How Bhutan Balances Forest Preservation, Economic Development -- AND HAPPINESS!!

NOTE TO READERS: A college friend, freelance writer Cathy Shufro, of New Haven, Connecticut, visited Bhutan not long ago to explore the way that Himalayan nation is promoting economic development while trying to preserve its vast forests.

The Bhutanese government also manages to bring into the mix a formal measure of happiness -- Bhutan has written into its constitution that the country "shall strive to promote those conditions that will enable the pursuit of Gross National Happiness."

In her article on Bhutan in the May/June issue of the Yale Alumni Magazine, Shufro presents a fascinating look at the way Buddhist philosophy informs the life of the Bhutanese people and their government. What follows is a short excerpt from her piece -- it may start you thinking about visiting Bhutan!

By Cathy Shufro

"Ideas of sacredness serve to preserve nature in subtle ways, too. Villages throughout Bhutan have always designated certain groves uphill from cultivated land as sacred, says Nawang Norbu, director of the Ugyen Wangchuck Institute for Conservation and Environment, a government conservation research and education center. 'There are some forests where you would be advised not to enter because of deities,' and these inviolable stands of tress safeguard water sources. 'Some elders in their wisdom would have understood this intricate relationship between forest and water and, ultimately, their livelihood.'

"In the midst of this discussion comes one of those exchanges that illustrate how much Buddhist faith informs thought, feeling, and daily life in Bhutan. When I ask Nawang Norbu how many people the forestry department employs, he estimates 1,200. But he says the exact number doesn't matter: 'One could die tomorrow.'

"Taken aback, I attempt a joke:

'Knock on wood.'

"'It doesn't matter,' he says. He pauses, then adds, 'Emptiness.' Others in the room nod.

"I've heard of emptiness. It's a Buddhist belief that human beings are deluded in thinking of ourselves as discrete from other beings; everything is continuous and the 'self' empty. But my concept of it is hazy. 'I don't understand emptiness,' I tell Nawang Norbu. 'Nobody does,' he replies, 'so there is no point in me talking about it.'"

Writer Cathy Shufro is a tutor and lecturer in Yale University's Department of English.

Researchers are Studying How Mindfulness Makes Us More Happy!!

By Lenore Flynn

How can mindfulness -- a practice of opening the heart and mind -- help us become happier?

I recently returned from the 2011 Mind and Life Summer Research Institute in Garrison, NY. This is an annual gathering of scientists, philosophers and contemplative teachers so they can enter into a dialogue about the research related to meditation and mindfulness.

One hundred and fifty people from all over the world are chosen to attend by Mind and Life. This was a rare opportunity to spend a full week with colleagues whose enthusiasm and interest in mindfulness and its implications equal my own. I met many remarkable people whose love of inquiry is inexhaustible. The week’s conversations at mealtimes and in between were filled with questions, challenges and answers. The faculty or keynote presenters fueled these fires with their questions and challenges. We also meditated together several times a day. I could not wait to get up each morning.

These are the people who are looking inside the workings of the human brain mostly through functional MRIs. People are placed into MRI scanners while meditating, being mindful, being distracted, etc. The researchers are looking at what is different about long term meditators’ brains as opposed to the brain of someone who has never meditated. Already many things have come to light about compassion, our attachment to our lovers and families, and how the brain can regain equilibrium after stress. Teaching mindfulness for anxiety and depression have gained wide acceptance. Many think the brain is the “final frontier” of science. Clearly there is much more we do not know than we do.

In the early days of research, monks who spent most of their lives meditating were studied. In a slide we saw in a presentation, the monks laughed at the scientist as he demonstrated the multi-channel EEG (electroencephalography-recording of the electrical activity in the brain), sort of a skull cap with multiple leads. Why were the monks laughing? Because they could not understand why the scientist would put something on their head to measure something that has to do with the heart.

It was my “AHA” moment.This was why something felt just a little out of sync for me and suddenly I felt better. I am not a scientist although I love and have studied a good deal of science in my time. I am a teacher and what I teach people is way to suffer less. I have talked about this many times before in this blog but never was it more evident to me. The neuroscience is really exciting, almost seductive, to those of us familiar with evidence based practice and who long for validation by the traditional medical community that these practices work, they are cheap and people benefit in ways we cannot measure from them. But I came to teach mindfulness and Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) 18 years ago because I was a practicing meditator and a nurse and suddenly there was Bill Moyers on TV showing how people at the University of Massachusetts in Worcester were getting relief from their physical and emotional pain by meditating and learning how to be mindful. The pivotal “AHA” moment of my life.

When I teach my classes we talk a lot about the heart. We talk of the heart opening, the heart softening, the heart feeling lighter. Mindfulness is a practice of the heart. I suspect someday we may see the now invisible ties that bind the head and heart on some scanner. I couldn’t help but think of the lines from the Derek Walcott poem “Love After Love:”

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door…..

Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you have ignored

for another, who knows you by heart…

I wish all of these earnest and good people who truly want to find a way to make mindfulness as a treatment more accessible to everyone all the best. I will help and support them in what ever way I can; I will marvel at what they find. Our conference ended with a call to everyone to dedicate the work we do to ending suffering; I hope for that with all my heart.

Writer Lenore Flynn, who taught mindfulness to my students in the "Reading and Writing a Happier Self" class at the University at Albany, SUNY, this past spring, was one of a very select few teachers chosen to attend the Mind and Life Summer Research Institute. A long-time teacher and practitioner of mindfulness, she runs a mindfulness program in Albany at www.solidgroundny.org. This post appeared first in the Albany Times Union's Holistic Health blog. P.S. The rainbow image at the top of this page is not a flying saucer. :)

"Dark Journey" -- A Therapist's Life Can be VERY Scary!!

By Dr. Mel Waldman

One day, almost 40 years ago, I was working as a young, innocent counselor in charge of a locked ward in a prison euphemistically called a rehab center.

The patient population consisted of substance abusers and criminals. A patient had been sent upstate to do time. I approached this patient on the ward and naively wished him good luck. Unsophisticated and unaware of the power of words, I unwittingly became a target. The patient went berserk and assaulted me, pummeling me and banging my head against a nearby wall. The security guards took their time coming to my aid.

A month later, something even more horrific happened. I was co-leader of a therapy group. Unfortunately, my partner, a parole officer, was out sick. I ran the group without him and was left alone on the locked ward with a group of desperate men. In the middle of the session, one of the men told me that I was their prisoner. “We are holding you hostage. Give me the keys or we will hurt you.” I looked into the leader’s dark, frenzied eyes and knew my life was in grave danger. I gave him the keys. They escaped from the ward that day but were eventually captured. Even now, I sometimes remember the madness in his eyes and the hot, sizzling threat of death. Sweat pored from my forehead in the claustrophobic room that seemed to get smaller and smaller as it swirled and whirled around in my head.

Of course, the above mentioned incident occurred in an inpatient facility. But I discovered later in my career that both inpatient and outpatient settings often lack adequate safety measures.

Most people, I believe, will automatically acknowledge that police officers, firefighters and soldiers have dangerous jobs. Who would disagree? But there’s another profession that is hazardous and life-threatening and it’s my own.

Yet often, people do not realize the dangers faced by psychotherapists like myself. It is a mysterious profession that anoints its members with the title psychotherapist. This diverse profession includes psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, psychologists, social workers, family therapists and mental health counselors.

Working as a psychotherapist is dangerous for sundry reasons. The process is a dark journey into each patient’s psyche and soul, demanding that the therapist perceive and experience the world as the patient does, at least for the therapeutic hour.

During this dynamic process, the therapist will often hear horrific stories of evil and trauma. Many patients present some degree of danger for the therapist.

With recent changes in outpatient mental health clinics licensed by the Office of Mental Health, psychotherapy patients may carry a long history of substance and alcohol abuse and criminal behavior. These clinics are now mandated to treat these patients. Even therapists in private practice are frequently confronted with patients suffering from severe psychiatric disorders. Moreover, the stereotypical notion of the wealthy Park Avenue psychotherapist treating neurotics is a moribund image. Although there are a small percentage of psychotherapists who treat a rich clientele, they too find themselves treating more disturbed patients.

A few decades ago, a former supervisor, who called himself an existential psychoanalyst illuminated the nature of psychotherapy for me. This kind, paternal man -- a gifted therapist -- is the person who suggested that therapy involves taking a dark journey into the universe of the patient. “It’s an act of courage,” he said. “You’ve got to trust that you can let go and join the patient in his or her reality, knowing that you will return intact at the end of the session. That is, you won’t go mad and you won’t die. During the dangerous metamorphosis that occurs during the therapeutic hour, you won’t lose your identity.”

He compared the seasoned therapist to a great actor who is willing to take enormous risks and explore his or her character completely, even if that means going to the edge of the psychological cliff and confronting one’s own demons. Indeed, any artist has to take risks to achieve something of significance.

Emotions are contagious. And when therapists treat trauma victims and/or survivors, they may experience vicarious trauma. In other words, because of their empathy, they may have some of the same symptoms that their patients experience.

At some point in treatment, many patients induce disturbing thoughts and feelings in the therapist.

As previously noted, therapists now treat violent patients in outpatient mental health clinics and in private practice. These patients pose real physical threats to therapists. And in many clinical settings, there are inadequate safety measures in place.

In the early eighties, I treated an ex-police officer who secretly carried a gun on him during the therapy session. When I discovered that he had brought a gun into the session, I ordered him to lock it up until he completed his therapy. Initially, he refused. Then he agreed to get rid of it. But he postponed doing so. I did not feel threatened by this man. However, my supervisor told me that my life was in danger. What would the patient do when he developed a negative transference toward me? That is, what would happen when he projected negative thoughts and feelings that he had about significant figures in his life onto me? My supervisor ordered me to give the patient an ultimatum. He had to get rid of the gun or the therapy would be terminated. The therapy ended. And I reflected about the defense mechanism of denial. I felt safe but my life had actually been in danger. Now that’s a frightening phenomenon.

In the early nineties, I worked for a large mental health organization in the Bronx. A young therapist I knew had completed his doctorate in psychology and had also met the love of his life. We worked in different clinics in the same building. From time to time, I spoke with him. He seemed happy, especially when his girlfriend moved in with him.

One of his patients overdosed on drugs. Someone found him and called 911. The young therapist blamed himself for his patient’s attempted suicide. In addition, he believed the patient was going to die.

This young therapist committed suicide. His patient lived. For days, months, and perhaps years, I’ve thought about this psychologist who took his own life. What happened in the therapeutic process to make him go over the edge? Could he have been saved?

The dangers of being a psychotherapist are not limited to inpatient settings. They exist in all therapeutic environments. Threats are both external and internal. I recommend in-depth therapy or analysis for all therapists, as well as individualized coping techniques to expel the emotional poisons that therapists inhale during each session. I used to play a lot of tennis and jog. Now, I exorcise my demons by writing murder mysteries and horror stories. Today, psychotherapists are faced with more dangers than ever before. Nevertheless, although the therapy session is a dark journey, I embrace it in an act of courage, trust, and hope.

Dr. Mel Waldman, a regular contributor to MyStoryLives, is a psychologist, writer and singer/songwriter. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines. He can be reached via email at mwaldman18@earthlink.net. Recently, he wrote about his miraculous recovery from a disease doctors had said was fatal.

The Journey We Take Together -- Part Two

Note to Readers: For many weeks now, writer Alexander "Sandy" Prisant has been writing a very moving series, "The Journey We Take Alone," about his lifelong struggle with illness. Now, his wife, Susan, is writing separately about the adventures they have lived as a couple for the last 47 years (they eloped at age 18.) Part One of this series ran on June 7, 2011.

By Susan Prisant

Now all we had to do was figure out how to actually pull off this wedding thing, finishing what we had started.

Sandy – my husband for the past 47 years – and I had a six-week whirlwind courtship. (Read Part One to catch up on this remarkable story.) And then one fall weekend in 1963 -- wearing white gloves like a proper girl would – I visited Sandy at the University of Wisconsin, where he was a freshman, flunking out because he was so miserably lovesick.

That memorable weekend ended with Sandy proposing in a taxi as we headed to the airport (I was supposed to go home). I accepted. We were 18 years old. And wild about each other.

What did we know about that big world, beyond the dorm’s glass staircase of love? First, we had to concoct a story for the parents, or my father would surely kill us. I could just picture him, waiting at JFK for me, the daughter who was never coming home.

As Sandy and I drove back to the dorm from the airport, abandoning plans for me to fly back to New York, we realized what we had to do: we already felt like we were MARRIED, so now, we had to make it legal! Or at least, that’s what we decided to tell our parents.

Yet the more we thought about it, fear for our lives took over. Sandy found the courage to take the phone and with a strong, confident voice, he said:

“Hello….Dad? Hello, Mr. G.?”

My father was screaming back: “Who is this? Who is this?”

Fortunately, Dad swallowed the whopper. Whole. He believed Sandy when he said we were already married.

Well, we were. Sort of. We were that much in love.

Then we called Joe, Sandy’s father and best friend. In full oratorical splendor, Joe began reciting what sounded like The Gettysburg Address.

Sandy interrupted to keep up the sham: “Dad, I just got married; you’re not addressing the nation!”

It was a dorm mate, John Kirchmeyer, who came to our rescue. He claimed: “Iowa was the place to get married.” What did we know? John took care of all the arrangements. We would leave the next morning, drive to Iowa in his 1952 Chevrolet and sleep at his uncle’s dairy farm.

We piled into the jalopy, drove for hours over snowbound highways, making our journey feel like the first wagon train forging the Mississippi and the Great Plains.

The County Clerk greeted us with a gift pack from the State of Iowa. There was Tide washing powder, Ivory Snow soap, Saran plastic wrap and many other goodies. It was our first wedding present; I was overjoyed.

The clerk began filling out the license: “Susan, your last name and age? Sandy, your given name and age?”

“EIGHTEEN! No, young man, you cannot marry in the State of Iowa.”

The walls were closing in. What were we going to do now? And NO, I’m not giving back my first wedding gift.

We drove back through town—one DX gas station. It was very quiet in the car on the way to the farm. Not married and no idea what to do next.

Our hosts were delighted to welcome the supposed “bride and groom.” Sandy and I sat on opposite sides of the room, praying for an unknown God to help us. We slept that night in the “honeymoon suite.” It was 30 below with a piece of cardboard in place of a window pane.

The next morning we faced the deathly-fearsome drive back to Wisconsin. Now we had to lie to everyone. We were too caught up in this fictional, fantastic fairy tale wedding.

It meant we returned to a huge celebration. An array of gifts and hundreds of people who wanted to be a part of The Story.

Meanwhile, my parents had been invited over to Sandy’s house to discuss this teenage marriage. I could imagine my father’s sober face as he drove down the long driveway. I could practically hear his voice: “No problem. We’re getting rid of our daughter. And they’re rich.”

Joe, with his instantly warm feelings for me, decided that I would always be there for his son. But he wanted my parents to know that Sandy’s delicate health made this marriage a gamble. However, his wise words were: “If you stop them, you will never know if you’ve made the biggest mistake of our lives.”

Having already called home to claim we were married, we now had to get our parents’ consent to actually do it.

Sandy was on the phone with another lie. This time he claimed it was our witness who was underage and the State of Iowa had declared our marriage null and void. But while we agonized over getting consent, our parents were already printing reception invitations.

Our never-ending marriage finally took place in Madison, Wisconsin, at Sandy’s alma mater. November 26, 1963. The wedding was just the first episode in the incredibly exciting adventure we’ve had for almost half a century.

Thanksgiving holiday arrived. We and all the New Yorkers at school piled on the plane as if we were coming home from summer camp, but we grew more and more anxious as we descended the staircase. We moved through long corridors directing us to signs that welcomed us to JFK. Parents seemed as if they were awaiting their children from the long, hot summer days of color war wins. There were smiles and armfuls of hugs and kisses.

And there, separated from the rest of the crowd, stood the two fathers-in-law.

Writer Susan Prisant created interactive reading and writing programs for children, writing eight children's books to use with these programs. The courses she led were sanctioned by the State of California and later, she taught them on the East Coast and also, in the American School in Israel.

Is Your Boss REALLY in the Business of Creating Jobs? Or Making Money?

By Richard Kirsch

Spinmeisters for the U.S. Chamber of Commerce and Republican politicians like Speaker John Boehner like to call businesses "the job creators." But what every American knows, if he or she thinks about it, is that unless you work for a small business, your boss will only create a new job if there isn't a cheaper option: force you to work longer hours, hire a temp, purchase new technology. Or if you work for a big company, get the work done overseas.

I was thinking about this after reading a recent article in The New York Times ("Companies Push for Tax Break on Foreign Cash"), which described how corporate America wants to be able to slash the taxes it pays on overseas profits that it returns to the United States from 35% to 5.25%. The corporations are selling this as job creation, saying that the billions of dollars they would bring back home will be invested in jobs. Who are they kidding? These are the same companies that are already sitting on nearly $2 trillion in cash, which they clearly are not investing in jobs in the United States. What will they do with the money if they get to bring it back on the cheap? Last time the corporations convinced (translation: "paid") Congress to give them a repatriation holiday, 92% of the cash was rewarded to shareholders in the forms of dividends and stock buybacks.

Even if they did need money to create jobs, there's little chance corporate America would locate those jobs in the United States. Apple has $12 billion in profits waiting offshore to be repatriated, but it's clear that bringing that cash home won't mean more jobs for American workers. Apple's entire U.S. workforce of 25,000 is dwarfed by the 250,000 workers who make Apple products for the Chinese company FoxConn. Apple is far from alone. From 2005 to 2009, IBM expanded its international workforce by 100,000 while cutting 29,000 U.S. Employees. All told, U.S. multinationals cut their U.S. workforces by 2.9 million during the 2000s while adding 2.4 million employees overseas.

Last February, President Obama embarrassed himself by going to the Chamber of Commerce and pleading with corporate executives to invest some of the $2 trillion in cash in the United States. The President appealed to the Chamber to respond to forecasts of "a healthy increase in demand" and invest in job creation. He even declared to the lobbying association that had led the fights to kill his signature achievements in office -- health care and financial reform -- "we're in this together."

No, Mr. President, we're not in this together with corporate America. Corporations are in it to maximize profits and boost CEO salaries, not help the U.S. economy or put people back to work.

With no "healthy increase in demand," on the horizon and unemployment heading back up, the President has talked more about government-led solutions that would actually create jobs in America. Near the end of his address on Afghanistan, and in a full-throated pitch at a Democratic fundraiser in New York City the next evening, Obama called for investments in education, infrastructure, and clean energy at home.

Democratic leaders in Congress have also started to sharpen their focus on the failure of corporations to create jobs at home. Nancy Pelosi's reaction to the Majority Leader Eric Cantor's walking away from budget talks was, "Yes, we do want to remove tax subsidies for big oil, we want to remove tax breaks for corporations that send jobs overseas... "

The Republican leadership in Congress has taken investing in job creating programs and closing corporate tax loopholes off the table in the debt-ceiling negotiations. But if the President is to be reelected, he needs to make it very clear to the American people that he is doing everything he can to create good jobs at home. He should oppose budget-cuts in the debt-ceiling talks that kill jobs, including cuts in education and Medicaid. Moreover, he should insist that any debt-ceiling deal include closing corporate loopholes that encourage profits to be used overseas and invest those savings in measures to create U.S. jobs. And when Republicans charge that doing so would hurt the "job creators" he should ask Americans a simple question: "Is your boss in business to create jobs in the United States, or to make as much money as he can?

Richard Kirsch is a senior fellow at the Roosevelt Institute. His new book, "Fighting for Our Health," will be published in January by SUNY Press. This article appeared first on the Huffington Post and was cross-posted in the Roosevelt Institute blog, called New Deal 2.0.

Flamenco Book Party in Lenox!! What great fun!

Flamenco.
Food.
Sangría.
Fiction.

What great fun Sunday's guitar-book party was in Lenox, MA!

Big thanks to flamenco guitarists Lee Rausch, left, and José Miralles, for making Sunday's flamenco book party such fun! And thanks to all who came!

It was a bustling afternoon in The Bookstore in Lenox, MA. The café there, called "Get Lit," was chock full of visitors drawn to the sweet sounds of alegría, soleares, bulería and other beautiful flamenco melodies.

Thanks to Jo Ann Losinger, who owns the painting, "Shattered Cups," the Seeing Red reading was held in the presence of the marvelous painting by Pittsfield artist Kellie Meisl that adorns the book's cover!! This is a painting with an amazing story behind it!

In the photo below, Kellie (left) enjoys a glass of sangría with Jo Ann (center) and musician Sandy Lord.

WAS REPORTER JOSE ANTONIO VARGAS WRONG TO LIE AND BREAK THE LAW? What do you think?

Don't miss the New York Times' magazine piece today on Jose Antonio Vargas, the former Pulitzer prize-winning Washington Post reporter who admitted this week that he is an undocumented immigrant and that he's been lying for years about his immigration status.

NPR did an interview with Vargas Friday afternoon, and listening to it, I cringed. NPR host Michelle Norris asked Vargas very pointed questions about why he lied; she told him too that he never said "I'm sorry" for all the lying he did over the years.

After hearing the NPR interview, I immediately read the Times' piece, in which Vargas begins by explaining how his mother woke him up one morning in 1993 and when he was 12 years old. With no warning or preparation she handed him a jacket and stuck him in a cab and sent him off to the U.S. to live with her parents. Vargas was in the sixth grade. He proceeded to grow up in Mountain View, California, loving his home and family, and feeling like an American citizen.

Reality struck with a vengeance a few years later: "One day when I was 16, I rode my bike to the nearby D.M.V. office to get my driver’s permit. Some of my friends already had their licenses, so I figured it was time. But when I handed the clerk my green card as proof of U.S. residency, she flipped it around, examining it. 'This is fake,' she whispered. 'Don’t come back here again.'"

Vargas tells a heart-wrenching tale that got me close to tears. It's the story of how, for the past 14 years, he's lived a complicated life full of lies and strategies to keep employers and the government from finding out that he is undocumented. To my mind, this is a life he had no choice but to live, as he was trapped in a situation that he hadn't asked for. His solution was to try to be as successful as possible. He writes: "I convinced myself that if I worked enough, if I achieved enough, I would be rewarded with citizenship. I felt I could earn it."

One thing is clear: he has worked hard enough. I had the pleasure to meet Vargas in the spring of 2009 when I was teaching a graduate journalism class at Georgetown. Vargas agreed to speak to my class. He was a lively, provocative guest speaker. It was clear to me and others that he was deeply driven. Looking back, and knowing now how tortured he was by his situation, his somewhat frenetic personality makes a lot more sense to me. And I've got a lot of sympathy for him, and the predicament he faced.

By coming clean about his status as an illegal immigrant, Vargas opens himself up to legal prosecution. His lawyers advised him not to go public, but he explains in the Times' article that he is tired of living a lie. "I’m done running. I’m exhausted. I don’t want that life anymore." He also admitted not too long ago that he is gay.

Vargas is what is known as a "Dream Kid," an immigrant children brought to the U.S. as a child, without documentation. The DREAM Act, which passed the U.S. House of Representatives last year, failed in the Senate because of the filibuster. The law would give citizenship to young people who are undocumented immigrants who have grown up in the U.S. Vargas says he hopes to help lead the fight to get the DREAM Act passed.

In the NPR interview Michelle Norris challenged Vargas, asking him if this story of his lies and lawbreaking wasn't just going to be about him. Vargas responded: ""This can't be just about me. I'm hoping to use this conversation in a broader sense. I want to look at this issue as holistically as possible and not play political football with it."

Reading the story, I for one think we need to cut Vargas some slack. The fact that he's come forward and confessed took a huge amount of guts. It's a big legal and emotional gamble and I am of the mind that it was the right thing to do. What do you think?

Dear Sandy, Here's a Story of Another Man's Healing Miracle, May It Inspire You!!

Note to Readers: I wasn't planning to post this letter. But it is such a remarkable story, I just had to! I chose to use this image of the Omega Nebula because when I look into the night sky and see the endless stars, I am always astonished at the power of the universe. This nebula measures "several light years across." Incredible. CR


June 25, 2011

Dear Sandy Prisant:

Throughout my life, I’ve had this persistent need to understand why. This relentless need has driven me to develop my scientific mind, dominated by my left hemisphere. But logical thinking did not empower me to explore the really big questions of life. What is the meaning of my life? What is my purpose? Why am I here? Is there a G-d? If G-d exists, what is His nature? Both good and evil seem to exist? Why? Why does a loving G-d permit evil? Is there a loving G-d? Why do good people suffer? Is there life after death?

The universe with all its laws and complexities seems, at times, to be a splendid design created by the Great Designer with intention and inevitability. At other times, it seems to be a whirling, swirling mass of chaos. In my darkest moments, I wonder if the universe is governed by chance and nothing else. What is the truth? For me, the truth lies in my poetic mind, dominated by my right hemisphere.

And when I immerse myself in imagination, an ocean of magnificent waves of illumination, I become connected to a beautiful Source of love and joy and creativity. Thirteen years ago, I embarked on an exciting and life-changing journey. I began my second marriage with a memorable honeymoon in Puerto Rico. We went for long, romantic walks on the beach, inhaled the tropical ambiance, and embraced beneath the sultry sun. I felt strong and healthy and happier than I had been in years. When we returned to Brooklyn, I had a routine appointment with my doctor. He told me he had some bad news. I had a fatal disease.

This esoteric illness was progressive. Over the next few years or sooner, I would become very ill and die a painful death. There were some treatments. But none were effective. And if I underwent these treatments, most likely I would suffer a lot. I wanted to ask him, what do I do? I said nothing. I went home to my bride and waited to die. A few years later, I took a leave of absence from work and began the daily treatments. These treatments were brutal. I became the living dead isolated from the outside world and alienated from my joyous self.

I thought I would die from the treatments. I didn’t. But something else happened. After several months of Hell, I was cured! Cured? I didn’t believe it. My primary care physician didn’t believe it. Yet the specialist confirmed that I was cured. Years have passed. I’ve been tested and retested many times. Miraculously, I’m cured. I’m a survivor. Why me? Why me and not them? I’ve tried to make sense of this. I’ve suffered from survivor’s guilt at times. Why? Do I deserve to live? Did the others deserve to die? Is it simply a matter of chance, the roll of the dice? Like you, Sandy, I’ve learned to cherish the moment. I try to live in it as often as possible. Sometimes I get sidetracked by future goals or heartrending memories. But I keep trying. And I write! I love to write. Writing is my joy and my salvation. It’s my lifesaver!

Dr. Mel Waldman
Psychologist, Director, Writer

Dr. Mel Waldman lives in Brooklyn, New York.

The Journey We Take Alone? Part Ten

By Alexander "Sandy" Prisant

What do you do when you’re in the middle of an ultrasound and the technician is brought to tears by what she sees in your organs? That’s what happened to me last week at the University of Miami, now upgraded to a major university teaching hospital. It’s staffed by highly experienced pros, cherry-picked from across the country.

When Jenny’s tears started to well up, I tried not to look. You lay there, very still. You say nothing. But you start to wonder…is this the worst she’s seen? This week? This month? Ever? It’s the Mother of all reality checks.

And it’s part of a sort of twisted social etiquette that comes with life-threatening illness. The best analogy is Air Crash Hysteria. Passengers look out to see an engine or even a whole wing on fire. The worse they feel it is, the more likely they are to do what I did—sit still. Say nothing. The threat of embarrassment sometimes trumps life.

I don’t know if they’ve identified the chromosome that controls this, but it sure feels instinctive. And it’s an extra burden for patients. It’s not enough that we must waver back and forth between life and death (in our minds, apart from our bodies). We’re expected, or believe we’re expected, to do it with some style.

My father, Joe, was a larger-than-life character with European charm. He was socially adept and vigorous and loved to play to the crowd. When he’d get a local traffic ticket, he’d actually invite all in his friends to the local magistrate’s court to watch him star as the often successful amateur defense attorney.

When he was suddenly diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas at 60, it was considered the cancer with the highest mortality rate and amongst the most painful. What happens to European charm then? Almost 40 years ago, the same unwritten code of conduct kicked in for my father as it did during my ultrasound.

In addition to the outright pain, pancreatic cancer makes eating almost impossible. In the final stages, you are dying as much as anything from malnutrition.

But human instinct often motivates loved ones to express care and concern through offerings of food. My mother-in-law, God bless her, cherished my father and her special recipe potato soup, straight from the Old Country. She brought pots of it to my father, as his weight nearly halved from 155. She seemed oblivious to this. It was his job to praise the soup lavishly and regularly, when he could not hold down a spoonful. An earnest, compassionate woman wanted so badly to help.

These natural reactions often mean it’s the patient who’s left to help the family cope. (Doctors often won’t—when we got my father’s terminal diagnosis we asked his doctor far in advance to alert us when we were nearing the final stage—he never said a word.) This extra role for the sick can be hard work. Even on good days.

Having more often been patient than on-looker, I try to encourage families to keep their equilibrium. After all, the patient knows how every inch of his body feels, better than any test. Most pain is now controllable. But the concerned loved ones can only imagine. And invariably they imagine the worst—far worse than the patient is experiencing. Few of us can block this kind of neurosis when it’s someone we really care about.

So those of us at the center of these events sometimes feel a sort of obligation to cheer up their fan base. Who knows why? Other species go quietly off alone at the end; we tend to draw a crowd. Yet even then, there remains an invisible barrier between the infirm and the “normal people”.

In a sense, we are taking a journey alone, but it’s often with more on-lookers than we used to see in a week.

Sandy Prisant, who has lived and worked as a management consultant in Barcelona, Israel and other parts of the world, is waiting for a kidney and heart transplant. His series, "The Journey We Take Alone," began in March. Part Nine ran on Tuesday, June 21, 2011. Part Eight, which ran on Sunday, June 12, 2011, has links to all previous posts in the series. PIctured above is Sandy's father.

Fascinating Insight into Wal-Mart's "Authoritarian" and Anti-Woman Management Style

By Claudia Ricci

Wal-Mart has become the mega-successful retailer it is today by relying on an "authoritarian" corporate culture and a management training system that make it very difficult for women to become store managers.

This is the insight offered by Nelson Lichtenstein in his fascinating op-ed in yesterday's New York Times.

Lichtenstein, a professor of history at the University of California, Santa Barbara, and the author of The Retail Revolution: How Wal-Mart Created a Brave New World of Business, describes the "authoritarian culture" that has fueled Wal-Mart's expansion ever since it opened its first stores in the Ozarks back in the 1950s and 1960s. "A patriarchal ethos was written into the Wal-Mart DNA," according to Lichtenstein.

Example: at one executive trainee meeting back in 1975, a banner read: “Welcome Assistant Managers and Wives.” That men-centered Wal-Mart culture has been a central reason for the company's success (according to Wal-Mart's own Don Soderquist, the company’s chief operating officer in the 1990s). Despite what the Supreme Court ruled on Monday -- throwing out a giant sex discrimination class-action lawsuit against Wal-Mart -- those keep-women-in-their-place rules are still operating strong for the retailer. As Lichtenstein explains it, if you want to step up out of the ranks of the hourly worker, and become a salaried assistant store manager (and plenty of women do) for Wal-Mart, you have to be willing to move hundreds of miles away to work in another store. More often than not, women -- because they care for children and older family members -- are just not in a position to do that.

Says Lichenstein: "For young men in a hurry, that [move is] an inconvenience; for middle-aged women caring for families, this corporate reassignment policy amounts to sex discrimination. True, Wal-Mart is hardly alone in demanding that rising managers sacrifice family life, but few companies make relocation such a fixed policy, and few have employment rolls even a third the size."

Even when women do become managers, they fight gender discrimination, as I discussed in Tuesday's Huffington Post.

In 2007, pharmacist Cynthia Haddad, of Pittsfield, Massachusetts,won a $2 million lawsuit against Wal-Mart, where she had worked for 10 years. In that case, Massachusetts lawyer and employment practices expert Julie Moore testified on behalf of Haddad, suggesting that Wal-Mart's policies and practices "contributed to the gender discrimination that culminated in this pharmacy manager's termination."

The retailer fired Haddad claiming that a fraudulent prescription had been filled when she left the pharmacy unattended.

Haddad was able to show that Wal-Mart had axed her because she had demanded that they pay her the same manager's salary that her male colleagues earned. Oh, and about that fraudulent prescription? It was filed a year and a half before Haddad was fired -- she'd never even been told about her so-called mistake.

In 2009, Massachusetts' Supreme Judicial Court upheld the verdict in this precedent-setting case.

The idea that an individual woman could sue the wildly powerful Wal-Mart and WIN $2 million is one heck of an inspiring story in a small Massachusetts town. Haddad, the mother of four children, told Business Week magazine that the lawsuit was no picnic. Still, Haddad had a lot going for her. She was a relatively well-paid professional and her husband, Bill, is also a pharmacist. She had the education, intellectual wherewithal, financial independence -- and the guts -- to complain in the first place, and then to mount a lawsuit after she was unjustly fired.

But that's not the situation for so many other low-income cashiers and hourly employees who aren't in such privileged positions. So many women don't have the luxury to dare risk losing their jobs by filing a complaint. Those are the women who have been screwed by the Supreme Court's ruling Monday in the sex discrimination lawsuit. The court, ruling in a 5-4 decision, blocked a giant class action lawsuit on behalf of 1.6 million women who accused Wal-Mart of systematic gender discrimination.

What a court.