ABOUT CHRISTMAS EVE 15 YEARS AGO

 For as long as I can remember, and most likely from the time I was born, I spent every Christmas Eve except one with my parents until they died, my mother in 1991 and my father in 1995. (in 1959 I spent Christmas in Santa Fe with college friends.)   With only one or two exceptions, this family tradition continued from the time my children were born until last year, my first Christmas Eve without any of the children.  It was only a matter of time before this lifelong tradition would give way to a newer order of family, but understanding the inevitable could not erase some of the sorrow and loneliness of that experience.

Shortly after Christmas, Patience and I visited Paducah KY, and in a matter of weeks made the decision to sell the practice and the farm and make Paducah our retirement destination.  In the months that followed the slow and inexorable process of letting go of place, friends, and so much of what has become familiar in our lives has been at work, both at a conscious and unconscious level. Although I anticipated much of the change, I have been a little surprised by the nature of letting go of family.  I am feeling a sense of detachment from my children that is difficult to explain...certainly not a lessening of my love or my commitment, but a feeling that we are all moving into a new stage in our relationship.  It is one where the bonds that hold us together as a family are now longer, looser, and more flexible (but no less resilient), allowing us all to move freely in the directions of our choice. 

As a result of all of this I no longer expect Christmas Eve to be a gathering of all our children, though I have not given up hope that it can be.   If circumstances allow us to be together (This year we shared the evening with Sara and Dave and Beth and her family) then that is an appreciated bonus.  If we find ourselves scattered, that is OK, a sign of our family's evolution and maturity and the birth of new primary families.

SAVED BY PASTA

(Sharing a page from 5 years ago)

I think I’m going crazy, or at least flirting with it.  I’ve lost my way in the studio, unable to settle down and do anything substantial.  I spend a lot of time reading and thinking about the paintings I want to do.  But I’m not painting, just thinking about it.  When I do sit down to work I must decide what to paint, and how to do it. My options include watercolor, pastel, acrylic, oil, clay, or mixed media, and I won’t even try to go into the range of subject matter from which to choose.  (It makes me wonder how I ever got anything done.)  You can understand the torment that has been dogging me for so many weeks.

Now a lesser man than me would be a basket case at this point, but I have the one thing that keeps me tethered to reality and sanity…PASTA.  Instead of wringing my hands and fretting in the studio I’ve kept myself busy in the kitchen reading my cookbooks and reviewing recipes.  My goal is to prepare as many different pasta dishes as possible, from the most mundane to the most unique.  I look at the different recipes for ideas on which I can elaborate or modify to fit the ingredients available to me in Paducah.  Of course this means pasta every night, but that is a sacrifice I am willing to make.  My dear wife Patience, bless her heart, is willing to support me in this endeavor.

I am confident that I will be painting again, but I will not be turning my back on pasta, not after all that it is doing for me.

I AM WHAT I AM, AND THAT IS RESTLESS

I simply cannot stay still.  There is nothing in me that is willing to remain in one place for any stretch of time, my feet and legs, my mind, my attention span, everything wants to get up and go.  Go where?  It doesn’t matter, anywhere but here.

If I’m sitting if front of the TV, my fingers are constantly strumming on the arm of the chair; at our kitchen counter my feet and legs are bouncing on the footrest. In addition to creating enough noise to drive my dear wife crazy, I have managed to wear the finish off several armrests with my constant strumming.  I’m at my very best when on the cell phone.  In the kitchen I walk around the center island, continuously, without stopping for the entire call.  In the studio I will walk the length of the studio-gallery, back and forth, sometimes actually interfering with the call’s signal.  I don’t know why I do this; it is entirely unconscious.  I’m inclined to believe it is related to some prenatal event in my mother’s life.

I like to read.  There are piles of books all around our home, in my study, the studio, my beside table, and surrounding my favorite chair in the living room.  There has to be, because I rarely read one book or magazine for more than 15 or 20 minutes at any one time.  If I’m reading a mystery/thriller as soon as something critical or dangerous is about to happen I close the book and pick up another one.  Later I will return to the first book and continue reading, only to repeat the cycle again and again. 

It’s the same with my painting, regardless of the medium. I work on a painting one small stage at a time, taking frequent, totally unnecessary breaks, usually to spend another brief period of time on a book or two that I’m reading.  After painting one element or portion of the work I quickly step away, whether it took 3 minutes or 30 minutes. For this reason, I like to have more than one piece of work in progress at the same time, frequently in different mediums.  Then when I move from one to another I can feel productive and ambitious and not neurotic and spastic.  I very rarely complete a painting from start to finish in one sitting.  Small watercolors or drawings are the exception. My helter-skelter habits make for a rather schizophrenic studio, with workstations continually evolving and moving; to counter this I’ve turned to rolling carts.  I now have four of them, each holding a different medium, and easily moves about to accommodate my own moving about.

I would love to finish this piece now but I gotta go…really.

I’M WHAT I WAS BORN TO BE

 I’M WHAT I WAS BORN TO BE

How fortunate and grateful I am to be able to say that about myself.  It has been a privilege to live a life of my own design, to choose the work I felt called to do, and pursue it, unfettered by outside demands.  Well, that is not quite true.  The outside demands were minimized, not abolished.  Many of my friends and colleagues considered the choices I made courageous, and others thought them foolish; I see them as neither.  I can take no credit for being brave or wise; I simply did what I was meant to do.  The seeds that grew the temperament required to make these decisions were sown at my conception and lovingly nurtured by my parents.  All that remained for me to do was take advantage of what had been given to me.

One of my greatest wishes is that my children can say the same of themselves.

THE FRUIT OF THE VINE

I grew up with wine.  It has stained my DNA.  From the half a dozen wooden barrels of wine in our cellar to the plain gallon jug in the kitchen, wine was a constant presence in our home.   The small vineyard that once provided the grapes for my grand father’s winery could easily be seen from our kitchen window. I’ve been told he had the first commercial winery in southern New Jersey, producing a Claret that was sold behind a label reading – Father & Son  brand Claret.  Apparently it was a commercial success, until Prohibition shut is down in the 1920s.

It wasn’t a vast vineyard, but to a young boy the canopied rows of grapes seemed endless.  By the time I arrived on the scene it occupied about two acres of the twenty plus acre farm, perhaps a bit more.  It is possible it was larger during the commercial wine making days. There are many things I remember fondly from my early childhood, the persimmon, apple, and pear trees, my pony, the family cow… but more than anything else, I remember, and miss, the grapes.  I loved to walk between the rows in the late summer when the grapes were ready for picking.  The broad leaves reached above my head keeping out the sun, creating the perfect summer hide away.  But the real treasure was the delectable fruit, just hanging there waiting for me.  My favorite grapes were in the first 3 rows, large yellow and light red grapes (Niagara?) that I could squeeze and pop the pulp out of the skin into my mouth.  Oh they were good! The rest of the vineyard was given to the deep blue concord variety, also quite tasty, but smaller and less juicy.

I have the faintest memory of harvesting the grapes…I was probably 5-6 years old and I remember a lot of people walking through the rows filling their baskets with lush bunches of grapes.  To pick them my father put a funny ring on his middle finger; it had a curved blade on the top that was used to cut the stem with a simple swift flick of the wrist.  The grapes were carried to the yard between our house and one of the barns where a press had been set up.  Much to my dismay I cannot remember the actual pressing and the steps that obviously followed.  I can say with authority that I never saw anyone stomping on the grapes.  Another distressing gap in my memory is when the vineyard was removed, but maybe that’s good.

Every year my father and grandfather would make 4 or 5 barrels of wine that were kept in a small alcove in our cellar. I would occasionally help myself to a taste using a Mason jar lid.  I thought it was cool, but the truth is, I didn’t like it. .  A gallon of red wine was a fixture in our kitchen, often on the floor by my father or grandfather at dinnertime. They drank from small juice glasses, never the stemmed wine glasses we see today.   One year tragedy struck, and all the wine ended up as vinegar.  In a fit of anger my father opened the taps in all the barrels and let the wine drain onto the dirt floor.  You can only use so much red wine vinegar.  The basement never smelled the same after that.

Like so many first generation Italian-Americans, my father made wine every year, even long after the grapes were gone.  He did this his entire life excluding the few years his health prevented him from doing so. The wooden barrels where eventually replaced by five gallon glass and plastic containers, and he had to purchase the grapes from commercial suppliers.  But the wine was distinctly his own.  My mother would join in making dandelion and peach wine.

When friends and relatives came to visit they never left without first having coffee, wine, and more often than not, food.  Until he died, all of my visits to my uncle Ferrar, dad’s older brother, began with a glass of wine along with some bread, cheese, and perhaps peppers and/or salami.  Of course he made his own wine, as did my uncle Ren, another older brother, who left the farm and moved to Long Island. (His name was Communardo, but everyone called him Ren...quite understandable.)  He had his own grape arbor in the back yard.

I enjoy a small juice glass of red wine every day at lunch.  It is my way of celebrating my father and grandfather.  And I enjoy wine with my dinner, but I enjoy it more when I am sitting with one or more friends and neighbors in our kitchen or on our porch. It is a quiet way of saying, “I am glad your here with me”.  It is a gesture of friendship and hospitality.

Family, friendship, and hospitality – that sounds a lot like love to me.

About a year ago someone brought us a bottle of wine, a label I did not recognize, and as soon as I opened it the aroma of the Niagara grapes immediately brought me back to our farm, the grapes, and the wine.  If I closed my eyes I could have been standing between the rows of grapes in our modest vineyard.  It was the first time since my childhood that I experienced that fragrance.

THE HEAVINESS OF AGE

  

Last night listening to folk music from the early 60s on You Tube, I was immediately transported back to my college years (1957-1961).  Thinking about  how the years have transformed my psyche, the phrase, the heaviness of years, came immediately to mind, and as I am inclined to do, I began exploring this idea in my journal.  I thought about how age tends to diminish our ambitions, aspirations, and willingness to take risks, as well as encouraging distrust and suspicion of anything new, a growing reliance on daily routine, confusion over an evolving youth culture, and uncertainty over the extent of our personal future.  How depressing!

But even as I was writing this bleak scenario of aging, which carries a modicum of truth, I realized it was only one side of the coin; there is an equally compelling argument to make for the benefit of age.  The weight of the years is well balanced.

The uncertainty of the future   I have difficulty dealing with the loss of the “some days” of my youth.   As a younger man I could cling to the notion that someday my dreams would come true, and my aspirations achieved.  The future was limitless.  At some point in my mid 60s that began to change, the future was narrowing and the “some days” began to diminish.  Disastrous?  Perhaps, but there is another way to look at this.  With a diminishing and uncertain future, one is forced to focus on the present.  For someone who tends to spend too much time thinking about the tomorrows, this is a positive step, with each birthday I move one year closer to learning to live in and appreciate my “todays.  In the end, it is the journey, and not the destination that matters.

Following the dream and taking risks I know something about this.  At age 39 I decided to leave my private medical practice and work part time in an emergency room so I could pursue a career in art (I had no formal training).  At age 53 I opened a medical practice in a converted barn on our farm, and at age 62 moved 950 miles away from family and friends to Paducah Kentucky to be one of the first artists to sign up for their artist relocation program.  I made each of these decisions, and many others, without fear or trepidation because I was confident that they were the steps intended for me...I knew that as much as one can know something.

But now, six years later, when I think about these moves I wonder, could I do that today?  Does our spirit respond to age the way our bones and joints do?  Does it tend to get a little slow and more inclined to remain comfortable and secure rather than jump ahead into the unknown?  Those decisions were made with the security of the “some days” to fall back on if needed, “some days” that become more elusive with the passing years.

Although taking risks to pursue dreams become more difficult and perhaps more stressful, the years provide us with a new resource…experience.  And if we pay attention to our past, experience brings us another resource...wisdom.  Together they can help guide us through the transitions and changes faced in these later years.  We are better equipped to assess risks and have a more realistic notion of the consequences of our actions.  Perhaps my spirit and my personal aspirations have been buffered a bit by the years, but they remain intact, and I pursue them a bit slower, with deliberation and determination that these same years have provided.

INSECURITY? FEAR?

What drives the extreme Right Wing of the Republican Party to act and believe the way they do?  Listening and reading all that has been said over the past 8 years, one cannot avoid hearing the harshness in the voices offering policies that demean so many citizens of this country, while they benefit the wealthy and the powerful.  There is meanness to their tone and name calling, blaming the poor for being poor, and the needy for being needy. In their minds, people are poor because they are lazy, and if everyone adopted Ayn Rand’s attitude there would be no poor people.

  They not only strive to cut funding to education, but they ridicule the educated, and mock science.  Their America seems to consist only of their “base”, and their extremism eclipses any meaningful presentation or discussion of the full compliment of conservative ideas and policies. 

I believe they are afraid of a new world and new ideas that takes them out of their comfort zone.  They need the security of the past, a past that has been kind to them, if not the rest of the citizenry.  They are afraid, almost obsessed, of people getting something they don’t deserve.  They would rather deny help to many, so the few do not get undeserved help.  This fear renders them incapable of offering forgiveness, i.e. amnesty, so they support policies that would tear apart families and punish children, policies devoid of any compassion or caring for fellow human beings. 

And they hide their fear and insecurity behind the giant screens of, Christian fundamentalism, the evils of “big government”, and the myth of the self-made man.

Taxes have been demonized, stripped of all the civic services they allow our government to provide, because government itself is evil.  This promotes their real agenda, enhancement of the establishment and the moneyed corporations, by preventing much needed government regulations to protect us from the unscrupulous actions of too big to fail banks and industries.  (Unfortunately their “liberal” colleagues often join them, as they kiss the asses of their cash-giving supporters.)  They want a 19^th century government to serve us in the 21^st century.

This extreme thinking not only goes far beyond classic conservative thinking, it threatens our country with its “my way or no way” attitude.  Valuable conservative policies and ideas are lost amidst all the inflammatory rhetoric.  We are not a country of conservatives, or liberals.  We are a country of conservatives and liberals, and to succeed we must find a way to respectfully serve both.

Extremism, conservative or progressive is understandable, and even healthy, only when accompanied by  willingness to compromise.

THE WINDS OF TIME from TRANSITIONS

TIME   

Time swiftly rushes past me,

Pushing me ahead faster than I want to move.

I brace myself not to be blown forward into what is yet to be.

At the same time it is flowing through me.

A gentle breeze pushing against me,

Urging me back to what is no longer there.

I have no choice.

Winds of Time

The winds of time blow ever violently behind me,

Pushing me forward faster than I want to go,

To unfamiliar places, to what is yet to be.

At the same time a gentler wind,

Almost a breeze, blows softly in my face,

Urging me backwards to where I have been,

To the familiar, to what was and is no more.

I am moving in opposite directions,

And that feels good.

I embrace the hope and promise of what lies ahead,

And find comfort in the memories of the past.

SUMMER NIGHTS

1955, and the summer dress code was dungarees (they weren’t called jeans then) with the cuffs folded to create a “pegged pants” look, and a white tee shirt with rolled up sleeves and a pack of cigarettes folded into one of them.  If you were not wearing machine boots you had on penny loafers –with socks.  The look of the fifties has been well documented, albeit exaggerated, on TV and in the movies.

For a teenager without a drivers license there was not much too do on summer evenings in a rural town of 3000 people except hang out, and we had a great place to do just that…Bob White’s custard and pizza stand.  The building was small, you ordered from the outside, but attached to it was a covered patio with tables, chairs, and a jukebox, everything a group of teenagers needed to entertain themselves for an hour or two.  Our gatherings varied from as few as 3 or 4 of us to as many as 8-10.  We were not rowdy and the worst thing we did was dance, which wasn’t allowed (something to do with the stand’s business license).

Landisville’s “downtown” stretched for about one mile along US Highway 40 (Harding Highway in our township) and included a drugstore, several restaurants and taverns, a movie theater, several gas stations, and a few assorted local business, including BW’s custard and pizza stand on the eastern part of town.  US 40, one of early coast-to-coast highways, was about ¼ mile from our farm.  If I drove from our house to the highway and turned right I could be in Philadelphia in an hour; if I turned left, one hour would find me in Atlantic City.  In the 1950’s this was the most direct route from Philadelphia to the southern Jersey Shore - Atlantic City, Wildwood, Ocean City, and Cape May.  This meant slow, bumper-to- bumper traffic through our town on summer weekends, especially Friday and Sunday evenings.  The traffic was our entertainment as well as our audience.  Looking back on those summer evenings, sitting outside and listening to the music, just a stones throw from the cars slowly making their way through town, I can see how we played to the people looking at us through open windows.   I don’t think it had anything to do with trying to impress these strangers driving through our community.  We were teenagers who simply wanted to be what we thought we were...cool.  Not for anyone’s sake but our own.  And we did this while we ate our subs and/or pizza, drank soda, smoked cigarettes, and listened to the music.  There was no beer, no fighting, and no loud cars racing around town, just a group of friends who shared the same classrooms since age 5 looking for a way to have fun.

VALUES A Primer for Politicians

“Vote for my candidate because he shares your values.”  How often have you heard that during the recent election campaign? “Values”, a word tossed about with a demeaning casualness in today’s public discourse but rarely defined, leaving the term open to a variety of interpretations.  I suspect most of the time it is code word used to reach the base audience of the speaker or writer, so there is no reason to clarify or define what these values are. In today’s cultural cauldron when a politician talks of “values” he is most likely referring to one, or all, of the following:  homosexuality, gay marriage, and abortion. By definition, any position on these issues can be held in high value, and it is easy to understand why they have become so contentious.

My concern is not with these issues, but that they have come to be the public definition of our cultural and social values, at the expense of others.  There are several that I consider far more important than one’s beliefs about sexuality and abortion. There are values that reflect our behavior, attitude, and treatment of others, values that determine the character of our society. 

HONESTY & INTEGRITY

I see this as the bedrock of all of the others.  The concept of honesty, as it applies to our interactions with others, is not a difficult one to understand. Honesty also means not misrepresenting facts or purposely omitting facts that do not support your position.  An even more important aspect of honesty is being honest with our selves.  If we cannot do this, then we cannot be honest with others.   Self-deception is dangerously easy, but recognizing and acknowledging it is difficult.

Honesty also means not misrepresenting yourself, pretending to be something else for purposes of deception and/or personal gain.

CIVILITY

Without civility we degrade into an antagonistic, bombastic society, awash with name-calling and inflammatory rhetoric, which effectively precludes thoughtful dialog as well as mutual respect.  It is easy to be polite and courteous to those we like and who share our sentiment.  The challenge is to extend that same treatment to those with whom we disagree.

THOUGHTFULNESS

Imagine how different our national politics would be if thoughtfulness was valued. Thoughtfulness should be at the top of the list of values to be cultivated and nurtured.  It is a rare occasion that does not allow us time to think before we speak or act.  Even more important is how we formulate our opinions and ideas, and how we respond to those that differ from our own.  Thoughtfulness can prevent inflammatory and emotional exchanges with others.  It gives us pause to reflect on the nature and validity of opinions and ideas we confront, our own, and those of others. It provides the time and space needed to develop respect for conflicting beliefs, and to critically examine our own.

RESPECT – UNDERSTANDING – TOLERANCE

Politically and culturally our society has become increasingly divisive, leading to antagonistic and inflammatory dialog on many issues.  My concern is that some people come to see this as the only way – or an accepted way – to deal with conflict and disagreements.  But when we take the time to quietly exchange ideas and beliefs we usually find that what we have in common is far more than what we disagree on.  We need to learn to respect those who disagree with us, by leaning heavily on our shared commonality.

This can be accomplished by developing listening skills, to hear what is being said, without immediately responding defensively and reiterating our own feelings and ideas.  The person disagreeing with you probably feels as deeply and passionately about his or her position or belief as you do.

I am not proposing that we ignore our differences; that would be neither possible nor desirable.  On the contrary, we should, learn from one another by embracing them and selecting the best that each has to offer. This will not happen until we embrace these values.  Without them, partisanship and distrust flourishes, preventing meaningful compromise.  And a Democracy representing over 300 million people cannot survive without its leadership compromising on its political and fiscal policies, and its citizens respecting religious differences.

Unfortunately, for someone whose primary interest is personal gain and not the common good, none of this would be of interest.

A GENTLE MAN AM I

At least that is how I think of myself, and I believe those who know me would agree with this humble assessment.  I abhor violence of any kind and would never think of striking someone, well, OK, maybe I would think of it, but would never do so!  (When I was 9 years old I did punch a friend in his nose, but that was only because I was provoked.)  Except in very rare circumstances I do not yell and scream at others.  In fact, my life in general has been focused on making other people feel better about themselves, both physically and emotionally.  So the incident I am about to describe is totally out of character for me, in fact looking back I cannot believe it really happened, but it did.

Emergency medicine in a busy city hospital can be challenging and stressful, especially on Friday and Saturday nights when there is no telling who and what will walk through the door.  A lot can happen to drive an otherwise sane and gentle person to uncharacteristic behavior.  THAT is my excuse, and I’m sticking to it!

Shortly after the ”last call” in the local pubs we could count on several patients scattered about the ER on gurneys in various states of acute intoxication.  Most of the time they were understandably subdued and quiet, but there was always the occasional obnoxious drunk who could not resist articulating his (they were almost always men.) alcohol-tainted feelings about his life’s circumstances to anyone and everyone in hearing distance.

It had been an especially busy night and I was near the end of my shift in the acute care unit.  I was tired and depleted, struggling to cope with all that was required of me, and this one very noisy and obscene drunk was beginning to get on my nerves.  A constant stream of obscenities flowed from his mouth, loud enough to be heard by the other patients in the area.  I politely asked him to be quiet, repeatedly, to no avail.  I tried pleading, coxing, and even bribing, but nothing worked.  Finally in desperation I threatened him!  I told him that if he did not cease his yelling I would remove his filthy socks from his equally filthy feet and stuff them in his mouth!!  Actually I believe I yelled something like, “if you don’t shout your g………m filthy mouth I’ll’....well, you get the idea.  He told me to F___ off, and continued to yell and swear. So I did it!  To the shock of the nurses and staff, and to the patient, I pulled off one of his socks, balled it up, and shoved it into his mouth.

I don’t know how many of you readers have had the occasion to remove socks from the feet of some one who hasn’t bathed in who knows how long; the skin of the lower legs and feet is dry, flaky, and dirty, and when a sock is pulled of the foot it is invariably accompanied by dry flakes of dirty skin.

I really don’t know how long it remained in his mouth, far less than a minute.  But it was effective.  He knew I was not some one to antagonize; in his alcohol-saturated mind I was mean and evil, and certainly not a compassionate healer.  I suspected that even the ER staff looked at me a little differently after that.

There is no telling what a Friday night shift in the ER will do to a person

THE NAVIGATOR from TRANSITIONS

≈

From TRANSITIONS, a compilation of notes and poems from my journal documenting the stormy journey from medicine to art.
 

Without our hearts to guide us, we lose our way

On paths so dimly lit

Our heart

Will see where our eyes cannot see

Will hear what our ears cannot hear

Will know what our mind cannot know

It is the link to our soul

The navigator of life’s journey

1980

PATRIOTISM

The dictionary defines patriotism as “love for or devotion to one’s country”.  In America we have endless opportunities to express our patriotism in national and local commemorations, as well as privately, in manners of our own choosing.  The pride and love we feel for our country comes from a deeply seated emotional bonding that develops unconsciously over our lifetime.  Who has not experienced goose bumps when hearing the National Anthem, or God Bless America?  How often have we shed tears at the site of flag draped caskets carrying fallen soldiers back home to heartbroken loved ones? These deeply rooted emotional bonds provide the energy that fuels our celebratory parades, fire works, and music, and helps us create  red, white, and blue landscapes on our streets and homes.  And they do much more; they drive young men and women into military service, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice when the country they love is threatened.  Patriotism’s power is immense, and can find expression in many ways.

Although they may overlap, expressing our patriotism and acting on it are two different things.  There are some simple expressions that require little effort: bumper stickers and decals that claim support for our troops, similar signage on buildings and windows, and American flags on our homes or in our yards.  Then there are acts of patriotism that require much more of us.  Although service in the military or other national service programs are not available to all of us, others are. Participating in civic affairs and making an effort to become an informed voter are acts of patriotism. 

There is some flag waving that I consider adolescent.  The adolescent patriot bears the signs that read – My country, love it or leave it, and My country, right or wrong, or, This is America, speak English.  He or she adamantly believes in the concept of American Exceptionalism, and demeans anyone who speaks critically of our country.   He will not abide anyone who “disrespects” the American flag, and bristles at the notion of having to apologize for any of America’s actions or policies.  As sincere and heartfelt as these beliefs are, they do a disservice to America.

In contrast, there are the mature patriots, who recognize their responsibility as citizens to address America’s shortcomings as well as her greatness.  They understand that before a problem can be corrected it must first be acknowledged. They work quietly, without a great deal of fanfare, and are not interested in drawing attention to themselves. Recognizing that America is part of a global community and that our country is not perfect, and not “the best” in everything, the mature patriot is willing to admit, and apologize for America’s errors.  

Our pride in all that is great about America is not diminished by a willingness to face her flaws and her mistakes.  Our quest for greatness can begin with the humble acknowledgement that as members of a global community we share equally in God’s grace.  To be exceptional in this community, we must act exceptionally, and we cannot do this if we remain blinded to our shortcomings. 

GARLIC, ANCHOVIES, ANXIETY, AND ART

I love garlic – or more accurately – I love cooking with garlic.  I don’t like eating it by itself, raw, or cooked.  In fact I distinctly dislike it.  But when it is added to other ingredients it enhances the flavor and adds a unique and delightful touch to the dish.  When used properly garlic makes everything better than it is; it can make a cook look good.  The same applies to anchovies.  The small fillets packed in oil have a pungent odor and a taste that must be “acquired”, something I have yet to fully accomplish.  But like garlic, when used in measured amounts with other ingredients they add another dimension to the flavor without imposing their own.  Three or four finely chopped fillets added early in the process of making tomato sauce for “Sunday pasta” enriches the sauce without revealing their presence.

Anxiety (and worry) is a lot like garlic and anchovies.  Its value depends on the circumstances and the amount.  Anxiety over something we have no control is wasted energy.  When it is excessive it can be debilitating, rendering us helpless and unable to function.  And yet there are times when we cannot help crying over the spilled milk.  Anxiety can be forceful and overwhelming when it is unchecked.  So much so that it is listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

Anxiety disorders are the most common mental illness in the U.S., affecting almost 20% of adults, according to leading specialists in anxiety treatment. (http://www.webmd.com/anxiety-panic/guide/anxiety-panic-guide-overview-facts)  But in small doses, anxiety can behave like garlic and anchovies, and become a useful and helpful tool.

I’m sure I’m not the only artist to hear the comment, “how relaxing it must be to paint”.  When asked about this I am quick to point out that painting is definitely not a relaxing exercise for me. In fact it is usually very stressful, especially as the painting progresses and I invest more and more of myself in the work. I have a tendency – okay, it is more of an unbreakable habit than a tendency – to put off the more difficult parts of the painting for as long as possible.  And when I am forced to confront them, I can count on the accompaniment of palpable anxiety.  I have learned that this is not only inevitable, but a welcomed part of the creative process. My best work is always accomplished under the duress of varying degrees of anxiety. Its presence tells me that I am moving forward into unfamiliar places where real creative growth is possible.

This is the positive side of anxiety.  When we are faced with a need to act, a task at hand, or a decision to be made, it can be helpful rather than incapacitating.  It sharpens our minds and increases our awareness of all of options and their potential hazards.  It helps us determine whether we should be cautious or aggressive.  The right amount of anxiety may urge us to go ahead and push at those boundaries, or it may cause us to pause, and discover previously unknown obstacles lying in wait for us.  In its own way, anxiety makes us a little bit wiser. It does not promise success, but encourages the effort. It has taught me to appreciate the difference between stress and distress.  In measured and controllable amounts, anxiety is my friend.  There is little question in my mind that my creative efforts need anxiety as much as my cooking needs garlic and an occasional anchovy.

NOW - A journey in words

Today’s post is taken from my book, TRANSITIONS, a compilation of notes and poems from my journal documenting the stormy journey from medicine to art.

INTRODUCTION

Words are the tools we use to give form and substance to our lives.  They help us understand our stories by allowing us to confront, question, and ponder.  With words we can invite others into our world.

Sometimes the words are given to us, erupting from our subconscious un-announced, as precious gifts from the soul.  Other times we must do the work, struggling to find the words we need.  The words in this book are a mixture of both; many were “given to me”, while others required work.

As I am writing this introduction it occurs to me that perhaps even those words we must work for, are, in the end, also gifts.

NOW

I have been standing – waiting – waiting

Waiting to move closer to the edge

Slowly – imperceptibly – moving toward the brink

Slowly – imperceptibly – removing myself from those around me

The path wanders, my journey falters, appearing to cease

But always – always moving closer to the edge

Where I must step up to the brink and declare my faith

And the willingness to stand alone – and face the darkness

1/19/78

BOSTON

1976   I was 37 years old as the country celebrated its Bicentennial anniversary. Amy was 11 years old, Beth 7, and Sara 5.  My medical practice of 5 years, once a source of unbridled pleasure and satisfaction, was beginning to lose its luster, and my emotional, and spiritual wellbeing was gradually declining.  Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I did not know this was the beginning of a journey that would take me to places I never could have imagined.

I was attending an Oncology review course at the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.  Greeting me at the conference hall for the 9 a.m. session was an all too familiar scene: a spacious hall with rows of tables facing a lectern located in front of a large screen, and smaller tables along the sides of the hall with coffee, tea, and water.  Each registrant was given a syllabus with a daily schedule of lectures and an outline of each presentation, along with a pad of paper and one or more very sharp pencils.  The lights were dimmed, the first slide projected on the screen, and the speaker began to read directly from the slide, the same material – word for word - that was in the syllabus.  It took less than 10 minutes for the sleep inducing boredom to set in. I knew from previous Continuing Education courses my fate was sealed for the next 3 days.  Or was it? This was the last place on earth I wanted to be on that day, and after 30 excruciating minutes I got up and walked out, never looked back, and did not return for the remainder of the 3-day course.

I walked back to the hotel to get my canvas shoulder bag with my faithful Parker 45 fountain pen and sketchbooks, and set out to explore the city.  And explore it is exactly what I did, walking through every section and neighborhood of Boston over the next 3 days.  On the third day, I took the train across the Charles River and wandered about Cambridge and the Harvard campus.  I loved every minute of each day, quite remarkable for someone who was not fond of sight seeing, and dining alone.  It was more than just the visual delights of Boston’s urban landscape that captivated me; I was experiencing an incredible sense of being centered within myself.  Everything was as it should be in my small world.  I was doing what I was meant to do. 

Those three days in Boston 36 years ago were to mark the beginning of an incredible journey, taking me through the most intense years of my life.  Four years later I would make the decision to leave my practice and pursue a life as an artist.