Phantom Limbs

Some people wondered afterward if anyone else had noticed.

It was an ordinary business meeting, held to review the progress of the organization, discuss the past year, look to the next. The crowd was a little smaller than usual.

The organization had had to raise its fees. This fact had become obvious before the downturn, and even when the economy went south and it became clear that raising them by so much, this year, might be difficult, it had to be done. It just couldn't be postponed any longer.

Everyone in the audience knew this. No one blamed the organization, even though some knew that people had left the organization as a result, people who had been around for years.

The man onstage spoke with pride of the percentage of the increase in
revenue achieved.

He stopped for a moment.

"Of course, we did lose some people," he said. A slight pause. "But they only wanted to be members if it was free or didn't cost much."

He went on to his next point.

Everyone tried to listen. This was important. But some found themselves drifting, just for a moment, to a conversation in the grocery store or at a gathering in town with someone who hadn't been around lately. And when they asked, the person had said, "Well, that letter--"

"I know," they had said, "We got it, too. But talk to them. They'll understand."

The other person said sure.

But really, who wants to talk about money? Who wants to say, "I just can't afford that. Not right now."

So they were gone. And the people in the auditorium tried not to think
about those conversations or the choices they themselves were making.
They tried instead to listen to the information about the successful operation
of the organization.

Other leaders went up on stage, said things, sat down. The meeting ended on schedule. Did anyone linger?

Some of them had talked, at times, about feeling the presence of the members who had died, almost seeing them when they looked at this or that person's favorite place to sit.

No one mentioned that this time, or an article one of them had read about how when you lose an arm or leg you still have the sensation that it's there. They call it a "phantom limb."

The former members must be like those phantom limbs, she thought, because she still felt connected to them.

The crowd thinned a little more as people walked quickly to their cars and home, so they could get ready for tomorrow.

©2009 Laynie Tzena.

Keep Talking

The interview was barely underway when the shouting started.

Ehud Olmert kept talking.

I listened to the program on the radio, so maybe there were even more than the three or four people I could hear shouting from the house. Since their remarks were so similar and occurred at regular intervals, it seems clear the disruption was orchestrated.

Olmert didn't miss a beat.

He didn't argue with the hecklers. He didn't even discuss them, really. At one point, he told the moderator that most of the audience probably wanted to listen and that eventually the noise would dissipate and "we can have a conversation," adding that he was available until midnight.

Ironically, the moderator had begun with a departure from the customary,"I have the pleasure of introducing _____," which was replaced by "I have the opportunity . . . "

And what an opportunity anyone listening to the program that night has had.

It was the opportunity to see grace under fire.

Because it is a war, these days. A war between those who want to express and hear ideas and those who value only their own perspective and think it fine to try to silence those who disagree with them.

"'Everyone else is just like me,'" commented Ira Glass on This American Life. "Isn't that the mistake that makes the world go around?"

So whatever you think of a given speaker (and Olmert is hardly a saint), just one simple request: Let the person speak.

Which reminds me: Here I am telling you it's important not to yell something out in a public place--yet I found myself doing just that at the local showing of Simone Bitton's movie, Rachel.

When the crowd booed, hissed, and tried to shout down a man I'd never seen before* who was onstage trying to address the audience, at last I couldn't help myself and called out, "Let him speak!"

It didn't work.

People were so sure they were right and he was wrong that they didn't trouble themselves to consider what the logical extension of their actions might be.

So let's consider it here. What happens, in many corners of the world, when people say unpopular things?

They are silenced, by any means necessary.

No one physically attacked the man that night at the Castro Theatre, thank goodness, and no one attacked Olmert, either. But make no mistake: Shouting someone down is a violent act.

So todah rabah, Prime Minister Olmert, and yasher koach. I don't have to agree with everything you say or do, or everything the Israeli government does. (Heck, half the Israelis don't agree with the government, just as we don't always agree with ours. I like what Robert Pinsky said: "I think being patriotic ought to mean caring enough about your country to be critical of it.")

The only way to end the war against free speech is to do precisely what Olmert did. Refuse to be intimidated. Refuse to be silenced. Keep talking.

*I later found out who he was. But it really doesn't matter. He had been invited by the Jewish Film Festival to address the audience. Several audience members decided (in advance, some say) not to let him do so. During the Q&A, a man raised his hand and was called on. Some in the crowd didn't like what he had to say, either, and tried to shout him down. I was several rows behind him and didn't recognize him until the director of the festival said, "It's okay," adding that he knew So-and-So. But this was beside the point. The man in the audience deserved to be heard out not because he was So-and-So and someone could vouch for him, but because he was a member of the audience who was trying to ask a question.

©2009 Laynie Tzena.

Grace notes, 5/12/10: Silly me. I had thought we were all there to see the movie. It had been a busy time, and so I had missed a couple of issues of our local Jewish newspaper. After the incident I read a few of the letters, and after I wrote "Keep Talking" I went back and read more of them, trying to start at the beginning (though of course there is no beginning or end to this, trust me) and reading everything people had had to say on the matter in the weeks leading up to the showing of Rachel.

At first I just thought some of us had wandered that night into a meeting of the Hatfields and the McCoys or, if you prefer, the Sharks and the Jets--i.e., much of the audience apparently didn't go to the Castro that night to see Rachel. They went to attack each other, to score points.

Much of the ensuing battle seems to have been driven by footage of the brouhaha posted on YouTube (later expanded well beyond the events that night). And isn't it odd that in all the talk about the matter, none of us stepped back to say, "Wait a minute. Things don't show up on YouTube by magic."

So was it a simple matter of outrage over the showing of the film and presence of Cindy Corrie and the good fortune to be in the perfect position to get it all on tape? Or was a bit more planning involved, with the film festival audience turned into actors in an unannounced movie or two being made that very night?

Even the gentleman in the audience--when I thought about it again recently, I remembered that his question was something to the effect of, "Will the Jewish Film Festival admit that it made a mistake by showing the movie?" In other words, he was asking a rhetorical question, not a real one. This doesn't justify booing, hissing, and trying to shout him down, of course, but it does suggest that neither side was really interested in dialogue.

And speaking of dialogue going bye-bye: Sad to see Rabbi Peretz Wolf-Prusan, a man with a wealth of knowledge, extensive firsthand experience, and deep love of Israel combined with a demonstrated interest in and respect for different points of view about it, is leaving Congregation Emanu-El. I have been privileged to study Talmud with the rabbi for a few years now. If only Talmud study could be prescribed like medicine. There you have it, in the voices recorded on the page and those coming to you live from every corner of the room (try it sometime), proof positive that there is more than one way of looking at things. Todah rabah, Rabbi Peretz, for your devotion to the community and all your good work. May you go from strength to strength.

Further Adventures in Training

The cashier was frustrated. She couldn't get her register to work.

Someone came over and asked what the problem was.

“Oh, that,“ he said. “That’s easy. Watch this.”

Then he showed her how to fix the problem, walking her through it so she understood what to do next time.

Soon I was ready to leave. But first I looked for the man who had helped the cashier and obviously did training for the store.

“That was great," I told him. "The way you handled that was really impressive.”

He looked surprised.

I went on to tell him what had impressed me was the fact that he had told his co-worker the solution to the problem was an easy one before going on to show her what it was.

Often in school and, later, on the job, a teacher or trainer will say, “This next part is difficult, so we'll go slowly.”

And what happens?

Most people tense up when told something is difficult. We become afraid we won’t understand. Our minds close down.

So if this is our response when we encounter this approach to training, why is it so tempting to engage in it when we're the trainer?

I’m willing to bet that we start by forgetting what it’s like to be on the receiving end of messages that begin with "This will be really difficult." (Hint: It’s a little like “We need to talk about our relationship.”)

We may also assume that, when presented with a challenge, people benefit from having the difficulty announced up front. But do we have any evidence of that?

Imagine a child being told, “This object can be dangerous, and isn’t always easy to control or direct. When you’re using it outside, people will come at you from all directions. In rainy or snowy weather, you can really get injured.”

How many of us would have gotten on our first bicycle with that as a prelude?

So why adopt that approach to teaching anything?

Of course, I’m not suggesting you lie and say something is easy when it’s not. But instead of starting out by announcing how difficult the task is, why not say, “This next thing we’re going to do is really interesting. There’s a fair amount to learn, and some of it is a bit complicated, but it really pays off.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. We’re focused on the goal and the reward for doing the work that takes us there.

“But wait a minute,” you say. “What are you doing talking about complication?
I thought you said things were supposed to be easy.”

No. It’s not that everything is easy. Some things are difficult. But we make them more so when we focus on that difficulty rather than the pleasure inherent in learning and what our new-found knowledge will allow us to do.

I also happen to think that complication has gotten some bad press when, in fact, it’s woven into daily life. But that's another story.

©2009, 2012 Laynie Tzena.

Who Does That?

A couple asked an architect to help them build their home. Happens all the time. But this was Eric Corey Freed, so things went a little differently than usual.

"What's most important to you?" he asked.

They talked about a number of things. Not just the house they had in mind, but their life together. And one of the things that came out in conversation was a special vase. It was something they had had for quite a while, something that held great meaning for them.

So Eric designed their home with a little alcove where--don't ask me how he did this; he's the architect--the light would shine on that vase. On their anniversary.

Okay, say "Awwww."

But here's what I say: Who does that?

Eric does.

* * *

Christmas vacation, my first year in college. I had decided that instead of flying home for the holiday, I'd take the bus. Denver to New York. Sounded like fun.

But in December you can always run into weather. A trip that was supposed to take 40 hours took 53. We were in St. Louis for six of those hours. I'm sure it's a fine town, but by this time I was exhausted and just wanted to be home. I was sitting in the station crying when a guy from the bus came up to me.

"Left hand or right hand?" he asked.

"Leave me alone," I said.

"Left hand or right hand?" he repeated.

"Leave me alone," I said.

He was still standing there.

"Okay," I said, finally. "Left hand."

He handed me an ice cream cone. Turned out he had one in each hand.

I don't remember seeing him on the bus after that, and I've never seen him since. But I've never forgotten him.

Who does that kind of thing for a total stranger?

He did.

* * *

I was running for the bus one night. But it suddenly looked as though the bus had stopped moving. I got on and recognized one of the regular drivers.

"Good to see you!" I said. "I thought I was going to miss the bus for sure."

"I saw you," he said.

Now, we've had a lot of conversations over the years. But I never would have imagined he would hold a bus for me.

Or that a guy would bring a dozen yellow roses to our first date. (I can still see them on my kitchen counter.)

Or that another I'd gone out with only once would call and, learning I had the flu, call back and say, "I'm sorry, did you need chicken soup?" And bring it. With a book to read. And a piece of homemade coffee cake.

Or that one of my friends, knowing I was fretting over what to wear to a wedding,
would come over armed with outfits from her own closet, let me play dress-up, and not only offer a beautiful dress that made me feel like a queen at the wedding, but also compliment some of my own outfits in a way that made me see them differently forevermore.

Who does that? The driver did. Paul did. Jeff did. Jane did.

* * *

I knew a woman years ago. Let's call her "Maureen." She was having some problems in her marriage. I tried to be of support. Mostly, I listened to her. We talked many times--sometimes daily--over the course of a year or so.

One day I got a call: My father had had a heart attack. I jumped on a plane. They couldn't save him, and four days later he was gone. In shock and grief, I called Maureen. She said of course she'd meet me at the airport when I got in.

It was February. Bad weather. One of my flights was delayed. But luckily, we made up the time as we flew.

When I didn't see Maureen at the baggage claim, I found a pay phone (we didn't have cell phones then) and called my number.

"They say that the flight's going to be delayed," Maureen's voice was saying.

I listened.

"So I won't be able to meet you," she said cheerily. "Sorry."

I looked at the phone.

But you know how life is. "We can give you a ride," someone said.

Next thing I knew, I was in a car heading for San Francisco. When I got out, I asked the couple which neighborhood they lived in.

I think it was Sunnyvale. They had just driven north when home was south. To help a stranger.

Who does that?

They did.

So how about you? Who has amazed you, one way or another? Who does that,
in your life?

And what do you do?

©2009 Laynie Tzena.

Who Do You Know?

My friend Bernadette likes to tell the story of a restaurant she used to know back east. There was a young woman waiting tables. Nice woman. Always talked about how she was going to be a singer.

"Yeah, sure," they said, and to each other, "That Mariah."

Carey.

So when a friend sent that now-famous YouTube video of a certain Scot who has captured everyone's heart, I wondered, "Where were all those people when Susan Boyle was singing karaoke or recording that earlier CD?"

Yes, it's helpful to know someone powerful. And let's keep in mind that Susan Boyle was on a talent show at the time (she had also auditioned, had studied theater for years, and one can assume that she had seen the show and might have had other clothing in her closet, but we'll leave all that for another day), and so she did connect to what Joni Mitchell once called "the star-maker machinery." But she could have had support earlier on, and that's something we can all provide for each other.

Remember, Emily Dickinson apparently never intended to have her poems sit in a drawer. She sent them to Higginson. Who didn't see her talent.

So who do you know?

Not who do you know that's famous. Who do you know with talent? Probably a lot of people. We all have gifts. It's easy to do with your kids, but when was the last time you encouraged your friends' or family menbers' talents, just said, "You're really good, you know"? Or, even more important: "Keep going."

And who do you know that can help that person with talent? Maybe you know a singer and someone else with a recording studio. You could introduce that writer you know to your friend launching that e-zine, or put your friend the photographer together with the one looking to share a darkroom or selling some equipment. Someone in real estate might be able to help your friend the chef find that new kitchen. Think of how you can connect the people you know.

Malcolm Gladwell has been making the rounds with his new book, Outliers: The Story of Success. And thank goodness. It's time somebody retired the notion that successful people spring from the head of Zeus. Instead, Gladwell points out, success is about a combination of things, including timing (see the section about birthdays) and support.

And that support can take many forms. Barbara Sher, author of Wishcraft: How to Get What You Really Want, among others, tells of a time she was in the hospital and her "Success Team" (a group of friends who got together to encourage each other) came to visit. She had told the group she wanted to write a book.

"So, Sher," one of her friends said, "How's your hand?"

"My hand?" she replied. "They didn't operate on my hand."

"That's right," her friend said, and handed her a pen. "Start writing."

And so she did.

©2009, 2012 Laynie Tzena.

Cook with Honey

Years ago I was at a concert at Tanglewood. A woman sat down in front of me and I did a double-take. Finally, I had to ask: "Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Judy Collins?"

She smiled. "That's because I am," she said.

I think at that point the concert started. And you know how it is. Whatever questions I would have wanted to ask her--I knew many of her songs by heart--flew right out of my head.

If I saw her today, I'd thank her for "Cook with Honey."

I know she didn't write it. Valerie Carter did. And I want to hear Carter's version of the song. But Collins' beautiful bell tone, so clear and, at the same time, so warm, brought the words to life:

I always cook with honey
To sweeten up the night
We always cook with honey
Tell me, how's your appetite
For some sweet love?

I don't know about you, but I think that sounds pretty good right about now.

The song continues:

Finding favor with your neighbor
Well, it can be so fine
It's easier than pie to be kind.

Now, the song starts out with neighbors gathered around a table ("Muffin warm and basket brown"), and that's how I always thought of "Cook with Honey"--as a beautiful song about good feeling between people.

But I hear it a bit differently now. Sometimes things aren't so honky-dory with that neighbor (boss, coworker, customer). Maybe the other person is having a hard time
--out of work, or maybe her marriage is on the rocks, one of the kids in trouble at school. You never know.

One day a friend told me he and his wife were getting divorced. Turned out she had left him once before, but they had reconciled.

"I had no idea," I said.

"Nobody did," he said. "We did a really good job, didn't we?"

So nobody knows. And no one can help. And things fall apart.

Now, maybe they would have, anyway. Some relationships don't last, even with real love, the best of intentions, and hard work. In the Great Recession a lot of people lost their houses, their jobs, or their life savings.

We may never know the whole story, even with those people we know best.

So when the next person cuts you off in line, and somebody else snaps at you, or someone yells something out a car window, and you want to scream--don't.

My friend Eric likes to quote Gandhi: "We must be the change we wish to see
in the world."

Maybe what disturbs us most, at bottom, is what feels like a lack of kindness.
And there's an easy solution: Make it your business to be kind. (Might be
the best medicine for these times.) Cook with honey.

©2009, 2013, 2014 Laynie Tzena.

The Bridge

As a man was approaching the Golden Gate Bridge one day he saw someone standing on the railing, looking down. He raced over, but was too late to stop the suicide. Among the dead man's things he found a notebook in which the man had written that if just one person talked to him that day, he wasn't going to jump.

So the debate rages again about supports to prevent people from jumping off the bridge.

But it’s the wrong bridge, and the wrong supports. The bridge to repair, according to Harvard psychiatrists Jacqueline Olds and Richard Schwartz, authors of The Lonely American, is the bridge to other people. And physical supports, in the form of barriers, will stop some people from jumping, but many more won’t even get to that desperate point if they don’t first feel lonely and isolated.

Speaking at the Cambridge Forum, Olds and Schwartz said people are embarrassed to say they're lonely. Instead they go to the doctor looking for a diagnosis. The authors first wrote about this problem years ago, and they say it’s only gotten worse. They claim that today one out of four people has no one to talk to about important things. One out of four. Think about that at your next concert or conference, synagogue or church service. And those people are out mingling with others. What about the ones at home?

So let’s say the problem is loneliness. What then? We can’t just stamp it out. Everyone feels lonely at times. The idea that a single person or an older person might be lonely is easy to understand, but Olds and Schwartz point out that young people, married people, and people with families can feel just as isolated.

So what can we do? We can make an effort to connect.

At Cambridge Forum, Schwartz told the audience about receiving a voicemail message from a patient.

“No need to call back,” she had said. “I’m fine.”

Still, he wondered, “Should I call her?” He knew the woman had been to hell and back lately. But she said she was fine. She sounded fine.

A day or so later, she called to schedule an appointment with him. Turned out she had left that voicemail message, gotten off the phone and gone online, looking to buy a gun.

Assume it isn’t obvious. Assume your friend won’t say, “I wake up crying,” or “I have no one to talk to,” or “I feel like I’m in quicksand.”

You might hear, “Let me call you back,” or “I've got my hands full,” or “Gosh, I wish I could talk.”

And then what? First, ask "Are you okay? Do you need anything? What can I do that would help?"

Maybe your friend just needs someone to listen. So listen. Don't play therapist, and don't try to fix your friend. Just listen.

It's also fine to mention things that have helped you in hard times: a book you read, a grief support group, a good therapist. Tell your friend you understand, you've been there, and encourage your friend to get help.

Also, think of things your friend loves: a special kind of flowers, a favorite band, a certain chocolate. Send a "CARE Package" with a note: "From Your Secret Admirer." Invite your friend to lunch, or to help you pick out a gift or do some volunteer work.

If your friend doesn't want to talk, don't push it. But stay in touch. Let your friend know, "I care about you. I haven't forgotten about you. I'm with you."

©2009-2014 Laynie Tzena.

From Strength to Strength

Coach Bill Walsh spoke once about riding the bus home after yet another losing game. He was miserable. Here he'd been working so hard with the team, and for what? Seemed the best thing to do was to quit. He was trying to decide when to do it.

"And then," he said, "we started winning."

The team won the next game, and the next, and many more after that. The seeds Walsh had planted and had been nurturing for months finally sprouted.

Imagine if he'd given up instead.

Yet that's what so many of us are tempted to do when things don't seem to be
working out.

"Character," I once heard a man say, "is what remains after the original enthusiasm
has passed."

Bill Walsh had character. And so do we all. The question is: Are you willing to put yours into practice?

"Yasher Koach," the Hebrew version of the name of this blog, is often said after someone reads from the Torah. It's easy to assume that people are saying, "Good job," and some people see it that way. But the words are translated as "From strength to strengh," and I take that to mean, "In this moment, you have shown strength. Remember that strength as you go forward."

So think of a moment when you "rose to the occasion," when you did something you didn't think you could, maybe didn't even want to do but knew was necessary. Write down the event, your reservations about what you had to do, and what you then did. Date the note. Next time you've got something ahead of you that you're not sure you can face, pull out that note and let it remind you what you are capable of doing.

©2009, 2012 Laynie Tzena.