

On board my flight, I found myself next to the same man. He offered a polite smile; then bent urgently over his phone, as if to squeeze in every last bit of data possible before the jet doors closed. As soon as we reached cruising altitude, my seat companion signed onto the Internet.

I’m not going to lie; I read from my tablet during the flight. But I didn’t bother to connect. What was going to happen while I was in the air and what was I going to do about it anyway? Occasionally I glanced out the window. It was a beautiful day for flying.

When the wheels hit the ground, I quickly turned on my cell phone, as did everyone else on the plane, scanning for important updates. Force of habit, I told myself, although in truth the habit is less than two decades old and I’ve been flying a lot longer than that. I wasn’t meeting anyone. I just wanted to be “reachable.”

I drove my rental car to the hotel on Key Largo, checked in, and went for a walk along the beach. I took my phone but kept it in my pocket.

At dinner that night, I sat alone with my food, a glass of wine and…my phone. It’s a terrific dinner companion for a single person; you never feel alone or disconnected and you look engaged, maybe even important. On the other hand, vacation is about getting away from the routine and into something new. Look up, I reminded myself.

The dining area was somewhat open-air, with floor to ceiling windows affording an ocean view. The smell of salt and jasmine mixed with the menu offerings. The balmy air felt like velvet.

At the next table, I noticed a group of middle-aged people saying grace. Quaint, I thought, but kind of sweet. No, wait; they each had phones and they were wrapped up in various efforts to reach out to someone or something that wasn’t at the table. Occasionally one of them tossed out a comment and there was a burst of conversation. Even then, no one made eye contact. It occurred to me that a group of strangers could sit down at their table and they might not even notice.

The next morning, I awoke before dawn and logged onto my tablet. After an hour, I pulled myself out of a digitally-induced torpor. Get out, I ordered myself. I took my phone but kept it in my pocket. Who needed to reach me? Who did I need to contact? What was the meaning of the word “relax” in our wired/wireless world anyway? And how was I going to get rid of the crick in my neck unless I lifted my head?

The tiny beach glistened in the early morning sun. I looked across the gulf and saw only water—no towers, cranes, cruise ships or high-rise buildings. A few people wandered about, including, to my surprise, my seat buddy from the flight down. He’d obviously reunited with his family—two small children, a boy and a girl and an attractive woman I took to be his wife.

diving pelicansYet he remained tethered to his phone, perched on the edge of his chair, squinting at the small screen. A flock of pelicans swooped low to the water, delighting the little girl. “Daddy, daddy,” she cried to her multi-tasking father, “Look at the birds!” He waved, but never took his eyes off the phone.

I didn’t need to be told twice, however. I looked up. Watching the birds, warmed by the sun, I stretched my neck and eased into my surroundings.

Dec 152017
 

 

Christmas ornamentIt’s that time of year when some of us feel compelled to put forth our version of an inspirational message. In times past, I’ve been inspired by both baser and higher impulses. I’ve written about gratitude on more than one occasion, although, truth be told, I find the collective impulse to remind ourselves and everyone else to be grateful to be a little, well, grating. Most of the people I know are well aware of what they have; it doesn’t mean they can or should ignore what they—what we all—might be missing.

On the other hand, words of doom and gloom seem particularly inappropriate this time of year. Not that it’s a happy time for many people I know. I have a number of friends, some virtual, some not, who have faced enormous health and financial challenges this year. I hurt on their behalf. Hell, I hurt on behalf of all the fearful people in the world, myself included.

In my case, the fears are both ordinary and extraordinary, micro and macro. I worry about growing old and becoming infirm, sure. I don’t like the idea of being alone or otherwise disconnected.

Most of all, though, what I fear is an increase (or no visible decrease, at any rate) in illogical, closed-minded intolerance. I call it non-thinking, the visceral reactive state that has far too many people clinging to their beliefs as if they were life preservers. It’s difficult for me to understand how, in 2017 (the twenty-first century!), whole swaths of folks adhere to a values hierarchy that has little to do with morality. They hold fast to outdated or outright false Biblical, biological, and generational maxims at the expense of anything approaching humanity. How else does a cruel, narcissistic adulterer become a touchstone for so many? How else does false equivalency gain credence, while “fake news” is defined as anything remotely critical, regardless of objectivity? How can groups of people be dismissed because of who they are, what they believe, or how they love? How do we live in a world where dictators are heroes and heroes are maligned?

But doom and gloom don’t move us forward any more than do lectures on gratitude or syrupy seasonal wishes. Which is why, after cruising through holiday messages of yore, I’ve gone back to a statement I penned several years ago and lifted from my book Hope in Small Doses. It’s a sort of declaration, not of war or even of independence but of resolve. I have to revisit it from time to time, but now it’s part of my DNA. If it suits or serves you moving into 2018, then by all means, let this be my gift to you.

small christmas tree“I choose hope, at least in small doses. I choose to assign myself a purpose, and embrace the journey that leads to the fulfillment of that purpose. I acknowledge the risk of stumbling along the way, of never completely accomplishing what I set out to do, or of discovering that I inadvertently changed course. I accept as a working theory that humans live their best lives when they ascribe meaning to their lives. I take as a matter of faith that it is within each of us to live meaningful lives, to love, to interact, to connect in fellowship; and that how long our reach, or wide our influence, is far less important than the path we set for ourselves. I realize I will always feel some disappointment and may come to conclusions and discoveries late in life that I wish I’d reached earlier. But so what? That only means I’ve been growing and learning. It also means I’m human…and being fully, completely human is always going to be my most important accomplishment.

I don’t propose to know how hope will continue to fit into my life. I only know that in some small measure, I want it. I need it. I deserve it. We all do.”

Happy holidays whoever and wherever. Here’s to a bright 2018.

Nov 032017
 

 

Back when I was writing about my experience as a grieving widow in the public eye, I described a phenomenon called the “circles of affectedness.” I noted how after 9/11, many of us organized ourselves (or were herded) into groups or categories according to how directly we were impacted by the terrorist attack. “The closer to 9/11 one was, either by geography or personal loss,” I wrote, “the more special one seemed to become.” At the same time, I picked up on a perhaps unconscious competition taking place among the survivors and family members, egged on by a media machine hell-bent on finding and promoting the most tear-jerking stories possible. Who was most affected, a widow with small children, a mother who’d lost two sons?

This competition offended me. I hurt and in my grief, I sometimes imagined no one could understand how deeply. But that meant I couldn’t fully understand how someone else might grieve either — a survivor, an observer, a citizen. Who compares levels of sorrow anyway?

Humans, it would seem.

Americans in particular are all about comparing and contrasting the good, the bad, and anything in between. Size, shape, age, education, financial status/situation, upbringing, gender (traditional or atypical), achievement, social media presence, your mom’s meatloaf recipe must be measured: You name it and we will hold it up next to something similar and assess its comparative (and often highly subjective) value.

Product promotion is dependent on comparison. Advertising routinely points out the flaws in the competition along with the benefits of the promoted product. Entertainment pitches for books, TV scripts and film concepts high and low often reference what succeeded before but with a twist (“like ‘The Good Wife’ but set in a hospital”). More and more publishers and agents ask authors to suggest five titles their new book most resembles.

The man in the White House thrives on comparison. He appears to favor superlatives; whatever he references is the “biggest,” “tallest,” “smartest,” “highest,” “most,” or, “worst,” or, conversely, the “meanest,” “tiniest” or “least.” It doesn’t matter whether his frame of reference is a policy, a television show, an individual, or an insult, and it never matters whether his claim is true. This is the new reality in which we find ourselves.

The great job, the superior child, the perfect body and the ideal marriage may be media inventions, but they don’t keep us from staring at our friend’s Instagram pictures and wondering why our lives are so dull? We are doomed to fall short.

Which brings me back to comparisons of suffering.

It seems most people who share their stories of despair are looking to instruct or connect or reach out to others going through something similar. Some seek to gather strength in shared experiences. The #MeToo hashtag is meant to demonstrate how wide-reaching harassment is and how easily women and men have accepted such behavior as acceptable. In fact, many women I know are hesitant to share their stories because they aren’t as horrendous as someone else’s. “I was followed but I wasn’t attacked.” “Catcalls aren’t as bad as groping.” Here too, the need to compare affects what we admit, even to ourselves.

Some who post their stories seek sympathy or attention. Some want advice; others really don’t. Still others seek self-expression or catharsis. For some, typing the words on a screen seems easier and more immediate than talking to a person, assuming there’s anyone to talk with. For others, posting is the only option. Let’s face it; we’re confronting a retreating government and reduced support in real life. Where can we turn except to our virtual community?

Social media allows us to share our sorrows as well as our triumphs. In that respect, it can provide a valuable service. But misfortune doesn’t need to be a competition any more than accomplishment does. It’s not about who does it best or feels it most. It’s about our shared humanity.