Quitting

My first job out of college was working as a secretary in the subsidiary rights department of MacMillan Publishing Company. MacMillan, a hard copy publisher, auctioned paperback publication rights to other publishers. With my Barnard degree, I had the honor of typing multiple copies of the identical letter to numerous potential bidders. Word processors were in their infancy. I was lucky to have an electric typewriter with automatic whiteout [for those of you who remember white out]. While I was growing up, my father made it quite clear that people who quit anything were depraved losers. On the first day on the job, I went to my father's office at lunchtime. I cried about how miserable I was with this menial position and he told me to quit! I wondered if I had walked into the wrong office.

Dad was right, but yet dad was wrong. Sometimes quitting is a sign of weakness, while at other times it is a sign of strength. It's kind of like cholesterol or fat - not all of it is good, but not all of it is bad. Negative quitting basically means laziness. Abandoning a goal because it requires a little bit of effort is just giving up - like being in a race and slowing down in the last 2 minutes instead of giving one last push. This type of quitter doesn't even want to bother showing up for life and would rather sit around waiting for death.

Deciding to abandon a harmful relationship, be it personal or professional, is a different matter. It is not a sign of weakness. In fact, it is just the opposite. Leaving a relationship or a job is risky. The next job or relationship could be worse - or it could be better. So long as best efforts have been made, abandoning an exercise in futility is entirely reasonable. Quitting bad or destructive habits also falls into this category. This is the 'good' kind of quitting; quitting that leads to positive changes.

Years have passed. I wish I could have had this discussion with my father, but, sadly, he passed away on August 11, 1991. Since that day in 1982, I have learned that sometimes quitting is justified and even admirable. Knowing when to hold 'em and knowing when to fold 'em is a far healthier and fulfilling state of mind.

Idols with Feet of Clay

Our most respected leaders have exhibited remarkable failings. President Clinton's daliances were discussed and kind of brushed off, we were aghast at the indiscretion of former governor Elliot Spitzer and shocked, absolutely shocked by the extra-marital affairs of Tiger Woods, among others. The examples men in positions of public trust who have been dishonorable in their marriages are legion. While the behavior of these men is troublesome to many, many consider adultery to be a private matter that doesn't or shouldn't affect public reputation. Moral lapses also abound in the financial markets.

With wide-eyed amazement, we wonder how mortgages could possibly have been given without credit checks to people who were destined to default. Now, we are surprised to discover that John Paulson had a hedge fund that bet on the likelihood of a multitude of mortgage defaults. The Securities and Exchange Commission is blamed for lack of oversight. People wonder what possibly have gone wrong.

Has anyone ever heard of character? Not to get all prophetic, and I am not predicting the end of society as we know it ... but our idols have feet of clay. Few moral boundaries remain. Many people are embarrassed and uncomfortable judging men who cheat on their wives, but why not? Hello -it's cheating. It stinks and it denotes dishonesty that doubtless carries over into other areas of life. The same character flaws perpetuate the immoral lending practices that took advantage of relatively ignorant borrowers.

The problem with society is that no one can be trusted. Like the marital contract, our society is bound by an ethical contract. When either contract is breached, the relationship fails. The source of the failure is a destruction of trust. Can you name a politician that you actually and truly trust? If you can name one, isn't there some voice in the recesses of your mind telling you to beware? The hallmarks of honesty that engender respect are rarely taught or valued. The time to start modeling ethical behavior is now, and the modeling starts at home. We have to reclaim moral behavior at home and in the commercial sphere in order to reclaim stasis.

The Journey of our LIves

Passover commemorates the liberation of the Jewish people from slavery in Egypt. Jews around the world start this holiday with an at-home Passover service that is called a Seder, and a book called the Haggadah contains the ceremony's liturgy. Throughout the ensuing week, Jews refrain from eating bread and other grains that have been permitted to rise. Bread is replaced by matzo, a mixture of flour and water that is cooked into a cracker in no more than 18 minutes. Eating matzo reminds us that our ancestors had to get out so quickly, that they didn't have time to let their bread rise. The Haggadah instructs each Jew to undertake the journey as if he or she had been present at the exodus from Egypt.

I am Jewish and, with my family, I celebrate Passover. I have been celebrating this holiday my entire life. In adulthood, I have found a slightly different lesson in this holiday every single year. This amazes me. This year, "the journey" has occupied my thoughts.

The journey undertaken by those ancient Jews with Moses required both collective and individual change. Exodus required reformation of the collective, lower than subservient self-image. That collective negativity remains a plague. Our collective remains threatened and afraid - perhaps with good cause. For centuries, Jews have tried to "pass" and our modern artists have explored this phenomenon. Philip Roth, in "The Human Stain" explores this desire to be one with white culture through the ironic vehicle of a black protagonist who spends his life passing as Jewish. Anne Roiphe's magnificent portrayal of her family in "1185 Park Avenue," contains illustrations of classic, modern-day identity conflict. Pointedly describing her perception of Episcopalian non-Jews in her youth, Roiphe states in the first chapter of her book:

"If society is a pyramid in which the top comes to a point, they were the point. They did not so much cast a shadow over the rest as provide a source of constant anxiety for the others. That is the place where you weren't wanted. That is the restricted hotel on this block. That is the hospital that doesn't allow Jewish doctors to admit patients. That is the school you won't bother to apply to. "Them" was the word spoken with a touch of awe and a spark of anger. Who are "they" really to think they own the world and are so much better than "us"? The big businesses, the big banks, the big fortunes, the big givers to charity, the big owners of boxes at the opera: all of them were "them." They didn't want "us." Who cared. In America who cared. And besides one could imitate them or at least try."

In my individual journey, I have tried to shed shame about my identity. I am not the only modern Jew following a road away from self-hate and towards embracing a wonderful tradition. Self-acceptance takes fortitude, but self-acceptance offers the gift of release. Judgment of choices that other people make for their journeys is not necessary. I can choose my path, and other people can choose theirs. A broader acceptance is also being experienced by society at large - with both negative and positive consequences. Isn't it interesting that we all are still in the midst of an Exodus?

May you all have engaging spiritual journeys in the coming week, no matter what holiday you celebrate!

The Chocolate Lady

The little beach town of Oyster Bay, on the far north shore of Long Island, is home to a most unique chocolate artisan. In her shoe-box sized store on Audrey Avenue, across from Canterbury Ales and Buckram's Variety Store, The Chocolate Lady, Lee Perrotta, works her magic. Perrotta creates her own base chocolate primarily from vanilla, spices and cacao beans that she personally selects on annual trips to the Caribean at harvest time. There are actually 15 different chocolates involved in formation of the base, and that includes some French and belgian bases. The resulting chocolate is crafted into the confections that are made at the store in Oyster Bay. Passion, creativity and connection to the history of the art of chocolate making sets The Chocolate Lady apart from other local chocolatiers, and you can taste the difference.

Being health conscious, I am partial to dark chocolate. In this area, the Chocolate Lady excels. Chocolate covered caramels are smooth and rich, especially when accompanied by a hint of grey salt. Chocolate covered marshmallows are another favorite. Well, so is the chocolate covered orange peel, chocolate covered nuts and any truffle that Lee and The Chocolate Lady collective create. Other chocolatiers have approached non-traditional spice and chocolate combinations, but the "Maya Maya, So Spicy We Named it Twice" truffle is a stand out. With its secret ingredient that gives the truffle a special kick, the Maya Maya truffle is not for gulping. Savored slowly in small bites, however, this truffle reveals layers of sweet, savory and spicy.

The Chocolate Lady is a family affair. The store's logo features a sepia picture of Lee's great aunt, who was a chocolatier in the early 1900's, astride her chocolate making table. That same table now resides in the Oyster Bay store. Husband Paul is generally around and son Brandon, though not a chocolate aficionado, makes an ocassional appearances and came up with the idea for a cookie dough truffle. Paul Jr., the couple's elder son, is serving our country in the Armed Forces. So, patronizing The Chocolate Lady is not only supportive of the local economy, but also an act of patriotism. What's more,
The Chocolate Lady chocolate, in particular, has been shown to have positive health benefits.

Okay, that statement is not based on a scientific study, but eating The Chocolate Lady chocolate has made me and my daughters very happy. My husband bought me two diamond bracelets for a landmark birthday. They were okay and I eked out a form of thanks, but the gift of The Chocolate Lady chocolates this past Valetine's Day elicited a FAR more exuberant response. The bracelets were returned; the chocolates were joyfully devoured. Also, I sent a box to my cousin after brain surgery. She wrote," The chocolates were terrific, and they definitely made me feel better!" What other proof is required?

Visiting The Chocolate Lady, alone, is excuse enough for a trip to Oyster Bay. The Chocolate Lady products can be ordered on line at www.chocolateladyboutique.com, too. Ms. Perrotta also makes educational presentations about chocolate the history of chocolate and loves to prepare favors for any type of party. What an excuse to have a party! Visit the shop at 49 Audrey Avenue in Oyster Bay or call (516)922-2002.

By the way, this is an unsolicited review. I haven't been paid AT ALL. However, I have been influenced by the chocolate and the affable atmosphere created in the shop by its owner and her family.

Recovery

I take the most amazing spin classes at Equinox Fitness Club in Woodbury, New York with Kristen Gagne. Interval training -raising the heart rate through short bursts of effort followed by recovery - is part of the program. Kristen explains that the uncomfortable feeling will always feel uncomfortable. It is the threshold for tolerance of the discomfort that changes. Kristen also emphasizes the importance of recovery. With a room full of cardio junkies who are constantly on the go, Kristen demands that we stop pedaling our bikes at warp speed and take it easy for a few seconds before the next bout. The recovery phase, she explains, is work and the ability to recover quickly is the hallmark of an athlete.

Just like physical intervals, emotional pain and stress will always be painful and stressful. The ability to persevere in the face of emotional discomfort and stress, as well as the ability to recover, are crucial to overall well-being. Isn't is just like life to toss into our paths seemingly insurmountable obstacles, emergencies or crises? Some crises are like long, challenging intervals with no recovery in sight, as when a child is fighting cancer or living with a permanent disability. In those situations, a new threshold for tolerance of stress is developed purely as a matter of survival. Having lived through that type of long-term pain, I learned to create short a breaks in the interval simply to catch my emotional breath.

Functioning in the wake of a painful situation isn't easy. In many ways, it is easier to remain paralyzed by stress, frustration and pain. Entrapment by those emotions provides a convenient excuse to not move forward. They are the food of depression. But despair never helped anybody. Just as intervals don't last forever, neither does emotional stress. Someday, the opportunity for recovery will come - sooner in some instances and later in others. The form of recovery is different for different situations, but recovery is essential. Forever sustaining stress at the rough equivalent an anaerobic level is simply impossible.

Moving on is difficult. We hold on to our wounds, we replay arguments in our heads, we maintain grudges over matters long extinguished and are thus prevented from living in the moment. Once an interval is over, it is essential to leave that stress level behind. Recognizing the futility of holding on to stress and letting go is not simple. It requires surrender. It requires slowing the pedals down and letting that heart rate fall. Indeed recovery is the hardest work of all.

The Glass Castle - a review

I took some time off this afternoon to finish The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls (Scribner, 2005). The Glass Castle recounts Walls' surprising childhood. Her parents were brilliant eccentrics. Providing basic necessities for their children - like food and adequate shelter - was not a priority. Instead, the four Walls children lived in hair raising conditions. Their survival was nothing short of miraculous.

Rex Walls, Jeanette's father, was an alchoholic. Her mother, Mary, suffered from an unspecified psychiatric disorder. Neither parent could hold down a job or manage money. Rarely did the Walls family live in one place for very long. Money would run out, Rex would get into arguments or scrapes with law enforcement. The Walls children regularly were imperiled by their parents' judgment. While living in Phoenix, Arizona, Rex and Mary insisted on leaving the front door, the back door and windows open at night. Vagrants would wander in and fall asleep in the house and, on one occasion, one tried to molest Jeannette. The family picked up stakes to move back to Welch, West Virginia Rex's childhood home. The Walls relatives in Welch fulfilled every stereotype of Appalachia imaginable. Grandma Erma tried to molest her grandson and, on another occasion, Uncle Stanley attempted to fondle Jeannette. LIving conditions frequently were perilous.

Both parents eschewed responsibility. Each decision they made, even those endangering their children, was excused. They never felt guilty about exposing their children to bitter cold, hunger, physical pain and humiliation. Walls' mother was certified to be a teacher. Her mental illness manifested in a refusal to go to work, complaining that her children were a burden. She showed no concern for the comfort of her children and didn't know or care that they frequently scrounged in garbage for food. Rex disappeared for days at a time, spend every dime to drink, even steal from his children to buy alchohol, yet would challenge the children to tell him whether he had ever let them down. Mary's response to any hint of criticism would be some retort - luxuries would make the children weak and soft, others had it worse and the like.

On the other hand, Mary's attitude showed how one can view a challenge as a hardship or as an adventure. Rex did show he cared by making valiant attempts to dry out. The children did become resourceful and independent and, with the exception of the youngest child, became fully functioning adults within mainstream society. To an extent, Mary was correct that her children were stronger as a consequence of their experiences. It is clear that the author remains angry at her parents for

Our home is warm and cozy, with plentiful food and abounding in comfort. I like it that way. But maybe a thing or two could be learned about parenting from Mary; perhaps we 'typically functioning' people are a bit too cautious. Certainly, this book made me realize that, as a typically functioning, very mainstream adult, I have failed my emerging writer of a daughter by not providing her with material for a book.

What if? Reflections on a Visit to a Homeless Shelter

In t "The Inferno" of Dante Aleghieri's "Divine Comedy", the poet Virgil guides the author through hell. At one point, Dante and Virgil are climbing a steep, narrow path and Dante is so consumed with the view that he looses his balance and almost falls into the pit of hell. Well, last night glanced the precipice pit when we volunteered at the Ansche Chesed men's homeless shelter.

We didn't do much, really. Two rooms occupy the floor where the men stay. During the day, these rooms serve as a nursery school. They are at opposite ends of a long hallway. By the time we arrived at 7 p.m., the residents had already taken out their beds and sheets from storage and set up the television. I took out two microwaves from a closet that the residents use to heat up dinners provided by the shelter, logged in the men's names into the shelter's record book and called the two referring agencies to let them know that everyone had arrived safe and sound. The men ate their dinner and watched television. One man fastidiously washed out his clothing in a utility sink. Others made telephone calls on their cell phones. Were they calling family, I wondered. The men stayed in their room; my daughter and I stayed in the other, waiting for the overnight volunteer to arrive. No big deal. I made up the bed for the overnight volunteer and set the alarm clock for 5:25 a.m.; by 6 a.m., the residents must dismantle their beds, collect their belongings and leave.

An arctic front had moved into New York City by the time my daughter and I left the shelter. We headed toward Pennsylvania Station to catch the train back to Long Island. I noticed people milling around who looked as if they had nowhere else to go and thought of those eight fortunate men fortunate enough to be warm for a few hours.

It's eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. I am warm in my bed and it is the last day of vacation, and I really don't want to get up. The guys from the shelter have been out for two hours already. The wind howls outside. I can hear it. Last night, when we left the shelter, I didn't think the experience had touched me. I was so very wrong.