EAT PRAY LOVE – A friend in a time of vulnerability

credit: Wikipedia

credit: Wikipedia

Ruin is a gift. Ruin is the road to transformation.” — Elizabeth Gilbert

Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert came out in 2006, but it didn’t cross my radar until 2008. The book entered my life as an empathetic friend that I carried with me for several months. When I needed to, I re-read parts I’d underlined. For a time I had the friend I needed in a magical object that gives us access to the mind of another human being: a book.

By the time Gilbert’s memoir reached me, I’d already leveled my life as an earthquake does a stone house:  jobless, divorced, custody of the dog given over to my ex, living in Australia working on a masters in creative writing. I was thirty-eight years old. Everything I’d worked towards over twenty years and tied my self-worth to was gone.

In 2008 I traveled to Bali. It was there, at a small resort on the north coast, far from the tourist beaches at Kuta, that I first encountered Eat Pray Love. A friend, whom I’d met there, gave her copy to me. She recognized grief in my eyes and thought I might connect with the story.

Yes, I knew grief. Eighteen months earlier, my whole self was engorged with it. It settled into my bones, my muscles, my heart and gut, as well as my mind. I was still living in the same house as my ex-husband. There were carpenters and plumbers raging through my home, they and their machines straining our line of credit. The renovation that we’d embarked upon to build our dream house turned into one designed to flip it instead.

P finally admitted that he’d checked out of our marriage years earlier and that he was sleeping with the ex-librarian at his engineering company. I’d already found the Viagra he’d hidden in the antique sideboard I’d inherited from grandmother.

I wasn’t working, nor was I looking because I was doubled over with grief over infertility. I was writing shitty short stories instead. And crying. A lot. I even cried during corpse pose in my yoga class.

When not crying, I walked the dog.

I stopped eating and dropped two dress sizes.

My mother was diagnosed with endometrial cancer and wanted me to go to the doctor with her. I had a flat tire on the day she met with the surgeon and couldn’t get there.

My dog accidentally punctured the fleshy part of my hand with an incisor when I was trying to get something out of his mouth. It wasn’t a big deal, and I ignored it until it was obvious that an infection was tracking up a vein in my arm. I went to emergency. I had to endure five days of intravenous antibiotics administered 7/24 through an automatic drip system that strapped to my waist. The veins in my hands were small. The damn needle kept slipping out. I drove myself to the emergency room in the middle of the night to restart the IV more than once.

Meanwhile, P ambled down the steps each night fresh out of the shower, a little blue pill in his pocket.

I was not only sad but pissed off.

I found a therapist. She helped me to identify the heart of my problems: My life reflected the pain and sorrow lived by my mother, father, and brother. She understood that I’d been trying to fix something and failing. She showed me how I’d denied my own needs for a long time, creating a narrative that marginalized my own nature. I was an artistic type damn it, and it was time to figure out what that meant.

So, by the time Eat Pray Love came along, I was already in the throes of a mid-life transformation, I was ready to read the book with an open mind instead of judging it as self-indulgent pap. Eat Pray Love affirmed that it was okay for me to experience my life as it was currently unfolding, that I wasn’t alone in my search for not only happiness but wholeness, a sense that I was enough. Gilbert’s story gave me permission to work on my relationship with myself and to trust how my life was unfolding rather than try to control it. The book didn’t make me jump from a metaphorical cliff into the unknown, but it was a story I related to in a profound way.

Elizabeth Gilbert and I were grieving dead marriages and so much more. Grief visits us after many types of losses: death of a loved one, unemployment, diagnosis of illness, fractured relationships, and even when our ideals flame out. Grief makes us vulnerable. It stops us in our tracks. Feelings and thoughts bubble to the surface that prevent us from ever being the same again. Experiencing it brings us closer to our humanity.

Yet, in our culture we’re supposed to pick ourselves up and carry on without making anyone else uncomfortable by exposing our vulnerability to them. Gilbert exposed herself all over the page, and she did it with great humor and compassion. The act of writing in itself made her vulnerable. I understood that. I was halfway through a creative writing thesis, a novel that on the surface addressed broad social themes, but was really about mothers and daughters.

Before then, I might have judged Eat Pray Love as an effort that reaffirmed the “me” in the “me generation.” But by 2008 I’d already had my my own crisis of the soul and realized that salvation lay in my willingness to open to vulnerability. That’s what Gilbert’s memoir did for me. It helped me to name what was happening to me and to know that it was okay, even desirable, especially if my intention was to extend compassion and happiness to others. Sure, we both fucked up along the way, but that was and is a desirable thing. How else are we to learn a new way of being? We learn from our screw ups, not our successes. She made herself vulnerable. She screwed up. She rebuilt her life. I was doing the same.

There was a huge question on my mind during the time I was reading Eat Pray Love: How do we unburden ourselves from the suffering we have no business carrying around? By this I mean the suffering of others, the intergenerational suffering we unwittingly inherit and may not recognize at first for what it is. Or, perhaps we do recognize it as belonging to someone else, but we strap it to our backs anyway out of a sense of duty and responsibility that may be misplaced. Sometimes this becomes a smokescreen for avoiding our own emotional work, the kind of work that helps us evolve toward maturity and gives us the will to take risks such as ending a marriage, quitting a job that meets our material needs but neglects our souls, forgiving a family member and letting them go.

Richard from Texas was a great friend to Liz. He disarmed her with love rather than shaming her. I wish the friend who was with me during the breakdown of my marriage had done the same. One night she looked me in the eye and asked, “When are you going to get over this?” It was spoken as a barb. An attempt to shame me into apologizing to her for my misdirected negativity. The lesson was two-fold: First, don’t take your pain out on your friends; second, when a friend who is in a dark place is unkind to you, don’t shame them. Hug the nasty out of them instead. It might save your friendship. Our memories for feelings are stronger than our memories for logic.

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote that

deep grief sometimes is almost like a specific location, a coordinate on a map of time. When you are standing in that forest of sorrow, you cannot imagine that you could ever find your way to a better place, but if someone can assure you that they themselves have stood in that same place and now have moved on, sometimes this will bring hope.”

Reading Eat Pray Love made me feel less alone in a time when I was lonely and grieving. And isn’t the point of literature to communicate something true about the human condition and to demonstrate empathy?

For Crying Out Loud, Let the Kid Study Creative Arts if She Wants To

fish 3 (1)

A couple of weeks back, I had dinner with someone I hadn’t seen in ten years. Let’s call him GG, short for Gordon Gekko. We worked together in sales at Xerox. Although he eventually left Xerox too, he remains engaged in similar work that pays him extremely well, which he also happens to like. I, on the other hand swore I’d never wear a suit again.

GG once told me that married women who stayed home and raised their children were whores. Actually, mothers dependent on spouses or inherited wealth or welfare were worse than whores. They were takers when they should be makers who paid someone else to raise their kids. Such was the kind of convoluted thinking that went hand in hand with an economic mindset that valued prostitution more than motherhood.

He didn’t reach this conclusion in a vacuum. The cultural mindset that grabbed hold in the 1980s with the rise of Reagan and Thatcher, and which gathered steam through the last twenty years took him there.

If this is a view of motherhood accepted by some otherwise bright people, what the heck do they think of artists and writers, many of whom don’t care all that much about money? What would they say to a child who wished to become one?

GG asked me if I missed it, the hustle of corporate deal making and the ridiculous commissions we earned. I told him no; I didn’t have to do that any more and I wasn’t going to. He looked surprised. I can only surmise that he thought that writing and teaching others to write should be hobbies. They couldn’t be fulfilling in and of themselves because I don’t make much money from them. Nor are they prestigious. Newsflash: corporate sales wasn’t prestigious either, yet it paid well. The market valued it.

Talking to him reminded me of David Foster Wallace’s commencement address at Kenyon College. In his preamble Wallace referenced a parable about a pair of young fish swimming side by side. An older fish passed them and asked, “How do you like the water today, boys?” One fish looked at the other and said, “What the fuck is water?”

GG’s attitude suggested he believed the only moral way for individuals to live was by collecting a salary. He wasn’t aware of the ocean and its possibilities for a different kind of life.

This view leaves no room for creative people who work independently, accepting the implied risks, with no certainty that they’ll ever make money. The creative arts, whose function is to find new ways to make meaningful the nature of the water we’re swimming in, generate a kind of knowledge whose value is not easily measured with money unless you start thinking about ticket sales, box-office receipts, auction prices, book sales, advertising revenue, and so forth.

Painters don’t price their work based on some perceived hourly wage that includes the time it takes paint to dry. Nobody ever started an experimental theater company because they thought they could make eighty thousand dollars a year plus benefits. They started because they had something to say, something that needed expression.

Anyone whose temperament predisposes her to this kind of work, which boils down to creating something that didn’t exist before, and who also takes a job at a corporation to keep a roof over her head, has to evaluate the water she’s swimming in. If she ignores it she risks turning herself into an alcoholic cat kicker.

For some of us, nine to five is no way to live. We are in pain when we realize that the water we’re depending on for our lives is not ocean water, connected to all of nature and the wonders of the world, but chlorinated pool water. We are like trapped orcas at Sea World.

And yet, what do we tell our children with similar temperaments? Like GG, we tell them to go to business school or to study biochemistry or computers or dentistry. We think such disciplines will set them up for a safe life, free from financial risks. We worry that if we encourage our kids into music or acting or writing or painting they will be doomed to a life of poverty; that they will become takers rather than makers.

What we’re really telling kids when we discourage them from pursuing degrees in creative arts is that we don’t have any confidence in them. You’re not good enough is the message we’re sending before they’ve even tried. It’s a terrible thing to do to a young person. Often, they listen to us and regret it later in life.

The salaried class of the twentieth century economy fears the gig economy its youth faces in the twenty-first century. On the surface it is scary. There’s a lot riding on an individual’s ability to sell herself over and over and remain relevant to market forces.

However, in reality salaried people face the same risk, it’s simply masked by the tissue of security the corporation offers. The fact is that most workers change jobs an average of every five years and that the knowledge they begin their careers with loses its currency. The world of work is changing all the time and workers adapt. The lifespan of a marketing degree or even a general business degree is about five years. Experience and lifelong learning are what keep individuals relevant.

The skills that last a lifetime are critical thinking & analytical reading, writing, problem solving, asking questions, focussed reasoning, and doing research. All of which are learned in creative arts degrees.

Measuring the value of an education with starting salaries is as idiotic as comparing unpaid mothers to prostitutes.

The truth is that arts graduates are everywhere, applying their knowledge and skills to many of the world’s problems in an infinite variety of ways.

A friend of mine with a background in both classical music performance and improv comedy runs a successful business coaching executives, sales people, and anyone else who needs to communicate effectively in meetings and presentations. I’ve met psychologists with undergraduate degrees in fine art. I know others who work in the tech industry—arty types seem to be good at app development. They also excel at working with people. More than one human resources executive I’ve met holds a music degree. My neighbor makes a living composing musical scores for feature films, documentaries, corporate videos, and TV.

Often when we discourage our kids from artistic education paths, what we’re revealing is not truth about the world but our own ignorance. Arts and culture industries contribute $25B per year to the US economy, according to the Bureau of Economic Analysis. What’s so bad about having a kid who wants to be a part of that?

Secretly, we fear that all of this artiness is a sign of a mental disorder. We’re afraid of what might happen to her if she goes down that road. Might she be polluted by drugs, sex, and rock n’ roll? Will she spiral down into a rabbit hole of addiction or worse? Look at how many writers drank themselves to death for god’s sake. Poverty is the least of it.

The fact is that there is no conclusive scientific evidence linking mental illness to creativity. The stuff we hear about in the popular media is based mostly on conjecture or weak science. Just because some famous people suffered unhappy ends—Amy Winehouse, Nina Simone, Phillip Seymour Hoffmann, Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, and so forth—doesn’t mean that all creative people face similar fates. They are hardly a representative sample.

In a paper published in the Canadian Journal of Psychiatry, Dr. C. Waddell found that

Of 29 studies that evaluated possible associations between creativity and mental illness, 15 found no evidence to link creativity and mental illness, 9 found positive evidence, and 5 had unclear findings. Most studies used flawed methodologies with weak (case series or case control) designs. There were no randomized or prospective cohort studies. Adequate criteria for determining causal association were not met. In 34 selective reviews, despite mixed evidence, many authors asserted that creativity and mental illness were positively or causally associated.

Think about that last sentence for a minute. Despite evidence and weak study design, some authors concluded that a positive association existed when none was proven. We appear to have a bias against creatives throughout our society. We want to believe that they’re crazy. Why? Do they threaten us in some way? Are we afraid of people who are aware of the water?

In this month’s Harper’s Magazine William Deresiewcz pointed out that our finest universities whose primary function should be to encourage young minds to become aware of the water aren’t interested in doing so anymore. Such a mission doesn’t suit the market’s demands. There isn’t any money in producing independent thinkers these days.

The most odious example of this thinking was Gov. Scott Walker’s attempt to alter the University of Wisconsin’s mission. Walker tried to strike language that invoked public service and the search for truth and replaced it with a phrase that could have come from Stalin’s lips: The mission of the university was to “meet the state’s workforce needs.”

Such an attitude threatens to kill the innovation that made this country great.The American tradition of a liberal arts education made the United States unique, creating an innovative and confident populace of free thinkers. Where would Apple be today if Steve Jobs hadn’t taken a class in typesetting & font design at Reed College just because the wind took him that way? Now this tradition is threatened by powerful elites who don’t want to be challenged.

One purpose of art is to point out the poison in the water, and to do it in an a way that people relate to. Academic tomes don’t cut it on their own. We need people with the energy and vision to generate their own analysis of culture and society through books, films, plays, songs and paintings in order to keep America relevant and free.

So let kids pursue the arts if they want to. They’ll figure out how to make money. They’re more than capable. They’re often the sanest fish in the sea.

Up Close and Personal: Why Museums Matter in the Age of the Internet


Two hours inside the drawing library at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City touched me in a way that I am only now beginning to understand, weeks after the fact.

I went to New York at the invitation of Carrie, my stepdaughter, on a four-day tour organized by her art school. I wanted to learn more and to show my support for Carrie’s decision to study full-time at The Gage Academy of Art. In the end, I came away from the trip with an unexpected lesson in intimacy, a deeper understanding about the human condition.


As soon as The Met opens, I follow Seattle-based artist Mark Kang-O’Higgins, our tour guide, and Carrie through the rotunda. We climb the stairs, then turn left, passing through a gallery of drawings. We arrive at an unmarked door. The dozen or so others in our group gather around.

Behind that door are the librarians charged with storing and caring for The Met’s collection of over one million prints and drawings. This room is not open to the public, though people with research credentials, such as Kang-O’Higgins, can make an appointment in advance and request to view work from the collection.

The librarian brings out a da Vinci drawing, “The Head of the Virgin in Three-Quarter View Facing Right,” and all fifteen of us hush. Our faces open to the wonder of the moment. There are no distractions. Bags and mobile phones were left at the door. The only things in our hands are sketch pads and pencils. Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks. It is beautiful and sublime.

Metropolitan Museum Online Catalogue

Metropolitan Museum Online Catalogue

A rare feeling comes over me, one that I experience in Catholic churches and in the presence of grand landscapes, such as Yosemite National Park or Tasmania. It’s a feeling that grounds itself in the body. I am suddenly aware of my physicality and that of my surroundings, but a seemingly contradictory temporal fogginess sets in too, a deep sense of connection across time that can’t be described. If I try, I’ll sound like a stoner.

Viewing the da Vinci is an aesthetic experience that connects us with five hundred years of human history, to a genius whose legacy remains relevant today. The heart and mind of Leonardo stands revealed to us. It is a moment of great intimacy.

It doesn’t last long, the collective breath holding. The silence gives way to whispers about the da Vinci and other work that is brought out, including the Degas below. Yet the feeling of intimacy remains.

Image: Metropolitan Museum Catalogue

Metropolitan Museum Online Catalogue


Art is by its nature intimate. We read a novel and we feel we know something personal and true about the author. So it is for a painting and painter, music and musician, dance and dancer, drama and dramatist, joke and joker.

Seeing the original drawings produced an experience and response that viewing the pictures online could not. Everyone was alive and attentive to the moment, even the librarians snarling, Don’t touch anything.

Why? What was so special about this moment that can’t be reproduced by the Internet?

I felt comfortable just looking. I didn’t need to look at my phone. I didn’t need to talk. I focussed on what surrounded me, a group of people united by their passion for making and appreciating art. I wasn’t bored for a moment.

Many of us met for the first time the day before; we didn’t have a shared sense of familiarity that might have elevated the moment. Yet, we shared something profound that connected us through space and time, and then poof! The time was up and we were left with our memories.

If we were to regroup now and revisit that moment, the act of reminiscing would in itself be a new experience, as no two remembrances would be the same. If we asked, how was it for you? We would get fifteen different responses. We might find a common thread, perhaps. But everyone would agree that the moment was real. It happened. So, we might ask, then what is reality? What is real for me may not be real for you. Yet, art interprets and abstracts from reality, often with great empathy for the human condition. How can it do this if reality is a function of individuality?

I think that the key to unlocking empathy is not so much imagining myself in the shoes of another, but in understanding that what is real for them is not necessarily real for me; and, therefore, one function of art is to express and represent conflicting, divergent, and common realities. One kind of knowledge lodged within art resides within the intersection between realities expressed by both its creator and the audience who views it, responds to it, attempts to interpret it.

Across cultures there appears a universal need to express ourselves, to represent humanity with all of its contradictions, its goodness and evil, its beauty and its grotesqueness, through artistic representation. Art reveals to us what we think, who and what we are, and also what we wish to be, even when we can’t face these truths directly through discourse. It links the individual to the social. Things fall apart when we’re alienated from each other in both our individual realities and in our art.

What I witnessed in the drawing library can’t be replicated by Facebook, either. Digital social media is about solidifying masks, whereas in The Met that day the masks fell away, as individuals reveled in delight and awe.

In the age of the Internet, the physical experience shared in physical proximity with others remains more gratifying than the virtual one. We willingly spend money on airfare and hotel to commune with the thing itself even though we can view it on our phones anytime, anywhere. This need and desire for presence, the stimulation of all our senses, is our way of linking with the real such that we can build a narrative of who we really are for an audience of one, ourselves.

The online world of bits and bytes diminishes us to some extent, though exactly how it does this isn’t something that I fully understand. Perhaps it has something to do with the concept of Facebook envy identified in a study by Ethan Koss at The University of Michigan. The Internet makes us feel alienated from others by filtering reality. It creates the conditions that prevent intimacy — jealousy, fear, envy, self-doubt, anger and outrage.

Our online profiles aren’t us, and we know it. Not to know it would mean that we are unhinged, our door to the world fallen from its frame and the boundaries between self and image breached.

I look at LinkedIn and it makes me sad sometimes. All of us clinging to some image of a salable self based on advice from other people on LinkedIn. Few are authentic. Most are guessing at what to share in order to become relevant to an indifferent marketplace.

Online social media is based on excess, on over-production of everything and, in the words of Susan Sontag, the “result is a steady loss of sharpness in our sensory experience.” This explosion in the accessibility of everything, both beautiful and profane, dulls us. We need to see and experience our lives in the dimension of the real, where all of our senses are engaged. Our wellbeing appears to require it.

When we experience with all of our senses we become connected to the social in a way that virtual experiences mitigated by our devices and public personas cannot. Our minds remain profoundly anchored by the physical, and we are diminished by the virtual.

Art affirms that we are exceptional creatures in the known universe. The human brain is the most complex system known to us. So why are we so quick to take reductionist views of human nature and humanity in general, particularly in the age of a digital world where all who wish to connect can? I’m thinking here of Richard Dawkins and his selfish gene, and all the other neo-Darwinists who reduce human nature to a matter of survival of the species and procreation. If this were the case, then why bother with art at all?

Art has no survival benefits that I can name. I suppose we could argue, for example, that it’s a cool way to get chicks into bed, or that beautiful people become actors in order to meet and mate with other beautiful people, but then how would you explain the wretched, solitary writer who wrote a script for them? Or the audience who could have invested the price of the ticket into oysters or Viagra instead?

Art seeks to describe or show that which cannot be portrayed with words alone, only felt. It attempts to reach that part of the brain that contains inherited experience and is understood only as feeling and instinct, Jung’s collective unconscious if you like. Science seems to back Jung up on this now too. Check out this bit of research describing how our genes are impacted by the experiences of our ancestors: Grandma’s Experiences Leave Epigenetic Mark on Your Genes

So, if art doesn’t benefit us materially* then surely we can accept that humans are complicated creatures who have a need for spiritual connection that has traditionally found expression in religious practice, which, historically speaking, spawned a great deal of artistic endeavor.

It’s interesting to note that in an age of religious doubt, even atheists like me are reduced to using the language of religion to describe lived experience. Miraculous: the fact of our very existence in the cosmos. Faith: in the ability of science to describe phenomenon we cannot perceive directly with our senses; atoms, neurotransmitters, and the vacuum of space for starters.

And what about the soul? We talk about it all time. People speak of soul mates and soul destroying jobs. But, as Marilynne Robinson points out in her essay, “Freedom of Thought,” both science and the church dumb down the narrative of the soul through reductivism and fundamentalism.

We remain a mystery, a complex one at that. The scientific literature that crosses my desk confirms this day after day, expanding my sense of the miraculous nature of our existence, our planet, our minds.

Art feeds the soul. Science expands knowledge. However, taken in isolation, neither gives us wisdom. We develop wisdom through lived experience and the unexplained miracle of our brains that gifts us with thought, reason, wonder, the ability to pay attention to more than survival and to ask: What does it mean to live well and to be good? Why are we here?

In the drawing library at The Met, the answer became clear to me. Human beings are individuals here for the purpose of connection with each other. Everything we do either brings us closer or pushes us apart. We feel good when we’re connected and lousy when we aren’t. That’s it. This aspect of human nature drives everything else.
* Which isn’t true, by the way. Arts and culture industries contribute $7B to the US economy annually. Carrie isn’t a fool to attempt to join such an industry in her own way and in her own time.

Against Perfectionism

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor. The enemy of the people.” Anne Lamott

I taught a series of four classes at The Women’s University Club of Seattle in February. I borrowed from Francine Prose and called it “Learning to Read Like A Writer.” Really, it was a beginner’s writing class for a group of highly literate individuals who harbored secret desires. They wanted to commit their stories to the page but feared exposure.

woman-writing-in-cafe_2On the first night I asked them to introduce themselves and describe what they were working on — a novel, non-fiction, personal essays, etc. All of them had projects in mind. When I asked what was stopping them, the subject of perfectionism came up; they wanted to write better damn it. The subtext of their comments was that it’s okay to be a perfectionist, but dodgy to be a creative artist, with all the mess this implies.

That’s the rub. In our culture we view perfectionism as a virtue, a sign that we are conscientious, that we care. It’s the fault most easily spun as a virtue in a job interview. And in the worlds of financial accounting and aerospace engineering it might well be a virtue. A company’s share price can plummet overnight if the quarterly profit report is missing a digit. A skipped item on an aircraft safety checklist can kill.

In the case of a writer or any artist, perfectionism is egoism. We want to look good. It’s a way to avoid vulnerability. It’s our inner censor at work and the killer of originality and meaningfulness. The perfectionist doubts her abilities and will do everything in her power to avoid risking exposure as a fraud. Perfectionism prevents us from trying anything new unless we can do it perfectly. It makes no room for beginners, practice or play.

Perfectionism is therefore a kind of psychological prison and the enemy of art.

“Inspiration may be a form of superconsciousness, or perhaps of subconsciousness — I wouldn’t know. But I am sure it is the antithesis of self-consciousness.” – Aaron Copland.

When we begin we need to set ourselves free on the page in order to see what we uncover. We can fix it later. First we must try.

“Let go! Be careless, reckless! Be a lion, be a pirate! Write any old way” and forget about your reader for now (Brenda Ueland). Just begin. Dare to practice. Dare to fail. Good writing is re-writing, but first we must make something we can revise.

I say all of this knowing that I am no different. In fact, I suspect that some of the writers who led the fiction workshops I dared to attend long ago, while I was still a cog in the corporate machine, thought I had no hope; I was so tight, self-conscious and clueless, just another one of the deluded millions who thought writing was easy.

What they didn’t know about me was that, although I am at times a self-conscious neurotic wreck, I am also persistent, resilient and courageous. My whole life was leading up to the act of courage that took me to Australia, alone, daring to try this writing thing unencumbered by my old life, armed with the faith that if I jumped into the abyss the net would appear.

Perfectionism prevents us from trusting ourselves enough to leap, and it keeps our lives small. I leave you with a quote from Theodore Roosevelt:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.

20 Beauty “Secrets”

Hiking In New Zealand 2010

Hiking In New Zealand 2010

I had to see a dermatologist this past month.

While I was there I asked about various cosmetic procedures for improving one’s middle aged face. She told me that I didn’t really need anything, that I was lucky at my age. No Botox, Thermage, or peels required, they wouldn’t make a noticeable difference. She sent me off with some retinol and instructions on how to use it to freshen up my complexion.

So, in the spirit of the holiday season, I am sharing everything I know about beauty with you. I learned all of this stuff the hard way, through experience. When I talk about getting fit, it’s because I was a fat, wheezing lump at 25. When I mention divorce, it’s because I’ve been there too. None of this is as glib as it may sound.

  1. Throw away department store skin care products and buy Cetaphil cleanser and moisturizer instead. The expensive crap sold by the major cosmetics companies is full of ingredients that irritate skin, cause allergic reactions, and generally won’t do anything that any gentle cleanser, water, and a moisturizer can’t. I learned this after spending hundreds of dollars on products from Clinique, Estee Lauder, and others. My dermatologist validated this. When I asked her about what kind of moisturizer to use with the retinol cream she said “Cetaphil” before I told her that I was already using it.
  2. Sleep 7-9 hours each night.
  3. Always use sunscreen and wear a hat outside.
  4. Drink lots of water. If your pee isn’t clear, you’re not trying hard enough.
  5. Eat real food. If the ingredients list has stuff you can’t pronounce and/or was developed in a lab instead of nature, don’t eat it.
  6. Never ever drink soda pop or sweetened crap such as Snapple.
  7. Avoid artificial sweeteners. If you must consume something with sugar, use the real thing or honey.
  8. Eat yogurt everyday — a good quality full-fat, unflavored & unsweetened plain yogurt with probiotic cultures. Gut health effects your whole body.
  9. Stop buying women’s fashion and beauty magazines. They just make you feel bad about yourself.
  10. Exercise every day. Find something you like and do it, preferably outdoors if your climate permits. This does not mean that you must train like an Olympic athlete. Just do something to keep your muscles, heart, and bones strong. A benefit from breaking a sweat is that you circulate oxygen to your skin too. It doesn’t have to take a long time either. Studies show that a hard 30 minute workout is more effective than a long, slow one.
  11. Build a supportive social network of people who won’t screw you, shame you, manipulate you, or bully you. E.G.  J. befriended me 20 years ago. After a few months of knowing her, she tried to get me to invest $10,000 in a pyramid scheme. I dropped her like the turd she was.
  12. Don’t shame, bully, or manipulate others. This may be hard sometimes, depending on what’s happening in your life. Be aware, take responsibility and make amends when you catch yourself engaging in these negative behaviors. Then forgive yourself. This will go a long way towards developing #11.
  13. Be kind to yourself. Don’t expect perfection.
  14. Don’t smoke.
  15. Consume alcohol responsibly. Nobody’s mug shot looks good.
  16. Love someone other than yourself.
  17. Don’t waste time trying to change other people. A pig in a tux is still a swine. This includes spouses. If you screwed up and picked the wrong fella, cut your losses. Nothing ages you faster than being in a bad relationship. Divorce is gut wrenching, but trust that you will come through it better off than if you’d stayed. You might not see how right now. That’s normal. Consider the opportunities that are closed to you if you don’t make a change.
  18. Invest in health insurance. Go to the dentist twice a year. In the end, your body is all you can count as your own for life. Money comes and goes, as do all material possessions, friends and lovers.
  19. If you find yourself suffering repetitive strain injuries from the exercise program you select, talk to a physiotherapist or other health professional about them. I discovered that I needed custom orthotics for my running shoes, and it has made all the difference.
  20. Have fun. Find work that you like, and if for some reason you are stuck in a job that isn’t sustaining your spirit as well as your rent, then cultivate a hobby or another outlet for enjoying your life. It isn’t always practical to “follow our bliss” when it comes to our jobs, but we can find other ways to nurture ourselves creatively, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually. We must, otherwise we wilt away.

That’s it, everything I’ve learned about beauty and aging after 46 years on this planet.

Top 10 Wines – 2014

I haven’t tried any of these, but now I have something to work towards over the holidays.

Whine And Cheers For Wine

TOP 10 Wines Picked by You


As 2014 comes to a speedy end it is time to let the Whine and Cheers readers decide what the TOP wines of the year were for them. With close to 40,000 hits it’s interesting to see which wines are being researched the most.

Even more compelling to me is where these searches are coming from. Listed below at the end of this post you’ll find the TOP 15 countries [out of 96!] where searches were initiated leading them to Whine and Cheers for Wine.  For those wonderingRepublic of Tanzania came in at number 16!

As the drum-roll begins I have to admit that one post in particular wins the gold star for most hits all year-long. No matter the day, the week or the month, wine drinkers are intrigued and their attention peaked. The honor belongs to Australia’s 19 CRIMES Red Blend…

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