Big World, Small Part

Posted on October 24, 2023 by cattalespress under 12-Step Program, a spiritual life, Affirmations, Aging, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Damage Control, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Dreams, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Lost youth, Meeting your needs, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability, zen

If I wake up each morning reminding myself that I am not the creator of the world, I will have the balance I need to meet any circumstance, no matter how far the forces beyond my control tip the scale of my life.

This Sunday, October 29, marks 39 years since I began learning this simple truth through a 12-step program, which I believe is the greatest healer of modern times. As a 20-something-year-old with a big ego, I embarked on a humbling journey. As I approach the final chapter of my life, things did not turn out as planned, but the upshot is I am grateful for the opportunity to be a small part of a much larger universe, over which I have little control. As others have shown me by example, we can learn to appreciate the miraculous gift of embracing our limited human powers.

Cornelia is an example of one of the mentors who taught me how humility and empowerment coexist. I met her when she was in her late 60s or early 70s, and she lived into her mid-80s. Let me put it this way: when she walked into my brother’s wake as the first guest, the trembling floor beneath me turned to steel.

If it wasn’t a solemn occasion, Cornelia wore bold colors that didn’t blind you, but kidded you into believing you had a jolt of caffeine. High heels, tights, plaid skirts and crisply ironed tops, she dressed up, without fail, as if she were a presiding member on a garden club committee.

Cornelia was an expert on turning a frown into a smile. She had a compassion and love for others that was truly inspiring. This woman embraced everyone and never allowed her tragic circumstances to turn her into a victim. After losing her husband, she became a young widow. Her first son died in a freak car crash, and her second and only son, a pilot, perished in a plane crash caused by mechanical failure. These were just two of the many trials she faced throughout her life. Despite it all, she spent her final years volunteering at a local bereavement and critical illness support community center.

Don’t mistake being humble, loving, and compassionate for being a pushover. Cornelia fought for justice in her life and rarely failed to obtain it when it was due.

Cornelia’s example taught me to stand tall. After one of her endless pep talks, I approached my nemesis head-on, armed with her grace, dignity, humility, and an unbreakable sense of empowerment.

“Hold your head up. Always. Carry the program with you,” she said. To this day, I align myself with her advice, for that is the legacy of love she left me.

I remember the last time we went out for dinner. The sun was setting, and the sky was ablaze with color. We reached out and held hands, and we reveled in the silence of the miraculous creation around us. I felt her steel side holding me up, as it still does when I need it the most.

You can’t possibly spend nearly two decades with someone like Cornelia and not grow small in a miraculous way. Recently, my watching a sunset brought her back to me. The sky radiant with the colors she wore to celebrate life, even when she was maneuvering through a personal swamp of grief and loss.

I took a breath and closed my eyes. Recalling the warmth of Cornelia’s palm in mine, I felt peace envelop me. I opened my eyes and looked around. The trees were tall and majestic, and the sunny-side up marigolds were still in full bloom, past the halfway mark of October.

I reminded myself that I was a part of all this wonder. I was a part of nature. I was a part of the universe. I shrank in size. My problems and my concerns were not the most important things in the world. But I also felt connected. I felt loved, humbled by it all. Empowered to know that it is possible to find gratitude in the rubble, and all I had to do to gain this great insight was to step outside, stop and settle down long enough to take it all in.

Just before indigo bled into the the sky’s mighty pageantry, I heard Cornelia’s final earthly words to me that help me keep the faith:

You are loved.
You are worthy.
You are enough.

Doing Nothing Leads to Everything

Posted on October 17, 2023 by cattalespress under A Writer's Life, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Career, Courage, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Positive Change, Positive thinking, Problem Solving, Relationships, seasons, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, Turmoil, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability, Widowhood

My mind is a restless thing.

I can do a million different things at once, most of them trivial, such as dusting. I’ve never been one to procrastinate, but doing nothing at all stumps me every time.

When I’m not actively engaged in a task, my mind is always working. I might be analyzing a character arc, figuring out a past perfect tense, or projecting things like financial ruin because of my paranoia from working in a non-essential and highly competitive field for my entire life.

Over the past two years, I’ve had the good fortune to collaborate with my dear friend on her heartfelt grief memoir that is finally ready to take flight. It’s complete, at least on my end, and I’m so proud of what we’ve accomplished.

My heart swells with gratitude as I recall my collaborative journey with Michelle, the beautiful and relatively young widow behind the story. In the early months, writing her memoir felt like an Impressionist painting: a blur of colors and emotions, akin to our own personal lives, with no clear definition. But over time, like a Realist painting, the memoir and our worlds became sharper and more focused.

Through my encountering her grief, my own perspective on life and tragedy has widened and deepened. I’ve learned that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope. And that love is the most powerful force in the universe.

Thank you, my dear neighbor, colleague and friend, for your faith in me and teaching me so much about what it means to be human. I am truly blessed to have shared your “voyage.“

Almost every goodbye is a hello in disguise. Therefore, as I celebrate the completion of this project, I’m scheduling only ONE thing on the to-do list — spending downtime with the most important person in my life: me. It’s high time we reconnect and get acquainted again, even if it is only to say, “Hello! I’m here.”

In exchange for this kind of surrender, I will find peace, joy, and gratitude. It’s a paradox, but the more I let go of my need to control everything, the more I find that I am truly in control. (Michelle’s memoir really drives this point home.)

My soul is my compass, and when I don’t procrastinate, take the time to “do nothing” and listen to its gentle guidance, I am always led to the right path, because I have opened my heart to the divine.

🎉 Happy 98th Birthday, Mom 🎉

Posted on October 10, 2023 by cattalespress under 12-Step Program, a spiritual life, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Birthdays, Courage, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Lost youth, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Parent's Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, To thine own self be true, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability, war, zen

_{Remembering Mom: October 10, 1925 to December 29, 2015}

My mother was a constant traveler, but not in the traditional sense. All day long, she traveled from her stove to her refrigerator to her sink, and then back again.

“Stove-refrigerator-sink,” she once described her three-step life to me matter-of-factly. She loved the normalcy, the predictability and the routine — most of the time. But sometimes, when she was irritated with her children, her husband, or a church parishioner, she would break her sour mood and look afar, her eyes penetrating the kitchen walls. Her longing gaze belonged to someone standing on a community theater stage, hungry for a Carnegie Hall audience.

I didn’t pay much attention, if any at all, because her expression was too painful. The reality of her life washed out any grandeur dreams she had, such as crunching numbers in an accountant firm, one of her long-standing dreams.

That was the thing with my mom: her frustrations, disappointments and inner pain often led her to be emotionally wound up, but if you could step back and let her unravel, she would eventually find her equilibrium. It took me a long time to figure out her usual modus operandi, but when I finally did, I was able to love her fully.

Before I gained a wider, wiser perspective, adolescence was particularly rough. I had yearned for a different mother, one who wore dainty tennis skirts and crisp white sneakers, and who had a feminine sway in her hips. A mother who would come to pick me up from middle school in her shiny Ford Mustang, instead of the one kid whose mother was never there.

My mom (or dad) never stepped inside my middle school until my graduation day. (Grammar school was another matter, but that’s another story.) When I saw them, I hid behind a corner in the hallway, trying to catch my breath outside the suffocating layers of shame that had been dumped on me like stinky sludge.

Even though my dad blended in with the crowd, all I could see from my vantage point was my mom, standing there in her multi-colored dress, a tent-like garb that concealed her petite body and was as baggy as a beekeeper’s protective suit.

Her kitty heels, straight out of a 50s black-and-white TV show, clicked on the tiled floor as she paced nervously back and forth.

A hairnet captured her dark, old-fashioned ringlets, like bait worms. Her face was an expressionless doll with vacant eyes.

“Is your family here?”

“No.”

“Without family,” I felt different growing up. But I learned that while Hollywood love may be custom-made, ordinary love is not.

As I mentioned earlier, my love for my mother matured with me — especially after my young children taught me how genuinely unique and fun she was. It was then that I also fully understood why my mom rarely spoke to “Americans,” silenced by the embarrassment of her own foreign accent and awkwardness.

The upshot of the realization was that I walked tall next to her, my head held high, despite her size 4 Barbie body hidden in size 12 dresses, the unconcealed sheets of tissues lining her shoes, and the stale bread slices stashed in her purse’s side pockets (in case the food chain failed!).

My bulletproof mother didn’t believe in illness, and her passing from a stroke on December 29, 2015, showed me the perfect irony of life: we’re not in control after all.

When my mom fell ill in the spring and early summer of 2015, I felt bewildered and flummoxed (love that word!). In the process of her deterioration, I did the “next right thing,” as my program had taught me to do many years prior. Her gradual decline was a roller coaster that I became so used to and for nearly seven months, it felt like tying my shoe in the morning. But the exhaustion was unlike anything I had ever experienced, even when I got eight or ten hours of sleep. I was groggy, walking a foot behind everything that moved in my world.

When my mom landed in a nursing home, a feeding tube had been inserted into her, and it was clear she would never return to her three-step appliance shuffle, but the regular rhythms of our lives, like playing rock-paper-scissors, remained in my memory, like the whiff of Pond’s cream on her face that warmed my childhood particularly on bitter cold evenings. She had taught me well, and I went on with my old life, with familiar music playing in the background.

Three weeks before Christmas, my own “rock-paper-scissors” household routine escalated. I was a single mom and had to work, write and send holiday cards, purchase and package holiday gifts, not to mention cook and clean. I rationalized that since she was semi-conscious, she wouldn’t notice the stretch of time since I had last seen her. I certainly planned to visit after the holiday. Of course, after the holidays seemed just as frantic too, and I was driving my daughter to Massachusetts to visit a prospective graduate school. I figured once we accomplished our mission, I’d definitely see Mom again, the first week of the new year.

Unfortunately, Mom never lived to see 2016. But on December 28, in Massachusetts, my daughter and I had a terrible time finding appropriate lodging, since the first hotel room we had reserved was a dump. Luckily, we found mediocre accommodations just in time, because a terrible ice storm had made the outdoors look frozen in time.

That night, two weary travelers collapsed into bed and slumber found us easily. I opened my eyes at 5 a.m. to see the digital clock glowing in the dark room. I also knew without doubt: Mom had passed.

_{Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels.com}

Her presence filled the room, every bit of her, including her lingering scent of Ponds face cream. I realized that instead of my visiting her, she had come to visit us one last time to let us know that she was okay.

Sure enough, I woke up to hear the news over the phone.

“What time did they record the time of death?”

“Five a.m.”

Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can say. You taught me about faith, love, and even the power of love to transcend time and space. I’m grateful for the gift of your life.

Mary Jane is Pleased

Posted on October 3, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Courage, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Lost youth, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Parent's Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, zen

My mom spent decades reading the obituaries, and the memoriam section, in the local daily newspaper with a keen eye, curious about what made each person unique and how their story was woven together. It were as if she tried to make sense of the world by connecting the dots between people’s lives.

My mom alerted me to anything she found interesting in that particular newspaper section, and we would end up discussing the deceased stranger and how, for example, she had outlived three deceased husbands. Or, as another example, how another deceased stranger traveled to every continent three times. Every time we reflected on these strangers, it felt like delicious gossip. Through these obituaries, and the occasional memoriam, we were able to appreciate the stories of strangers who had passed away and reflect on our own lives in the process. Paradoxically, reading and sharing our insights about the deceased kept mom and me alive!

While some may find delving into obituaries morbid and sad, in my solitude, I find it an opportunity to examine a few dozen strangers’ lives while I reunite with my mom, sync with her vibrant emotional range, and inhale her Pond’s facial cream, which she wore every night of her life. The memoriam to Mary Jane that I read earlier this year would have really lit up her world.

MARY JANE. MEMORIAM
To Mary Jane
It was late in the morning,
It was early in spring,
When I took that picture,
Of you on the swing.
It was so long ago,
It was just yesterday,
The years go so quickly,
The time slips away.
We should have returned,
At least once a year,
But we never came back,
Now alone I stand here.
The swing is long gone,
From the top of this hill,
But that doesn’t matter,
For I see it still.
I still hear your laughter,
Feel the touch of your hand,
And although that is true,
Where ever I am.
It was here at that time,
In this place that we knew,
What we had was forever,
It was true then, it is still true.
Rest in peace my love. Ed

One reader’s response to the memoriam, stated, “So very sweet and heartfelt. I do not know Mary Jane or Ed … but that was beautiful and I’m sure Mary Jane is pleased.”

Yes, I agreed fully. I could easily picture Mary Jane swinging in heaven somewhere on her swing, carefree and forever young and in love.

Memories can be a balm for grief. We hear the laughter, the excitement, and feel the fluid joints and hefty muscles of youth. Ponds-scented memories are like a warm blanket that wraps us up and protects us from the cold world, whispering, “Have faith. You are safe. Alone, but safe.”

They are reunion celebrations where love and faith reign supreme. Faith that we are never truly alone. Faith that there is more to life than what meets the eye.

Mary Jane is pleased. And if Mom gets to share her swing, she will be pleased too.

Losing the Best Generation: A Tribute to My Dad — and Others!

Posted on September 26, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Courage, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, hope, illness, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Parent's Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Relationships, seasons, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, Unsung Heroes

Last week, after I wrote about Harry and his sad death, my dear fellow blogger Karla’s comment really resonated with me when she wrote, “Only to have known Harry…we’re losing the best generation.”

Her comment made me think not only about Harry, but also about my dad, whose birthday was yesterday. He passed away in 2000, but if he had lived, he would have turned 119! After thinking about my dad, his barber, Tony, came to mind, because it occurred to me how he also fit into the “best generation” league.

I’ve mentioned before that even though my dad didn’t have a formal education under his belt, he was the smartest man I ever knew. Wise beyond words. He always told me that I would understand things long after he was gone, and he was right. Between my personal grief and my entrance into the final chapter of life, my perception has widened, and it feels as if I am comprehending the world in a deeper, wiser way, just as my father had said I would one day. That being said, as I pondered these old-timers, a realization dawned on me about Tony, but before I go into that, I have to give a bit of a background.

My clean-shaven dad was also a hair fanatic. He never lost his hair, but, instead, it seemed like someone had poured Miracle-Gro into it. Ninety percent of the time, or maybe even more, his barber Tony gave him a number 2 buzz cut. The other cuts were Marine flat top cuts that made him look as if a runaway lawn mower had zipped over the top of his head. My dad didn’t ask for that style specifically, but I think Tony gave him the style just to break things up and make things interesting.

Whenever my dad took my young son to the barbershop in his old jalopy, he always got the same type of number 2 buzz cut for him. I’m sure his grandfather’s (Gido’s) influence led my son to continue the tradition of the number two buzz cut after adolescence, which he cut himself to save money.

Gido was frugal too, actually cheap. He never gave Tony more than three dollars cash for a haircut. My dad had decided that was what his haircut was worth, regardless of inflation. Period. No tip. No nothing. No raise either, even after 20 years, maybe more, of going to Tony’s on a weekly basis.

Before my dad died of emphysema, he was frequently admitted into the ER and then the hospital. There was no time for his traditional buzz cut even though in less than a month’s time, his wired hair stood up and performed endless rows of jumping jacks.

I always picture his team of nurses, running their fingers through his pure white hair, saying, “Your hair is beautiful.”

To my dad, though, his hair was a mess, out of control and unruly. Every time we were about to call Tony to come and cut my dad’s hair, a medical crisis interrupted our plan. Stubborn Dad wouldn’t let anyone else cut into his white mane, no matter how high the strands stood in attention.

It wasn’t until after my dad died that we called Tony to cut his hair one last time. We did it in honor of our dad, who was so adamant about his clean-shaven face and buzz cuts. How could we allow mourners to come and see him in his open casket when his hair was the opposite of what he, and everyone else, loved?

I was so wrapped up in the wake and funeral and losing my dad that I never formally thanked Tony, nor had I seen him ever since. But suddenly, after reading Karla’s comments about how we are losing the best generation, it brought to mind my dad and then Tony, and I started to see the light, wondering how it must have felt for Tony to leave his barbershop, tools in hand, travel to a funeral home and approach the casket where my dad was laid out in his best suit, which he had bought for the occasion long before he was even ill.

I’m sure there were plenty of plugs in the wall to connect his shaver, because even though my dad had always shaved himself, Tony was willing to do it. In addition, his hands must have been shaking as he held his scissors. Sure, he could do a buzz cut in his sleep, but how could he concentrate on doing it on a corpse? Had he even seen a corpse before? Additionally, how could he focus on the task at hand when burdened with grief? Looking at my dad’s face must have flooded him with two decades of memories, recalling the curmudgeon of a man he loved unconditionally despite his cheapness. My dad was the only customer who got away with paying three dollars for a haircut during all those years, while the barber still gave him a smile and a lollipop for his grandson.

It wasn’t about money or the bottom line. The bottom line back then was about humanity, humility, and never bottoming out of character while holding onto dignity, doing the virtuous thing even if it felt morbid. They were men of faith who had faith and hope in simple things like hard work and doing the right thing.

It’s easy to picture my dad, Tony, and Harry, too. Members of the best generation that you could count on because they made you feel like you counted. We ARE losing the men and women of the best generation, but their legacy lives on in the hearts of those who knew them.

Thank you, Tony, your act of kindness and compassion in giving my dad one last buzz cut is a reminder of the power of human connection, even in death. You reminded me of the importance of doing the right thing, even when it’s difficult. Thank you for reminding me of the beauty in the world, even in the midst of sorrow.

Thank you, Dad, for teaching me how age widens perception, like a zoomable flashlight, and helps us to see not only the dirt and debris in life, but also the fairy dust.

Wild About Harry

Posted on September 19, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, bankruptcy, Career, Courage, Crisis, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Divorce, Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Lost youth, Military, Natural above Normal, Positive Change, Positive thinking, Problem Solving, Relationships, seasons, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, Turmoil, Unsung Heroes, Veterans, war

About this time last year, Harry was surrounded by stacks of files and folders piled high on his desk, and the phone was ringing off the hook. He was a commercial real estate agent who was used to working long hours and after a brief retirement, his real estate business seemed to be flourishing.

In addition to his business dealings, Harry had been keeping years of notes about his personal experiences. He wanted to write a memoir so that future generations could learn about his life, and the Holocaust.

I first knew Harry through my dear friend Pat’s husband and then through her. Now, over this past weekend, Pat and I found out that Harry, who had the onset of dementia and suffered a recent stroke, was admitted to a hospice facility. The doctors gave him a couple of days to live. *

Harry turned 90 this past May. He had a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. Harry loved to ballroom dance with any woman who knew the steps, no matter her age. He would whisk her into a rhythmic routine, whether they were in a doctor’s office or the snack bar of an assisted living facility. He was a reminder that age is just a number.

His mother survived the Holocaust, and they managed to flee to America when he was seven. This was a Houdini-like feat, considering that the United States had restrictive immigration laws and policies in place during World War II, including the Johnson-Reed Act, which made it difficult for Jewish people, and other nationalities, to immigrate. These laws and policies were motivated by anti-Semitism and discrimination. (Interestingly, among this group that was denied visas to the U.S., as well as other countries, to flee the spread of Nazism in Europe in the 1930s was the family of Anne Frank.)

In America, Harry fought the bullies in grammar school but didn’t let them define him. He excelled in math, and in his spare time, helped his mother sell a variety of items from her truck that she and her new husband had scrimped and saved to purchase. Their hard work, determination, and entrepreneurial skills provided all the necessities they needed.

During his pre-med years at UConn, one of his professors gave him a dead cat to dissect. He looked at the cat, put down his scalpel, and said to himself, “I guess being a doctor isn’t for me.”

Harry’s change of heart led him on a different course.

Approximately 1.5 million Jews served in the Allied military during World War II, including 550,000 American Jews. Of these, 52,000 received U.S. military awards. Harry was one of them. His fluency in German made him a key player in the development of missiles, and he was awarded many distinctions and honors for his efforts. Obviously, he never held the discriminatory Johnson-Reed Act against America.

During the war, Harry married his first wife, a prominent Southern Belle, and started a family. Decades later, after his divorce, he married a second time and had a second family. His children from his first marriage are in their 60s, and his youngest son is in his 20s.

Harry’s career was as colorful and varied as his personal life. But he consistently worked hard and made money, until he lost it in his later years through no fault of his own. But he flexed his faith muscle, got back into the ring for another fight, and won another round of financial success, which kept him going to the sunset of his life.

I could tell countless stories about Harry, and I would love to write his memoir one day because I am wild about him in so many ways. But for the sake of brevity, I will focus on his humility. Even though Harry was a larger-than-life figure in business, and the last person you wanted to negotiate with, whether it was retail or real estate, he never forgot to share his wealth in many ways.

As a young entrepreneur trying to hit it big in the 1980s, I remember how Harry helped my t-shirt business. He purchased my entire stock for his thriving retail store, saving me from bankruptcy. Sure, my kids’ Godfather had requested his help, but Harry did this on his own accord and sold out of the entire line. (Pat met Harry through her now-deceased husband, and both men had met through their love of playing tennis, cementing their friendship on the court.)

Later on, when Harry went into commercial real estate, his primary job, as I see it, was providing mentorship. Sure, he was successful, but what’s success if you don’t pass it on? That’s what he did. Instead of getting wrapped up in his very important wheeling and dealing, he humbled himself to make room for others. For instance, one of his college-aged administrative assistants from Haiti, who was challenged financially and had no clear picture of the future, ended up with a highly successful career in real estate.

If only the world had mentors such as Harry. What a world it would be, wouldn’t you say?

So, around this time last year, Harry was wheeling and dealing again, until things started working against him, such as when he would get into a panicked state for the most innocuous reason. One of the last times Pat saw him, shortly after he was diagnosed with an onset of dementia, she had driven them both to dinner. During dinner, Harry became belligerent and argued with the professional and kind staff about the swift manner they were serving their meal. He insisted on “European dining.”

Needless to say, they never returned to that restaurant. Harry was confined to an assisted living facility at that point, and I knew his qualms about “European dining” were not about dining at all. He now faced a new enemy: deterioration and death. His goal was to rescue his life with the same chutzpah his mother had. Harry wanted to live longer and maintain his healthy lifestyle. After all, he was the kind of guy who could stroll through a burning building unscathed. Somebody or something was watching out for him, or he was plain lucky, at least most of the time.

Harry’s story is an inspiration to us all. He overcame incredible adversity in his life, yet, he never lost his faith or his sense of humor. He was a true mensch, often putting others before himself.

I toast you, Harry, with a glass of lemonade, your recipe that started with bitter lemons, now sugar sweet. May your legacy inspire us all to live our lives to the fullest and make the world a better place.

I imagine Harry, wearing one of my old custom-designed t-shirts from the 80s, smiling at me and raising his glass in return. “To life! To love! To lemonade! And to t-shirts!” he says.

* We received word only a few hours ago that Harry passed away peacefully this morning.

Power of Pietas

Posted on September 12, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Angels on Earth, disciplined non-conformist., environment, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief relief, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, Positive Change, Positive thinking, Problem Solving, Sacred Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, Unsung Heroes

Recently while walking in my neighborhood, I passed two coupon mailers scattered on the side of the road that I surmised had slipped from the weekly recycling pick-up load.

I impulsively passed right by them. A few moments later, I remembered how many times I, a former Cubmaster, volunteered to pick up trash with our Cub Scout troop at a local park.

Concurrently, I heard my mom’s thick accent, “See garbage; pick up!”

From a young age, I remember my mom picking up any piece of trash she saw on the sidewalk or in the street, whether it was a candy wrapper, piece of yarn, old shoe sole, or whatever else was discarded. She would purposefully dispose of it in a nearby receptacle, taking it upon herself to keep our planet clean.

Most times when she was on “trash duty,” she’d scold me as if I were the culprit who dumped the garbage.

“Dirty pig!” she’d shout.

Okay, ma! Okay! I said out loud during my walk, my voice thick with guilt, unable to erase the memories.

I performed a U-turn and picked up the two scraps of paper, brought them home and disposed of them.

I am fortunate to have neighbors who are responsible and clean up after themselves. However, this is not the case in all areas. I was recently shocked to see piles of old garbage, including Styrofoam, old tires, and whiskey bottles, behind a strip mall. This saddened me because I believe that people who do not clean up after themselves are not mentally “clean,” and their messiness inside themselves is simply reflected on the outside.

I once knew a therapist who worked at a hospital for the criminally insane. She told me that the first indication that a patient was getting better was that he or she had started taking care of their hygiene and cleaning their environment. This is because taking care of oneself is a sign of self-respect, and self-respect is essential for making positive changes in one’s life.

Additionally, a business owner once told me that he would meet prospective employees in the parking lot before bringing them inside his office to interview them. He wasn’t looking for a perfect car, but he was looking for someone who took care of their belongings. He believed that if someone couldn’t take care of their own car, they were unlikely to take care of their job duties either.

I think both of these stories illustrate the importance of taking responsibility for our actions and our environment, both big and small. Our character is not defined by our worst moments, but by the choices we make every day.

Viktor E. Frankl, Austrian psychiatrist, Holocaust survivor and author of Man’s Search for Meaning, wrote, “Ultimately, man should not ask what the meaning of his life is, but rather must recognize that it is he who is asked. In a word, each man is questioned by life; and he can only answer to life by answering for his own life; to life he can only respond by being responsible.”

This quote brings us back to the harsh reality: If we want to live a meaningful life, we must take responsibility for our actions and for the world around us.

I also thought about how pietas, a Roman virtue that is often translated as “piety,” has a broader meaning than religious devotion. It can also be translated as “responsibility,” “sense of duty,” “loyalty,” “tenderness,” “goodness,” “pity,” “compassion,” “kindness,” “dutiful conduct” and “devotion.”

In ancient Rome, pietas was considered to be one of the most important virtues. It was a virtue that was expected of all citizens, regardless of their social status or religious beliefs. Pietas was seen as the foundation of a strong and healthy society.

_{Image by Piyapong Saydaung from Pixabay}

I believe that pietas is still a relevant virtue today. We may not worship the same gods and goddesses as the ancient Romans, but we still have a responsibility to our fellow human beings and to our planet. By expressing pietas in our own lives, we can make the world a better place. We, too, can find meaning and purpose in our own lives.

In the end, what defines us is not how much we preach about faith, but how willing we are to bend down and pick up and throw away a stranger’s Mounds Chocolate Bar wrapper.