Hug It Out

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I’m thinking of setting up a “Free Hugs” booth somewhere in downtown Chicago – a busy train station, say, or Daley Plaza (once the weather gets nicer). I recently read the about the physical and emotional benefits of hugging.

Hugging stimulates the production of oxytocin, a hormone that promotes well-being and reduces feelings of anxiety and stress. Oxytocin is the hormone that helps mothers and infants bond, for instance. And studies have shown that hugging can help the heart and the immune system, making it not only a pleasurable activity but a potentially life-saving one.

I’ve noticed that as I get older, my opportunities for hugs have diminished. When you have little ones at home, you are constantly holding and hugging them, and being hugged in return. As they get older, kids often attempt to individuate by keeping their physical distance. And while I hug my husband on a fairly regular basis, I think I’d like to become more demonstrative with friends, even ones I see on a daily basis.

Amid the current divisiveness in America, I think it would behoove us to hug each other more. I’m reminded of a protestor approaching riot police in Charlottesville last year and offering hugs. There was also an instance of a black man hugging a white supremacist outside a Richard Spencer event. The black man kept asking the white man, “Why don’t you like me?” The white man had nothing to say until the black man hugged him and whispered the question again. The white man admitted, “I don’t know.”

Americans are much less physically demonstrative than many other cultures. Decades ago, psychologist Sidney Jourard studied how often friends from different countries touched each other. He found that Americans touched each other about twice an hour whereas the French touched each other an average of 110 times an hour. Puerto Ricans touched more than 180 times an hour. (“How Hugs Heal – Have You Had a Hug Today?,” articles.mercola.com, May 20, 2017)

In doing some web research, I found out that I’ve just missed #NationalHuggingDay, which was January 21. It’s interesting that this year the date happened to correspond to the Women’s March and followed on the heels of the March for Life, both events where like-minded people gathered in large groups for a common cause. No doubt there was plenty of hugging to go around.

What I’d like to see, however, are more healing hugs, where people take the risk to reach out and connect heart to heart with someone different from themselves, whether racially, politically, religiously, or ideologically. So maybe my Free Hugs booth is not such a bad idea. Or how about a social media phenomenon akin to the Ice Bucket Challenge from a few years ago. People could gather donations for every random hug they gave and posted.

Hugs are warm and life-giving acts, and I plan to start giving out more of them. How about you?

 

 

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Stormy Weather

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im-1368There is a deep irony at the heart of the story alleging that Donald Trump had an affair with an adult film star shortly after his son Barron was born. Recently, The Wall Street Journal reported that a woman named Stormy Daniels was offered $130,000 in 2016 to keep quiet about her affair with Trump. It turns out that several news organizations already had information about the alleged affair during the presidential  campaign. So why are we only learning about it now?

The mainstream media, the very institution that Donald Trump likes to vilify on a daily basis, did not have enough corroboration and therefore declined to publish what would surely have been a lurid and game-changing scoop. In other words, they were responsibly upholding journalistic standards, despite what Trump and his apologists like to claim in their near daily attacks on the press.

Just a few days ago, Trump said he would be announcing the “2017 Fake News Awards” to continue his campaign of discrediting the media. This from a man who has uttered more than 2,000 false or misleading statements in the past 355 days. (Washington Post, January 10, 2018) Sens. Jeff Flake and John McCain, both Republicans, have pointed out that dictators across the globe are using Trump’s term “fake news” to justify stifling the media in their repressive regimes. (Chicago Tribune, January 18, 2018)

Revelations that Donald Trump committed adultery yet again are hardly surprising. The man has shown himself to have few moral qualms or principles. But the president owes the mainstream media a debt of gratitude for their measured, responsible journalism. Without it, his “locker room” talk with Billy Bush that was broadcast during the campaign might have been looked upon differently. And voters might have abandoned him at the polls.

Donald Trump’s image of himself and his exaggerations about support from the American people are beginning to crumble like a week-old cake. Or to use another metaphor, his White House is a house of cards that is getting wobbly. Even his chief of staff called his Mexican border wall idea “uninformed.” I’d say he’s in for Stormy weather regardless of how this latest salacious tale plays out.

 

Hand-Written

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While on a recent family vacation, I rediscovered the joys of writing in my personal journal. I had been given the lovely book by a friend years ago and had made entries into it very sporadically over the years. But on my trip, I started getting up early, tiptoeing out of my hotel room, grabbing a cup of coffee and a chair facing the sunrise, and chronicling our vacation adventures in my journal.

It was surprisingly difficult – physically – to write in my journal. My thoughts tumbled forth, but my muscles began cramping up with the unaccustomed exertion of writing by hand. Such has been the fate of handwriting in the age of computers. I am, at this moment, typing this post on my laptop while waiting for my daughter at the dentist’s office. Convenient, right? And what’s more, I am using an online publishing website so that with the tap of a few keys, I can post it for Facebook friends and other blog followers to read.

But I think we’ve lost something through the decline in handwriting. Nowadays most college students type their lecture notes on their computers. And increasingly, elementary schools are phasing out lessons in cursive writing, citing its lack of use in modern communication. Yet studies are finding that students retain information better when they hand write their notes in class. And because cursive writing has been de-emphasized, my own children can’t even read it. What will happen in a generation or two when no one can read old documents because they’re written in cursive?

Writing by hand in my journal makes the process more meditative and connected to me. My documentation of our vacation led to more thoughtful examinations of my life, my family, and what might be coming down the road for us. Writing in my journal can be cathartic after an emotional episode. And there’s something quite beautiful about rereading my words in my own very personal and individual handwriting.

Computers are wonderful tools that make it easy to write and edit one’s work. Email makes it convenient to stay in touch in a timely fashion. But the art of writing by hand is one that I think should be resurrected in this age of internet. Imagine getting a handwritten letter by a loved one from far away. Sure, the information might not be up to the minute. But the personal nature of a letter and its relative permanence compared to email, text, or phone call make it an ideal way to make a personal and lasting connection.

I plan to fill up my journal quickly as the days and months go on. No doubt my hand muscles will adjust to the practice. I may get a little callous on my left hand ring finger the way I used to in my teaching days from grading papers. And who knows? If you’re my friend or family member, you just might be receiving a missive from me on some pretty stationery one of these days.

60 Years Young

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IMG_1530Yesterday I celebrated the milestone of turning 60. In honor of the birthday I share with the great Martin Luther King, Jr., it snowed about six inches in Chicago. As I shoveled the cold, fluffy stuff in my driveway, I felt grateful that I am still fit and healthy enough to do so as I head into my seventh decade of life. Yikes!

The thing is, I still feel young. I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling a sense of disconnect between my inner self and the aging face I see in the mirror. For one thing, I can vividly remember things from my childhood, such as playing running bases in the backyard, buying lemon jungles from the Good Humor man, and doing third grade phonics with Mrs. Walsh. Milestones such as high school graduation and my first job don’t seem that far in the past.

Emotionally, of course I’ve changed. I’m a little wiser and less susceptible to peer pressure. But I still have my insecurities, my need to be liked, and my fear of change. And while it’s true that my idea of fun nowadays is a night in with a good movie or book, I’ve never exactly been a party animal. I think that, as they age, people don’t so much change as they become a more mellow version of themselves.

The best thing about getting older has been the deepening of my relationships with my family and friends. My kids are almost all adults now, and it is so gratifying to have meaningful conversations with them. My husband and I have a comfort level with each other that was not there in the early years. I have close relationships with my mom and siblings. And I am surrounded by good friends who make me laugh and let me know I am loved just the way I am.

Just yesterday, a group of friends surprised me at a birthday lunch organized by my beloved older daughter. It gave me such a warm feeling on a cold and snowy day to share a glass of wine, a meal, and great conversation with some of my favorite women in the world.

If this is what turning 60 feels like, I’m glad to say that as of yesterday, I’m 60 years young!

 

Music or Lyrics?

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tdy_klg_terms_151113.today-vid-canonical-featured-desktopMy kids thought it was hilarious one day when they heard me singing the pop song “I Can’t Feel My Face.” My son informed me, “You know that song is about taking drugs, don’t you, Mom?” Honestly, I didn’t. To me it was just an upbeat, bouncy tune that I liked. Now it’s tainted by my knowledge that it’s about cocaine-induced numbness.

So many popular songs today have dubious subject matter and language. Rap is an obvious example. But what about more light-hearted sounding tunes? Back in the Sixties, much was made of the “hidden” drug references in such songs as “Along Comes Mary,” “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” “White Rabbit,” and yes, “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” Songs were routinely censored, and the Rolling Stones were forced to amend the lyrics “Let’s spend the night together” in order to perform the song on the Ed Sullivan Show.

With the advent of rap in the 1990s, Tipper Gore led the charge against profanity and violence in song lyrics and was successful in getting record producers to put warning labels on albums deemed offensive. When I hear some of today’s pop songs, my old favorite “Please Go All the Way” sounds positively tame by comparison.

The question is, which is more important, the music or the lyrics? I tend to go by the standard of the old pop music TV show American Bandstand: whether it has a good beat and I can dance to it. If so, it’s good enough for me. I’m reminded of a funny Chris Rock stand-up bit in which he describes young women gyrating happily to sexist and offensive hip hop songs. For the purposes of dancing or even getting from point A to point B in my car, the lyrics to a song are beside the point.

Yet meaningful lyrics can also bring so much depth to a song. Sometimes I take to a song with a monotonous tune because I love the meaning behind the song. A good example for me is “Man in the Mirror” by Michael Jackson. Another is John Lennon’s “Imagine,” which, let’s face it, is something of a dirge. But what lifts these songs for me are the words and meanings behind them. In fact, as a high school English teacher, I enjoyed using popular song lyrics as poetry in my classes.

In any event, musical taste is an individual thing, and I will continue to enjoy my bouncy pop or rowdy rock music, whether I like the lyrics or not. Just don’t tell me what “Cake By the Ocean” refers to. I don’t want to know; I just want to enjoy it.

 

Re-Entry

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After a prolonged time in outer space, astronauts have major physiological adjustments to make upon re-entry to Earth. The effects of lessened gravity make simple actions such as speaking and walking difficult once the astronaut feels the effects of Earth’s gravitational pull. Astronauts returning from the International Space Station spend weeks being tested and monitored to be sure they recover their health and stamina.

While the post-holiday stress of re-entering regular life can’t quite compare, I couldn’t help being reminded of astronauts’ ordeal as I returned from the holidays and a wonderful vacation in Hawaii.

With a four-hour time change, I am still suffering a small degree of jet lag. I can’t go to bed at night but must arise at what feels like the crack of dawn to see my daughter off to school. And speaking of school, it is hard getting back in our day to day routines after two weeks of holiday feasting, family togetherness, and fun. When my kids are on vacation, I too feel a certain license and tend to let certain everyday tasks go by the wayside. Facing the piles of paperwork and general disarray in my house has been fatiguing.

Re-entry after the Christmas holidays is especially painful to me because there is nothing that depresses me more than taking down the decorations, especially the Christmas tree. Not only is it a tedious task that somehow falls to me alone every year, but it saddens me to let the merriment of the season go. The January to April winter slog is long and sometimes disheartening. I want my jolly back.

By next week, we will have settled back into a normal routine. My sleep patterns will stabilize, and I will be in a rhythm set by my daughter’s school and sports schedules. The holidays will be a distant but pleasant memory. To ease my adjustment, I have started a new program of yoga that I hope will calm me and help banish the blues of gloomy winter days.

Despite the pain of re-entry, my life is pretty wonderful. As soon as I get my sea legs back, I intend to enjoy it to the full.

The Aloha Spirit

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IMG_2959For my upcoming 60th birthday, I wanted above all else to go on a vacation with my family. As the kids have grown, it has become increasingly difficult to have them all in one place. So a logical time to gather my crew was over the Christmas holidays. The logical place? Paradise, a.k.a. the Hawaiian island of Kauai.

Kauai and my hometown of Chicago could not be more different. The most obvious difference, especially at this time of year, is the climate. When we landed at Lihue Airport, it was a balmy 70 degrees, as opposed to the single digit temperatures that had descended on Chicago and, indeed, much of the mainland. Winter in Chicago is cold and bleak whereas the seasons on Kauai are virtually indistinguishable from each other. Everywhere we looked was a profusion of color: velvety green mountains, bright green shrubs and trees, pink and red and orange and yellow flowers. Our hotel even hosted a couple of friendly parrots and a host of noisy chickens that wandered the grounds.

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But the differences don’t stop there. Chicago is a big and somewhat impersonal city. People are in a hurry, perpetually hurtling from one activity to another. In Kauai – and all of Hawaii, really – there is a relaxed and unhurried vibe. Not for nothing are Hawaiians known for the “hang loose” gesture that implies there’s plenty of time, no need to rush. Whether driving around the island in bumper to bumper traffic, being waited on at a restaurant, or interacting with salespeople at shops, tourists need to cultivate a more easygoing temperament to match the Hawaiian way.

The Hawaiian word aloha represents the spirit of the islands. Aloha means both “hello” and “goodbye,” but most importantly, it means “love.” From the moment we landed on Hawaiian soil, we were greeted with this aloha spirit. Hotel staff greeted us by placing leis around our necks. “Aloha” constantly came out of people’s lips as they would pass us by. Smiles and friendliness were the norm and not the exception.

Another word that is important to Hawaiian culture is ohana, which means “family.” My favorite part of our Hawaiian vacation was not the fresh fish, the mai tais, or the spectacular views. It was the feeling of being surrounded by my family. We had adventures together hiking, rafting along the exotic Na Pali coast, and snorkeling in the pristine blue waters. But my favorite times were those spent together, on beach chairs just lying companionably next to each other and comparing notes about the books we were reading or the music on our iPhones. Or the relaxed dinners where we reminisced about vacations past and shared our “bests” and “worsts” of the present one.

Too soon it was time to part ways and go back to work and school in various parts of the country and the world. But my memories of this milestone birthday will always be ones filled with aloha for my ohana – and for the Hawaiian spirit that I hope will linger into a New Year in a less heavenly clime.