Monday, September 28, 2015

Studies Show That Gratitude Makes Us Healthier!


A New York Times article, by John Tierney, A Serving Of Gratitude May Save the Day, instantly became a “Most E-mailed “ article. Tierney cited a number of impressive studies as to how gratitude—a major spiritual practice--generates better sleep, helps to reduce anxiety and depression and promotes kinder behavior.

 Based on the findings of experiments conducted by Robert A. Emmons and Michael E. McCullough, Tierney suggests beginning with “gratitude lite,” that is, keeping a journal listing five things for which we feel grateful each week. A good idea, but even better if you do it every
day.

At a time in my life when I was coming out of a second marriage, my heart broken and despair clinging to me like wet clothes, each night in my strange, new, isolated town, my place of escape, I wrote in my journal anything nice that had happened to me that day. The sentences were simple: “The man at the drugstore smiled at me.” “The sun sparkled on the Bay.” “I made a real dinner tonight for myself.” Such ordinary things, things that nowadays might easily escape my awareness.

Why does gratitude writing over time lift the spirit? How is it that digging for and finding miniscule nuggets of pleasure can help to heal a fractured soul? The process of writing them down reinforces our awareness: of the man smiling, of the sun sparkling. We get to relive those fleeting pleasures and for those few moments we are pulled up and out of our sticky selves, out of the mire of depression that can surround us like a dark blanket of fog. Not only that, but the more we are aware of our gratefulness, quite astonishingly, the more frequently opportunities for gratefulness will arise.

This is not an exercise just for those who are depressed; this is for all of us, all the time, every day of our lives. Don’t we all want to be happier and more optimistic? Then some form of gratitude practice, any form that suits you, is the way.

Tiny and not so tiny miracles do happen every day in all of our lives. Absolutely. Hey! What about when, after dragging my reluctant body to the annual gastroenterology inspection, my very conscientious  gastroenterologist says to me, “I don’t think you need to have any more colonoscopies.” Is that a miracle or what? My feet barely touched ground as I left her office.

Miracles, large and small are constantly there; we just have to notice them. We need to bring the bar way low so that we don’t miss even the tiniest one.  On this subject, a spiritual teacher of mine used to say, “Think of it as a savings account. You are banking gratitude, banking joy. There is so much in life that is not joyous so you need to have a strong and plentiful savings.”

Tierney’s article goes on to tell us that a study at the University of Kentucky revealed that gratitude practioners are less bothered by criticism, less likely to feel the need to counter attack when criticized. “Says Nathan De Wall, who led the study at the University of Kentucky, ‘It (gratitude) helps people become less aggressive by enhancing their empathy.’”

The more actively grateful we are, the more empathic and kinder we are towards others. Everybody wins.

We can expand our gratitude practice from the personal level to the national, gratefully acknowledging that, severe economic and political turmoil notwithstanding, we live in a predominantly peaceful society where our children can be clothed and educated, where we can purchase food: a country in which our doors will not be inexplicably shattered in the night by police who will drag us away.

A recent visitor here, Harold Koenig, M.D., Director of Duke University’s Center for Spirituality, Theology and Health, told a gathering of some three hundred people at Southport Congregational church that studies show that people with rich spiritual/religious lives—the gratitude people who believe their lives have meaning--are generally healthier, happier and recover from illness more quickly and with fewer complications than secular humanists.

As a result of these studies, Dr. Koenig is urging that all medical personnel be trained to become capable of engaging in approriate spiritual conversations with their patients.

Wouldn’t that be a good thing!


We all want to be healthier and happier. Yes? If there were a pill that would offer us better health and more happiness it would be selling off the charts. Don’t waste another day. Begin a regular practice of gratitiude now and watch what happens!

Monday, September 21, 2015

A Prescription To Fill and Refill

I am in shock and horror over the sight of the Syrian refugees fleeing for their lives: thousands of starving, desperate people having trudged for hundreds of miles bearing children on their backs, staring woefully at the fencing topped with curled razor wire which now defines the Hungarian border. My heart breaks for the terrified and homeless people seeking freedom and instead, finding tear gas, batons that strike and rejection. The sharp contrast of how very comfortable my own life is, is painful and disturbing.

And yet, what is Hungary to do with all these refuges? Is Hungary at fault here? And Croatia? What is the EU doing to coordinate assistance to the poorer Balkan countries? Even Germany, once welcoming, is beginning to close doors. We will take 85,000 this year. That's something. The tsunami of homeless, frightened people is more than any one country can handle.

My second horror in the news is over the hundreds of thousands of acres of land and houses burning all over the west, particularly in the state of Washington and California. I am awed by the heroic and courageous persistence of firefighters who fight fires the height and breadth of the Rocky Mountains, and who often have to make a desperate choice between what town they can save and what town they must allow to burn to the ground.

Except for these stunning evening news moments of sadness, anger, frustration and helplessness, there is in my life that which, of late, consumes me with another kind of fire altogether: the fire of creativity: that is my Healing Into Aging group at the Southport Congregational Church.

I love the work! I love the prep: the reading: so many terrific books: one leading into another. The group is wonderful. Aging is all the rage. Everyone is doing it!

After much discussion of material from Aging Well, by George E. Vaillant, MD, together, the group created a list of behaviors and attitudes they believe constitutes a recipe for successful aging.

Reading it over, I thought that it was not only a recipe for healthy and vital aging, but also a good list for living life fully at any age. Not only a recipe then, but, if you will, a prescription to fill and refill in order to attain an “certain” age with most, if not all, of our batteries sparking.

This is the list. You might want to add thoughts of your own. I would be happy to receive them.


WHAT PROMOTES AND SUSTAINS SUCCESSFUL AGING

·      Looking forward to each day
·      Enjoying today
·      Being engaged with your community and the world
·      Being grateful
·      Having friends/ caring for people when needed
·      Having/creating new experiences
·      Taking risks
·      Sharing talents, using your gifts
·      Continuing to learn
·      Being active
·      Feeling useful
·      Mentoring
·      Keeping healthy/ exercising
·      Finding humor in each day
·      Not taking ourselves too seriously
·      A positive attitude
·      Faith, however you choose to express it.


  We are so fortunate! It is only when a solid level of survival is assured—and we have that--that human beings have the luxury of contemplating the quality of their lives. So much of the world is in tragic upheaval. We are extraordinarily blessed.

Monday, September 14, 2015

Life Is What's Happening


Sometimes life just jerks you around and no matter what you have planned you have to go wherever it takes you.

In early May, 2009, as always, my attention had turned toward my cottage in England. Emails were flying back and forth between the house-minder and me: Can we fix the table on the terrace that lost a leg at the end of last summer? Do I need a fresh canister of gas for the grill? Just try to fill a prescription for three months through AARP. You can’t believe the layers of illogical hoops you have to jump through.

I was poised at the first of those hoops when suddenly, George, the husband of fifty-five years of my oldest friend, Peg, died at their home in North Carolina. Peg wanted me to come after the funeral and stay with her. 

Peg and I became friends at 22, living in a small Ohio town, having our three babies at roughly the same times. Together we pushed prams along the sidewalks, organized school car pools, shared back yard suppers. We drove to Cleveland to take Tai Chi with Al Chuang (Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain) and Gestalt workshops with Esalen’s Will Shutz. We became consecutive Junior League of Toledo presidents, and after that, we formed a business in which we designed and led leadership- training workshops for both women and men. We had fun.

When I broke my ankle in the jungle of Costa Rica, Peg was the friend who refused to allow the guide to abandon me in the hotel for three days—no flights home were immediately available. “We will take her with us,” Peg told him. “We will take care of her.” And she did.

Thoughts of England were put on hold; I headed for North Carolina.

Peg’s grief was raw and wrenching, her loss a kind of amputation. We held each other and cried. We walked when we could, when it wasn’t raining which it too often was. I urged her up hills and along paths, more walking than she thought she could do. We cooked food that she hadn’t much interest in. We talked about the past, about George. We closed George’s bank account; we reconciled the checkbooks. George always did all the financial tasks and Peg’s grief had demolished her ability to concentrate.

I knew that that she would always feel the loss of George, but that her grief would eventually become an ache rather than the way it was now, sharp as a knife. I assured her that she would not always be, as she put it, a “deranged person.” I haven’t lost a husband of many years, but there was a time in my life when loss had slammed me into the fetal position so I knew something of what she was going through.

Shattered by Peg’s grief and my own---any grief brings up all grief--- and stunned once again by the fragility of human existence, I arrived home exhausted. For three days I was non-functional.

On the fourth day a concert was scheduled at Trinity Episcopal Church. I had planned to go, that is, before my trip to North Carolina, but the evening of the concert was rainy and cold and, given my mood, the couch in front of the television set looked a far better place for me to be. What if I burst into tears during the concert? I vacillated back and forth but in the end my love of music triumphed and I went.

The Knights Chamber Orchestra played Beethoven’s Symphony #7 and from the opening bars I was transported. I’ve heard lots of Beethoven played but never before with such juicy aliveness. The musicians were passionately involved in the music they were creating. Some were even smiling and, suddenly, I was smiling with them. The chorus and soloists, who followed, sang so beautifully that I felt my body relax and my heart surrender. Music: a glorious healing gift.

Life refuses to wrap up in the tidy way that essays usually do. Derailed from my excitement about England, called to attend Peg’s grief, brought to a bereaved stand-still of my own, then lifted and freed by the music: it’s all just that rollercoaster of life happening isn’t it? Life happening in and around and through us. Exciting, painful, uplifting. No matter what, dive right in. It’s worth it to live every moment with your whole heart.
***


 Because these days my mind is wrapped around the Healing Into Aging series that I am leading, for a few weeks I am resurrecting past newspaper columns I hope you will enjoy.

Monday, September 7, 2015

Making Corrections: The Story of Our Lives


Early in the fall last year I went out for the evening with two women friends (Sally and Judy) on our mutual friend, Rob’s, 36-foot lobster yacht. It was a perfect evening, in the 70s, sunny and bright. The wind had been blowing steadily during the day so, as we left the harbor, we headed into some chop that we had to power through--the windshield wipers swishing back and forth like mad. We were headed west to Cockenoe Island where we planned to anchor, have some wine and cheese, and just enjoy the evening.

Rob’s boat, Anja, is wide and comfortable, the cockpit a small cushiony living room and the space in the stern easily accommodated the four of us in folding chairs. The full moon was rising as the sun was setting turning the sky to flame.  Feeling the sun and the breeze on our faces, floating peacefully on the Sound, we acknowledged our pleasure in being able to be there. We gawked at a parachute sailor who sped past us. Holding the line to his skyward sail with one hand, he smiled and waved at us with the other as he whizzed by.

I don’t know how long we were anchored, perhaps an hour. We wanted to get back before dark and, because the water was pretty turbulent we knew getting home to Southport could take a while. Tossing the remaining chips and cheese to the fish, we folded and stashed the chairs.

Sally managed the boat while Rob and I went forward to cope with the anchor. I had to be told what to do. I know nothing of powerboats. Sailboats, yes, power boats, no. Sally did a great job following our hand signals and we got the anchor up without mishap. My job, it turned out, was to spray the anchor clean as it rose out of the water. No problem; I could handle that.

While I was chatting with Judy, Sally was driving us home, Rob standing close behind her. I noticed that we were being lifted and dropped sideways by some substantial swells.

“What’s up, Sally?” I asked.

“Do you want to take it?” was her reply.

I heard myself say, “Sure!”

In just minutes with the wheel in my hands I knew what I—and Sally before me--was up against: Our course toward the Southport/ Fairfield coastline forced us to cross the swells and they were having their way with us. A strong pull and lift to starboard veered us way off course, then a downward slide to port was pulling us off in the other direction. Trying to control the extent of the pull from one side then to the other took everything I had.

“This is work!” I fussed.

“You are doing fine,” Rob said from behind me. “Much better than the auto pilot. You are making the corrections sooner which helps.”

Encouraged by our captain, I carried on, keeping my eye on the beach house on the strip of sand way ahead, using it as my guide. If I remained watchful, anticipating every lifting swell to the right, and then compensating for the drop down to the left; if I could  manage that for long enough, we would eventually arrive at the entrance of the channel.

We were never in any danger; this was just concentrated effort. We needed to cross those swells. We needed to get from here to there, period.

The late Rock Hildreth, a master carpenter friend of mine, once told me how difficult it was even in carpentry to find a true straight line between two points. “You think a line is plumb,” Rock would say, “and then you find it isn’t, not quite, and you have to go back and get it right. Maybe more than once.”

At least in carpentry straight lines do exist; they are findable. But how rare it is in life that we are able to follow a straight line from start to finish in anything we do? Swells of one kind or another throw us off course constantly. Corrections have to be made. Planes get canceled; we make new travel plans. The best knitters find a mistake rows back and rip out inches of their work in order to correct it. Certainly no career path is straight; careers are fraught with detours and occasional dead ends. A spouse dies; we must find a way to live. Some choices we make pay off; lots don’t.


 So what do we do? We hang on and keep on making corrections till one way or another our purposes are achieved and we arrive at the opening of a welcoming channel. And, as good as that feels, we know it’s not the arrival, but the journey itself, the struggle along the way, that is the making of us: the creation of the story of our lives.