Nostalgia and Longing

NMy wife doesn’t like one (or more) of my favorite songs: Night Moves by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. I thought it was our differing tastes in music (she’s country, I’m rock and roll), but one day our son pointed out why. It’s a ‘guy’ song. I also realized that we each look back in time with different memories. Never mind that she really does not enjoy the raspy-voiced shouting of old Bob. The song, written and recorded by Seger in 1976, is a coming of age tale about adolescent love and an adult memory of it. It strikes memories of my times in the early sixties.

For the past twenty years, I have learned to live in the moment – to let go of the past and disregard future problems. So, for me to admit that I long for, or crave anything from the past would be contrary to my philosophy of life. Like anyone, I would certainly enjoy repeating pleasurable experiences. But I can’t. I suppose that is what makes them nostalgic. However, I must admit to my instinctive fondness for a decade from the past. A longing is a desire for a person, object, or outcome. I suppose that we all have them, but desire can get us into situations we would rather not be in – trouble.

nostalgiaDuring the 1970s I graduated from college (many thought impossible), I re-entered the Air Force as an officer, I completed flight training, all my children were born, and I turned thirty (I thought that impossible and I sadly became untrustworthy— relates to the famous “don’t trust anyone over 30” adage of Jack Weinberg, activist of the 1960s, now 76). I usually listen to the music of the 70s. While I enjoy those songs for their own value, the music also often brings with it memories and feelings that can only be called nostalgia. Sometimes, it makes me feel profoundly sad. I’m not sure why, but I suppose it has to do with something that will never be again.

john_travolta_night_feverIt was the decade of great music, great movies, and great TV. The politics were interesting. How often do we get to see a president resign? I am working on a historical-fiction novel, set in the 1970s. We had Star Wars, ABBA, and the Beatles break-up. Elvis died. Everything was either brown or orange including the shag pile carpeting (ok, add yucky gold). We had platform shoes, Charlies Angels, Mork and Mindy, metal drinking cups, portable hair dryers, Holly Hobbie, Lava Lamps, and the most outlandish fashions ever for America and England. Who could ask for more? We typed on typewriters, went to Tupperware parties, and air conditioning was a welcome luxury. And who did not have an 8-track?

“I woke last night to the sound of thunderBob_Seger_2013
How far off I sat and wondered
Started humming a song from 1962
Ain’t it funny how the night moves
When you just don’t seem to have as much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closing in.” ~ Bob Seger, Night Moves

Men in Her Doorway

She was born about a century ago into a society where racism, sexism, and white male superiority were status quo. She and her sister were daughters of a Welsh immigrant coal miner and his Irish-Catholic wife. It was 1920, and she was an eight-year-old little girl with curly red hair. Her early twentieth-century life was made more difficult in that her mother had died two years earlier. Prohibition and Woman’s Suffrage were the topics being discussed in government and social gatherings. Inside the many, soon to be illegal, drinking establishments, these legal or social-issues were bantered about as either evil or redemptive. Few streets were paved, coal was king, and indoor plumbing was a luxury. Their widowed father had enrolled them in a full-time, strict, residential Catholic boarding school. That would happen soon, but not today.

The First Man

Since father usually made a stop or two on his way home, it was hard to judge his arrival time. When the men who worked twelve or more hours in the underground coal mines finished their work-day, they walked home. Their visible skin was black, covered in coal dust. Because eye sockets and the area of their lips were usually wiped clean, they looked like men in the black-face makeup of the vaudeville and minstrel shows of the day. Coal miner cloths were always filthy. Their appearance was distinct.

Old-Miner-Photos~~element13She had been in the kitchen helping her slightly-older, barely-teenage sister prepare dinner, but she knew it was nearly that time. She moved to the living room where she could take her usual position. Soon enough, she heard his familiar cough and the sound of his voice as he acknowledged neighbors. As he grew near and she could tell it was him, her excitement would grow as it had for years. She felt delight and love for this stoic Welshman. After work, he was usually more outgoing, partly due to the social and medicinal nature of his homeward-trek diversions. The front door was never locked, so when he opened it, his familiar frame was encased by the doorway. Each time this happened it was the same—she would jump up and run toward him and he would immediately stop her. “Now Bernie, you mustn’t get your dress dirty. Where is Dee?” The sight of her father set in the doorway after returning home would be fixed in her mind for the rest of her life.

The Second Man

Her first marriage ended in the disaster of desertion. With her baby daughter in tow and no financial help, but technically still married, she moved back in with her family. Her father had long since remarried to a widow with three children. They had two more daughters together. It was a full and busy home. She struggled emotionally and financially, taking whatever work she could find. Her income was from seasonal stints making candy at local candy stores. Back then, most candy stores made what they sold in the store. Now in her thirties, she was seeing a man whose wife had died a year or so earlier. At some point, she became aware of another major life-changing event. During what must have been a traumatic and embarrassing time, she finally divorced her first husband and persuaded the Catholic Church to annul that marriage. After the wedding, she and her teenage daughter moved into his house with him and his two children. She was now stepmother, stepsister, half-sister, remarried, and pregnant. She had married a coal miner, like her father.

National_Coal_Co__-_National__UTWhen this man returned home from work, he wore the same drab trappings of men who worked long days underground in a dark, dirty, and dangerous world. He would arrive home from the alley at the back and enter directly into the kitchen. When she looked up, his black silhouette was framed by the kitchen doorway. Her 1920s childhood had been replaced by post-WWII drudgery and insecurity. Their son was born seven months into the marriage. She named him after her father, who died a year earlier. Each day, she was relieved to see her husband return safely home. Funerals and memorial services for coal miners killed in mine disasters were common. Eventually, in the 1950s, the anthracite coal industry would be undermined and replaced by oil.

Coal was not only king, it was the only real industry in the region and the workers knew nothing else. Her husband, and eventually all other coal miners would lose their jobs. The region became disastrously economically depressed. She would end up working in a shoe factory because her husband was unable to find a job; and when he did, it paid little. To support the family, she would spend years working in the shoe factory. The family struggled, but managed. And eventually, by the 1970s, each of the four children moved on to marriages and families of their own. But, when her husband became ill, she neglected her health for his. Following his death, she finally got the lump in her breast seen about—more bad news.

The Third Man

The cancer had taken its toll, but she’d survived almost ten years. Mastectomy and radiation treatments where long past, but a spot on her lung was determined to be metastasized breast cancer. It was back. While in the hospital following surgery, she was sitting on a window sill looking outside at what she thought was a beautiful day. She had a positive attitude and was looking forward to better times. It was a nice day and soon he would be with her.

Third ManShe heard footsteps, a familiar cough, and his voice speaking to nurses. She had turned and was looking up just as he stepped on the threshold into her room. She loved the way he looked in his uniform and was delighted to see this man standing there, framed by the hospital-room doorway. She jumped up and ran to him as only a woman in her seventies could. Unlike the days with her stoic father and distant husbands, this man embraced her. They hugged and kissed for a while. She looked up at him and said, “I am so happy to see you.” He smiled and looking down at her asked, “Mom, didn’t you just have surgery?” “I don’t care,” she said. “You are here now.”

Laughter

LI claim a few basic beliefs. I believe in love, perseverance, and personal strength through relationships. I believe in memories and in karma. I believe in music, compassion, and empathy. But mostly I believe in the power and value of laughter; the more painful and debilitating the laugh, the better. Striking sadness, awe, loss, illness, and awareness of world misery affect me too. Sign me up for the clichés of humor: to die laughing, having the last laugh, laughter is the best medicine, and a side-splitting belly laugh. If you are infected with the acute illness of laughing for no apparent reason, I want to be infected too. I love to laugh. When I hear a good joke, it’s hard for me to retell it because I laugh so hard in the process. I want to be embarrassed and need to leave because I’m overcome by laughter. I want to laugh at everything. When seeing and hearing the laughter of others, especially children, I want to laugh without knowing why.laughter 1

I’ve learned to manage some difficult or embarrassing times in my life by viewing them as though watching a TV Sitcom. Often, if what I’m dealing with was happening to George Costanza, I’d be laughing. Laughing at my circumstances was not always easy or achievable, but it helped. My favorite TV shows are Sitcoms. I look for romantic comedy in movies. I read humor. And I know that I am not alone.

My observation of life and personal experience has taught me that laughter is important. I can feel the benefit of my own laughter and I can see how it helps others. I believe laughing is physically, mentally, and spiritually beneficial. It’s healthy. My goofy, snorting laugh may trigger others to laugh or it may annoy them. Either way, I am not talking about the embarrassingly polite giggle, which is apologized for too-often. I want the Texas-sized, hee-haw that can blast a soft out both nostrils for ten feet. I want the kind where I hold one hand up in protest while the other tries to relieve the pain in my side. Laughing has turned my face shades of red and purple while tears flooded out of my eyes to cover my face. I am a true believer.

Laughter 2A question I like to ask is, “What do you want?” Answers vary, but mine is, “I want happiness.” Looking back on life, it is difficult to recall happy times with no laughter. It makes me feel good. Laughter is a natural high like no other. It’s free. We can’t over-dose. I thank all kinds of humor for making me laugh. Many things are funny, some are not. But I laugh anyway.

If you think unfiltered laughter is nonsense, I defer to Ron Dahl who said, “A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men”. Or better yet, to Dr. Seuss, “I like nonsense; it wakes up the brain cells.”

Because my clock is ticking too quickly and sometimes I take myself too seriously, I need the rush of endorphins of a full-throttle laugh as often as possible. People who laugh are happy. And happy people live longer, richer lives. So the next time there’s an opportunity to laugh, I will delight in the maximum amount.

I agree with Oscar Wilde, “Life is too important to be taken seriously.”

I choose to laugh while I can.

Kaffeeklatsch

KLong before I ever entertained the idea that I might want to write Eagle and Childthings that people don’t pay me for (as in my old day job), I read a biography about J.R.R. Tolkien. It impressed me that he and his writer group (the Inklings), which included C.S. Lewis, would gather at a pub (The Eagle and Child) to discuss writing and literature. They would read what they had written to each other and critique each other’s work. I want to be there to watch, to listen, to learn, and to discover. Can you imagine? This happened in the 1930s, 40s and 50s. Lewis and Tolkien were alive and writing during my lifetime.

It was purely accidental last November that I noticed a schedule of events taped to the window of the PNWA Writer’s Cottage. I was attempting my first novel with NaNoWriMo. It was the schedule of write-ins, meetings, and events for the Snoqualmie Valley Region of NaNoWriMo. Eventually, I managed to attend a couple of the write-ins. After finishing, as I let my novel percolate for about six weeks, I noticed that this group (as Snovalleywrites) is a year-round, active collection of novelists, non-fiction, fantasy, romance, mystery, and memoir writers, poets, and ghost-writers with a wealth of experience, knowledge, and talent regarding every aspect of writing from the first idea through publishing. I am now a novice member among this enthusiastic group of men and (mostly) women of letters. We have two “write-in” gatherings per week. One is Wednesday evenings at a nice pub (Little Si Restaurant and Pub) in North Bend, Washington. The other is the topic of this blog.

Friday mornings I get in my car, or climb on my motor scooter and drive about thirty minutes to the town of Snoqualmie, Washington. There I meet with a group of aspiring and successful writers at a charming place called The Black Dog Arts Cafe. This is my Kaffeeklatsch. While the majority of conversation is writing or publishing-related, it is a most pleasant gathering of friends and associates willing to converse about any topic. This friendly and welcoming group has taught me a lot about my newly discovered craft of writing. We range in age from low twenties to high ‘not-gunna-talk-about-its.’

Coffee and writersIronically, unlike the Inklings who were exclusively male, most ‘members’ of the kaffeeklatch group are women. The group was started by one of them (Hi Caz). We drink coffee (or your choice of morning beverage), eat, and talk. Some in attendance have even confessed to getting some writing done. I wouldn’t miss it. If you’re looking for me between nine and noon on Friday mornings, check the Black Dog in Snoqualmie. I am the one with short gray hair, wearing a cap, mostly listening, frequently laughing, and totally confused. Who is to say that the next Tolkien or Lewis is not sitting there, telling me how I need to work on my plot?

Jekyll and Hyde

 

JJekyll and Hyde (The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde [1886] by Robert Louis Stevenson)

rl stevensonThis classic was written 130 years ago. It is available free on Amazon and you can add an audio version for about a dollar. Even in the book, the age old struggle of people to understand and to deal with the dual nature of mankind is acknowledged.

Several interesting features of the allegory should not be overlooked. First, Dr. Jekyll discovers a potion to separate his dark side, in the person of Mr. Hyde, from his good side. But never, is the good independent of the evil. You can have duality, or proof that it exists through Hyde. But there is no Mr. Wonderful in the story.

Second, the narrator is Mr. Gabriel John Utterson, who only briefly is acknowledged to have a dark side. But he is given every detail to tell the story and in the end, gives us Jekyll’s full explanation and rationale, which is very good, in my opinion. Of the three (or four if you separate Jekyll and Hyde) main characters, only he survives – dark side intact.

1280px-Dr_Jekyll_and_Mr_Hyde_poster_edit1Third, when Dr. Hastie Lanyon is faced with the reality of the dark side, he is so overcome with the news (provided as proof when he witnesses Hyde’s transformation to Jekyll) that evil lurks in the embodiment of all men that he dies. He even says he will die, and why. This is in spite of the fact that Jekyll explains it all to him. Why did Lanyon die? Because he too had a dark side, but he never believed that he did. He never accepted his true and complete nature. Essentially, his own sin of pride killed him.

For those of us who believe that the basic nature of man is good, this may be a troubling allegory, as it was for Lanyon. But it shouldn’t be. We should not have to separate, indeed we cannot, one nature from the other in an effort to prove its existence. I think that the labeling of the dark side as evil is okay, if that is what you decide to do. But I wouldn’t do that. I prefer to accept my nature as it is. I experience little conflict and move forward with my life – it is what it is.

jekyll_and_hyde_illustration_by_dmarsela-d88k7mnI do strongly favor the concept of living in the moment, my own version of Carpe Diem works for me. I did notice that in his final confession, when Jekyll is referring to the nature of Hyde (which is supposed to be Jekyll’s own dark nature), he says “…his circumscription to the moment…” in such a way as to condemn it. Embrace it, Harry. It really is all that we have: right here, right now.

 

 

 

Imposter Syndrome

IDo you think you are an impostor? Are you what you claim to be? Or do you think that you just have the rest of us fooled? There have been many real impostors throughout history, and many are still running around today. The whole identity theft problem has people pretending to be who they are not at its core. But my topic isn’t about them. Those people forge credentials and know exactly what they are doing. The impostor syndrome, ironically, uses their hoax to identify a problem many successful people deal with. It is also something I think I see in a lot people who do things such as art and writing. I may suffer a bit from it.

Imposter syndrome is a term used by clinical psychologists Dr. Pauline R. Clance and Suzanne A. Imes for high-achieving people. It is marked by an inability to internalize self-accomplishments and fear of being exposed as a “fraud”. Many of these folks are quite good at what they do, and it often comes easy to them. For whatever reason, they feel like phonies and worry about it. This is not a diagnosable mental illness. It is a syndrome – a complex condition with characteristic combinations of opinions, emotions, or behaviors. I want to apply this at another level. If you do ‘x,’ are you an ‘x-er?’ If ‘x’ is art, are you an artist?

PO-Sterling_Riggs_Elvis_Impersonator_(7725109804)I have been certified to teach high school social studies since I graduated from college back in the dark ages. I have never taught as faculty for even one day. Am I a teacher? I am certified, but to me, unless I actually teach, I am not a teacher. So why is it that the people who do the art, take the classes, make things that are art, will not want to say, “I am an artist.”? I also know people who have not produced a piece of art in years, but will not hesitate to call themselves artists. I have no issue with that. If I can, but chose not to, should I call myself? I think the answer is yes, but it’s up to you.

I’ve taken dance lessons, practiced and practiced, then more lessons. I danced often. People would come to me and complement me on my dancing. They would say, “I wish I could dance like that.” I would look at them and ask, “What makes you think that you can’t dance?” Some people come by it naturally and learn quickly. Not me. But I did it.

If you want to be a dancer, then dance. If you want to be a writer, you only need to write. If you want to be a runner, then go run. Poof! You’re a runner. I’m not immune to this syndrome. I have no problem calling myself a writer, but I balk at identifying myself as an author or novelist; even though I have written (but not published) a novel. To me, the nuance is in published, even though I have been published in a short story and a journal or two.

Impostor pay not 2Unless there is an identifiable standard or required credential, we should feel free to identify ourselves by what we do, if we so desire. If we are novices or students, we are not disqualified. We’re learning. I understand being humble. But there is a difference in doing art and saying you are not an artist, and doing art and saying it the best art there ever was (but why not?). And certainly, if you are naturally good at something, and you do it, then we do not consider you an imposter.

 

Human Condition

The human condition is a broad topic that can be pondered and analyzed from many perspectives: religion, philosophy, history, art, literature, sociology, psychology, and biology. As a short blog topic, it’s too broad. My remarks address our weaknesses or fallibility.

“Do what we will; we are never going to be free of mortality, partiality, fallibility, and error.” – Wendell Berry

There are a ton of books that, to one degree or another, address the topic from some of the many possible perspectives. The books that I’ve enjoyed the most, at least at the time in my life when I read them, were….

Stumbling Blocks or Stepping Stones by Benedict J. Groeschel, C.F.R. (spiritual and religious view of Franciscan Friar)

The Gift of Adversity: The Unexpected Benefits of Life’s Difficulties, Setbacks, and Imperfections by Norman E. Rosenthal, M.D. (relatively recent, psychiatrist shares stories from his life as examples)

Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl (a well-known classic)

At some times in our lives, many of us have admired certain people. We may have put them on pedestals and may even have spoken highly of them. Maybe we married them. Then one day we discover something (or the world discovers) about them that removes the adjective ‘flawless’ from our description. This still happens to me, but seldom. Over the years, my discernment has improved and my skeptical nature often needs more proof. People are human.

Human ConditionI know that we are all fallible. We all make mistakes if we make or do anything. Usually, it’s our parents who provide the first clue. Somehow, we are often gifted as teenagers with the wisdom and insight to identify each and every flaw of our parents and anyone else who we consider an authority. Somehow, we overlook the foibles of our friends. And of course we have none, or too many, or we must hide, or we are perfect, and will never make that mistake, depending upon the day of the week, if anything. Confusing? You bet. Human? Absolutely.

In his book, Fr. Groeschel talks about how the righteous and perfectly-well behaved people who follow all the rules are less compassionate and understanding of others. They share few of the human frailties, as least until their foibles are also revealed.

Rosenthal provides examples from his childhood. In Chapter Three, Crime and Punishment, his teacher, Mrs. Z whacked him on his hand for completing an arithmetic assignment before she had finished explaining it. Also, another third grade incident involved a teacher who misspelled rule(a)r. It is naive to think (as many young do) that adults cannot be wrong. But they are, and it is okay.

The Human ConditionAnd that is the point. Do we judge the content of books by the mistakes in it? Do we judge others based on their circumstances, be it through their own fault or not? What do we expect from our fellow human beings? What do we want from them? Why are we this way?

Not long ago I had a discussion with someone regarding universal health care and insurance. When she balked at the concept, she said, “Well then, every alcoholic on every street corner will have it.” I just sat there, speechless.

Gratitude

GMany people have found that journaling and being grateful are useful methods to feel better and to enjoy life more. Grateful people seem to be happier. I prefer to be happy, so it follows that I want to be grateful. I will not discuss journaling since I don’t, but I admit that I should. Maybe this blog is kind of like that. I don’t make gratitude lists, but I could easily. I know many happy souls that do.

Last week, I had a medical procedure. It is not new to me. I inherited what I refer to as bad plumbing from my father. He called it poor circulation. Medical folks call it arteriosclerosis. I am not grateful for it. My doctors tell me that I am just ‘one of those people.’ Anyway, I have had this before. They’ve run things up into arteries from my wrists through both arms and into my heart. Years ago, I had stents inserted into my iliac arteries through my groin to help with circulation in my legs. Last week we again had to venture in at my groin. With all of these, I was awake so I could joke with my doctor and tell him how I was doing. As he tried to find my artery and his fingers pressed into the spot between my groin and leg, I let out a moan. He asked me if that was pain, or was I ticklish. I am very ticklish and I was also very stoned thanks to the happy drugs the wonderful nurses slipped into my IV. I already had four stents. These were numbers five and six. It took about two hours and I was off to my hospital room for the night. Not my best night, as it happened.

At that point, I had one order: “Don’t move!” I had to be (lie or lay?) flat on my back until told I could move. From my chest down, I was not to move a muscle, not roll to my side, not lift my knee, not bend my leg, nothing. This is to prevent bleeding. Until blood clotting improves, the doctor left a sheath, or tube, in my artery that the nurses would remove after checking on my clotting factor. Let me help with time.

I got to the hospital about 1:00 PM and was placed on a bed until called to the OR (Cath Lab) at about 5:00 PM. It was supposed to start at 3:00, but there was an emergency. From the time I got there (5:00), I was flat on my back for the next 14 hours. After the procedure, which took two hours, at 7:00 PM, I was in my room. The nursing team transferred this old gnome’s body by sliding me on my back twice. By 11:00 PM I was in miserable pain caused by not moving – as blood just pools with gravity. But there was one more problem. They kept pumping fluids into me, which means that eventually, that bodily function had to….well, function. I had to pee.

The last time I peed from a position flat on my back I was wearing diapers, or should have been. Since pressure was going to be applied to my groin, I had to let it out. But how? I asked the nurse how and suggested rolling on my side. “No, Mr. Bill. You will need to urinate into the container while not moving.” I protested, “That’s impossible. That will never work.” She smiled at me and said, “Let’s just have positive thoughts, shall we?” And then, like I needed extra motivation, she tells me, “If you can’t go, we will just have to insert a catheter. So do your best.” Uh, oh.

Several years ago someone stuck one of those things in me. I’m sure was an old garden hose. Back then, a male nurse (jokingly) informed me that they have a lady whose husband left her for a younger woman put them in. She is angry with all men for what that guy did to her, and she exacts revenge upon those of us who are so equipped. I recalled the pain of that experience and how it was many days later, before I could pee again without pain (Stephen King, are you listening?).

thank-you-gratitudeIn less than two minutes I had filled the plastic jug to the brim without moving an inch. I handed to the nurse with a smile and asked her to keep that catheter thingy away from me. She smiled, let out a mildly sinister chuckle. Then she said, “See what positive thoughts can do.”

Finally, at about two in the morning, they managed to remove the tube from my artery with virtually no bleeding. That’s because the nurses maintained pressure on the wound for 25+ minutes. Then the clock started for a minimum of another four hours on my back.

I am grateful for all the nurses, doctors, techs, staff, cleaning crews, medical technology folks who manufacture the stents, the drugs, the plastic jugs, and all that they have done for me. I am grateful for my wife for being there and barking orders when the nurse was off dealing with other snarcastic old farts. I feel wonderful, my heart is doing great, and I am back to normal. Thank you.

 

Feelings

FWe all have them, to one degree or another. We are born with them and they change over time. They seem to always be there. Admittedly, health issues have a profound effect on our feelings, but that does not diminish the importance of feelings. And feeling can have an equally profound effect on our behavior, and can conversely effect our overall health. I like to say, “It is all about how you feel.” I mean that in life how we feel is critical. People may advise us to cheer up, but how?

I came to this conclusion (which I should have already known) after spending years working to help others deal with problems of one kind or another, often which they had with a friend or loved one. While it usually took a good amount of time, and sometimes nothing happened, the change in people was frequently remarkable. Feeling bad was debilitating, while finding a state of normalcy or feeling good enabled people to make decisions and move forward with their lives. Sometimes, feeling better led to better decisions and improvement, if not solutions, to the problem responsible for feeling bad in the first place.

Hurt-Feelings-I am not talking about clinical depression, chronic sadness for no reason, or any form of diagnosable mental health problem. I am talking about the normal things in life that may affect us because the emotional weight is so great. Things that make us sad are part of life, but they can, and often do, emotionally stop us right in our tracks. We feel bad. And depending on the degree and how it is handled, it has everything to do with eventually feeling good enough again to get on with it. I will not say get over it, or that we even have to.

While I’m not trying to sell any solution or answer, I’m also not saying that one way is better than another. The issue is often time. And we need the persistence and the patience to make the effort over time in order to move past the feeling bad. The adage is that time heals all wounds. Usually, it does and we feel better. But have we recovered? Could we have done things to feel better sooner and at a higher level? If so, what things?

Feelings matterWe have heard, “How do you feel about it?” and “How does that make you feel?” We may ask ourselves that question every day. While this is normal, living with a daily problem that makes us feel bad can often be improved. But we have to want to improve and we need to be willing and motivated to do what it takes to feel better.

I am not advocating or writing a self-help book here. But I do think they are helpful for some of us. There are many useful guiding books, and more seem to come out every day. Other forms of help may include self-help groups, counselors and advisors; religious, spiritual, or secular. Medical assistance may be necessary, but I am not qualified to suggest anything. I would seek medical help, if I felt bad enough.

Sentience is the capacity to feel, perceive, or experience subjectively. It may have slightly different meanings in other cultures, but in the West, it relates to that capacity. If we can do that, we can feel better. My point is that how we feel is critically important in life. We need to exercise our universal and inalienable right to be happy and feel as good as we are able as often as we can.

Epicurus

As I prepared for retirement about a year ago, I wondered what to put on my calling, or business card. Retired didn’t seem right, even if accurate. It tells nothing about what I do, as I thought the card should. When a doctor retires, she is still a physician. Others who no longer practice their vocation often can still rightfully be called, say a pilot, but not necessarily an airline pilot. He may even continue to fly airplanes.

With tongue in cheek, I listed my position of expertise as Leisure Aficionado. Also on the card, I listed three skills. One was Pleasure Seeker. I found reactions to that interesting and would often ask, “Don’t you pursue things that give you happiness and pleasure?” Apparently, some people only interpret a pleasure seeker as immoral. Unless your name is Church Lady, even sex is both moral and normal. Admittedly, it gets a lot of people into trouble. Without it, however, none of us exist. My topic is not sex, or even retirement. It is the pursuit of pleasure and the reduction of pain: Epicureanism.

epecurianI am an Epicurean. I see nothing wrong with that and even see it as positive. In my house I have food and drink, some of which has minimal or no nutritional value. But I like them and they bring me a certain amount of pleasure. I also have substances that have value in the reduction of pain. Chances are that you do too.

Epicureans are disciples or students of the Greek philosopher Epicurus. In the more modern sense, we are people devoted to sensual enjoyment, especially epicurusderived from fine food and drink both in a person’s taste and, as it often relates to delight-providing establishments, restaurants. Synonyms for epicureans could include hedonist, sensualist, pleasure-seeker, sybarite, voluptuary, bon vivant, and bon viveur. More related words are epicure, gourmet, gastronome, connoisseur, and gourmand; a generous, life-loving epicurean. Much of how we use the term invites thoughts of fine food and drink. I personally favor the adjective Epicurean to mean leaning more toward an understanding of Epicurus and his ideas.

Of course, there are problems with excess. Health factors such as weight gain, allergies, addictions, and waste leading to environmental damage can be consequential. But those problems are about excess, not pleasure or the relief of pain. Epicureans are not opposed to common sense and we applaud evidence-based solutions to problems.

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I’m in good company with my pleasure seeker philosophy. Other adherents to the teachings of Epicurus included the poet Horace, whose famous statement Carpe Diem (“Seize the Day”) illustrates the philosophy quite well, in my opinion.

I’ve had new cards make up. They have my photo, name, contact information. The job title on the card is “Writer” – nothing more. That is what I consider myself to be, because it brings me pleasure. While it also brings me pain of a certain kind, Epicurus had an answer for that too. If the result of the pain is pleasure, in the end it is good.