Radical Acceptance

DSM-Depression versus Bereavement

2012-02-03T09:13:00.000-05:00

Another controversy erupted last month over a proposed revision to one of our field’s most important tomes, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM). This time the debate swirls around bereavement and depression.

In the current DSM-IV-TR, the criteria for Major Depressive Episode include an exclusion for bereavement. A client, in other words, is not experiencing a depressive episode if his symptoms are better accounted for by loss-related bereavement (DSM-IV-TR, p. 356). Bereavement is listed as a separate V-code (V62.82). The assumption is that depression-like symptoms are sometimes normal after a significant loss and therefore not a disorder.

In the proposed fifth revision (DSM-5), slated for publication in May 2013, the bereavement exclusion is eliminated from Major Depressive Episode, as is the V-code for bereavement.

In other words, even if a client’s depressive symptoms are related to a recent loss, the clinician may still diagnose the individual as suffering from a major depressive episode.

But a new article authored by Jerome Wakefield and Michael First of NYU analyzes available studies and challenges the validity of removing the bereavement exception (BE). After examining the studies cited in support of removing the BE and subsequent literature, the authors concluded:

[T]he claimed evidence for the BE’s invalidity does not exist. The evidence in fact supports the BE’s validity and its retention in DSM-5 to prevent false positive diagnoses. We suggest some improvements to increase validity and mitigate risk of false negatives.

The debate, as covered in outlets such as The New York Times and The Daily Beast raises fundamental questions about our field’s stance on “normal” versus “disordered” emotional behavior. Given that depression is often treated with medication, altering the diagnostic criteria for depression can be especially impactful for clinicians and patients alike.

Visit the DSM website for more information about the manual, the proposed changes, and the process for offering input.

RELATED NEWS:

Antidepressant Use Linked to Increased Pulmonary Hypertension Risk in Infants

When It Comes To Depression, Serotonin Isn't the Whole Story

The Fourth Great Leap: Why Networked Community is a Revolution

2011-12-31T08:49:00.000-05:00

I WROTE THIS IN 2004. I was cleaning out my hard drive and came across it. I thought I would share it one more time... Macdara

The "Great Leap"of human development -- from homo erectus (or proto-homo sapiens) to homo sapiens, creators of art, tools, etc. -- occurred because of the evolution of the voice box, which allowed for complex human language. Others argue that the expansion of the part of the brain causing language was the trigger.

--From Jared Diamond, Third Chimpanzee

Communication is the thing that makes us human, that creates the vast chasm between us and the rest of creation. Why? Other animals communicate through language. Wolves, apparently, use their howling to send information across the Canadian tundra about the approach of spring or potential harm. Birds use sound to initiate mating rituals and find their young. Our closest cousins, the great apes (and chimpanzees??) use language…? . The difference, though, is that we use language to collaborate and innovate -- to build on the knowledge we're born with or taught in youth. Throughout our lives, we add the knowledge of others to our own, either by reading the words of those we don't know or by talking with our coterie and working together to solve problems. "Brainstorming" is uniquely human and requires complex language. Brainstorming means that we are not limited to the intelligence of any one human, but rather that all human endeavor builds on the collective intelligence of many humans.

Spoken language was the first great revolutionary innovation of human history. Written language was the second. Why? Because now humans were not learning only from those they knew personally, but could build on the knowledge of people they would never meet. Information could be stored and retrieved. The third great communications revolution is born out of the invention of the printing press and moveable type. Guttenberg responded to a need of his day -- literacy was on the rise and people were hungry for things to read. So his press met that need and, for the first time, made recorded human knowledge available to a wide swath of people.

And now the Internet. The Web practically eliminates the barriers to being "published," to archiving your own knowledge so that people you will never know, people who are not even alive yet, will have access to your wisdom. More significantly, your brainstorming circle -- that fundamental human gift -- is not limited to people you live near or work with or are related to. Now, through online communities, people are brainstorming with people from entirely different walks of life, different countries. People problem-solve with each other not because geographic chance has thrown them together, but rather because their shared knowledge and experience makes them uniquely qualified to find solutions together. Networked community is the fourth great leap.

In Braintalk.org, for instance, a community of neurological patients, a group of people who share a rare disease collaborated to advance the research into their affliction. Sears Kenmore tapped an online community of unpaid innovators for new product ideas.

The great communication leaps jar the trajectory of human history, and send us on a new path. Before collaborative communication skills, proto-humans lived as small bands of foragers, barely staying ahead of stronger predators by use of simple tools and mental agility. After, we became the farmers and soldiers, the makers of art and complex tools, and, ultimately, the conquerors of all other species. Before printing, humans were governed by superstition and religion. The printing press ushered in the age of science and reason and, ultimately, capitalism and computers. Before networked community, we are a people of nation-states and border battles. In a hundred years, when networked community has become as entrenched in our culture as the printed word is today, what sort of species will we be?

Comforting Our Anxious Parts

2009-08-18T16:38:00.001-04:00

As summer winds down, friends I bump into invariably look down at my children and say, “Oh! School’s about to start. Aren’t you excited?” My son buries his face in my leg while looking quizzically at the speaker, as if something completely ludicrous had just been uttered.

And the truth is: It had. The question gets things wrong in so many ways. First, my son is not primarily feeling excited. He’s feeling scared. Maybe you have one of those children, too. A worrier. It’s estimated that 13% of children experience some sort of anxiety disorder during ages 9 to 17. So when well-meaning adults assume my son he ought to be feeling excited, I cringe.

But I don’t just cringe at the incorrect read of his feelings. I cringe because I hear in the statement a common misunderstanding about us human beings and our emotions.

When we say to children (or adults) “Aren’t you excited (or happy, or sad, or anxious),” we’re speaking as if we are our emotions. We’re not. Our emotions are a part of us. And even when we’re feeling something quite strongly--for instance, fear--only a part of us is experiencing that emotion. Other parts of us are feeling other things--say hot, tired, energized or even excited. We all know that we often have conflicted emotions, which is how we end up with internal debates like “A part of me really wants to eat that ice cream sundae but a part of me knows I shouldn’t.” Or, “a part of me is sad summer is over, and a part of me can’t wait for the kids to get back into school.”

As Walt Whitman said, “I am large, I contain multitudes.”

This multitude of parts within us--referred to in psychology as a multiplicity of personality--is totally normal. And helpful. Because once you realize that only a part of you feels something, it’s much easier to deal with it. When only a part of you is feeling anxious, then it’s less overwhelming. You’re not being limited by a label. Plus, by acknowledging that only a part of you feels one way, you’re also acknowledging that other parts are feeling other things. In fact, you always have available within you a calm, confident Self that can comfort the other parts.

These insights are developed in a therapeutic model created by Dr. Richard Schwartz called IFS Thearpy. You can use aspects of his approach to help your child get to know and comfort her anxious parts.

Start by introducing “parts” language to your child. So, if she says, “I’m scared about school” you can simply echo back, “A part of you is anxious about school.” Then tell her that her anxious part probably needs a little attention. Ask her to close her eyes and see if she can picture that part of herself. She might picture where in her body her “anxious part” lives (maybe in her stomach, or her head). Ask her to get to know her anxious part. What is it afraid of? What would make it feel better? Tell her that she can give her anxious part the comfort it needs.

My son was having nightmares. He would awake screaming and come running to our room. I suggested to him that only a part of him was afraid at night and asked if he wanted to get to know that part. He said okay. He closed his eyes and found the part (in his chest). The part was scared that someone was going to steal him away in the night. I suggested he give the part a big hug and reassure it that he wouldn’t let the part be taken away.

It may sound crazy, but my five-year-old sat there, eyes closed, reassuring himself. He opened his eyes and said, “My scared part says it’s still scared. But it liked the hug.”

“Do you think you could reassure it again?” I asked.

He nodded. Although the fear of the dark hasn’t totally gone away, he learned that day that he had scared parts and brave parts, parts in need of comfort and parts that could comfort. And each time he gives himself a hug, he feels a little better.

As the start of school approaches, we’re once again seeing lots of visits from anxious parts. But he knows he can talk to his parts and find out what they need. And even when he’s on his own, he’s got a strong Self ready to give a hug.

Stranded on the Island

2009-07-31T11:21:00.002-04:00

In one of my graduate classes, we played a game. A group of us sat in a circle, and the professor said:

I've got some good news and some bad news. The bad news is that you're standed on a desserted island and you'll never get off. The good news is that all your basic needs--food, shelter--and provided for. Now, how will you find meaning in your life?

The eight of us were then left to debate this topic. Some talked about tuning into themselves, belly dancing, wittling, cooking. Others rebelled, saying they'd never accept our predicament.

After awhile, I realized I live on that island. "You know what guys?" I said. "I'm an at-home mom. My husband makes enough money to provide for my basic needs. And my struggle is to figure out how to find meaning in my life. I can't leave. I'm trapped, in essense. And I'll tell you, it's a real struggle."

Now you might gasp. Surely my children provide my sense of meaning.

Well, yes. And no. I do adore my children (when they're not driving me crazy).
My kids delight me. Exacerbate me. Disappoint me. Amaze me. And they need need need. Take take take. How many sandwiches can I make? How many games can I play? How many times can I praise the off-key singing, gawk at the artwork, applaud the silly dances? I mean really!

I think it is an odd time in history, this. When else have educated, accomplished women been expected not only to be with their children full-time, but to engage in childish activities? It used to be kids trailed along with adults and either had to shut up or help. But now we're expected to play with them. Stimulate them. Be like them. I don't want to play!

My children lecture me that I'm on the computer too much. They hover, swarming around me like flies. I'm annoyed. Can you tell? The local fauna is driving me mad.

So...is there meaning on this island? I don't know. Many days it's doesn't feel like it.

A Rested Soul: Marching for Equality in the 1980s

2009-03-29T08:36:00.000-04:00

On January 17, 1987, a small group of black and white folk held a March for Brotherhood in Cumming, GA, a city whose last black resident had been lynched decades earlier. The peaceful group was turned back by an angry mod of militant white racists. Coretta Scott King decided that a second, peaceful march was the best answer to the violent outburst. So, less than two weeks later, I and a group of fellow Habitat for Humanity volunteers from Americus, GA drove to Atlanta, where people converged from all directions. We gathered at the grave of Martin Luther King, Jr. to begin the march. The King Center had predicted that 2000 people would march on that January 24, but as we loaded onto the 100 busses waiting to take us to Cumming, it was clear that far more than 2000 had shown up that day.

We drove to Cumming, GA. My bus included young and old, white and black. We rode in a nervous hush toward our destination. When we arrived, we unloaded from the bus and gathered at the starting point of our mile walk. The leaders told us that we would walk in complete silence. No matter what taunts we heard, no matter what happened, we were to walk silently together, linked arm and arm, until we reached the end, where various luminaries would speak. In rows we began to move forward. Our way was lined with National Guardsman in full riot gear, their rifles at the ready, their faces covered by clear masks. I knew that, unlike a few decades ago, these men were here to protect us. But even so, their presence felt ominous, implying--as it did--there was something frightening we needed to be protected from.

I fell in step next to elderly black gentlemen, probably in his 70s. I nodded, and we linked arms. On my other side, a linked arms with a young white man about my own age. The three of us walked quietly, our thoughts our own. Soon the protesters came into view. They held signs saying: “Go back to Africa, nigger” and other taunts. They screamed and yelled at us. I glanced at my black companion, at whom these words were truly aimed. His chin was held high, his gaze steady. His purposeful stride reminded me of the famous quote from the Montgomery bus boycott: “My feet may be tired, but my soul is rested.” Then I furtively examined our tormenters. Young men, mostly. They wore Nazi t-shirts and jeans. Their faces held such anger as they waved their signs and screamed. I didn’t want to look them in the eye, afraid what eye-contact might lead to. But I wondered what I would see if I gazed deeply into those eyes. Not a rested soul, certainly.

The newspapers reported that 20,000 of us marched that day. We far outnumbered the Neo-Nazi contingent. I was proud of myself and my fellow-marchers. Proud of our strong silence, our steady gazes, our determination to move forward no matter what the resistance. But I kept wondering about those boys, and what I would have seen if I had looked deeply into their eyes, if I had bothered to get to know their souls. I imagined those eyes weren’t so much filled with hate as with fear and sadness and desperation. The more I thought about those angry men, the more I wondered what kept us separate. Surely deep in their hearts, they would have rather been filled with the awesome sense of purpose and dignity and love that flowed through the silent marchers. Yet something kept them screaming on the sidelines. When I started my Buddhist practice, I included those boys--now middle-aged like me--in my daily compassion meditation. And sometimes I wish I could go back to Cumming, GA, and invite them to link arms with me and walk in silence toward a rested soul.

Mothers

2009-02-22T12:11:00.001-05:00

From my daughter, Tara Maloney--age 10

Your mother, like a lotus tree, stands tall and graceful throughout the hardships of life. You will always remember her. When it is your turn to be a mother, you will wonder how or what she would do. Sometimes you will cry over how good and strong your mother was. Sometimes you will laugh at her ridiculous recipes or how embarrassed she sometimes made you feel. But you will always love and you will never forget.

My Mindful Girl

2009-01-07T12:31:00.000-05:00

I've been reading lots of Thich Nhat Hanh latey, and I introduced Tara to "mindful eating." She's become quite the mindful expert ever since.

We took a tomato and I said:

"This Buddhist guy says look at your food. Really look at it. Feel the tomato's weight in your hand and the smooth skin. Smell it. Rub it against your cheek. Now think about all that went into this one tomato--the sunshine and the rain. The years the vine grew. And before this tomato's vine, there was another vine, with a tomato that had the seed for this tomato. Now when you taste it, remember you're tasting all that--years of sunshine and rain and earth."

She was totally into it. She added her own insights: "And somebody picked this tomato. Think of all the work of the person who picked it. And the worry and work of the farmer who grew it."

Later she was reading a book an announced she was doing it mindfully. "I'm feeling the smooth cover and the weight of the book on my leg. And I'm thinking about all the people who worked on this book and worried about it. All so I can read it right now. It's amazing."

My little Buddha blooms.

Santa

2009-01-03T08:43:00.000-05:00

My daughter cottoned on to the truth about Santa this year (she’s a nine-year-old fourth grader). A week before Christmas we were riding along in the car and she said, “Hey Mom, are you the Easter Bunny?” Now my husband prefers me to dodge these questions with mental wit and verbal elegance, as in: “Do I look like a bunny?”

But I take a different view. “Yup,” I said.

“I thought so,” she replied knowingly.

We were on our way to buy a Christmas present for one of her brothers. He desperately wanted a step ladder for Christmas (along with a white board and a stapler) and I had forgotten about it until just a few days before The Big Event. So there we are, Tara and the Easter Bunny, driving to get a Christmas present for her brother. Surely, I thought, she’ll piece together the theorem

IF
1. I’m the Easter Bunny
AND
2. I’m purchasing the desperately-wished-for gift for her bro
THEN
3. I’m Santa

But no. The mind doth cling to its version of things, even when confronted with an abundance of contravening evidence (this is why people still believe in astronomy, creationism and dieting). So on we marched toward Christmas with the Santa Claus myth intact.

On Christmas Eve the kids were wired and stayed up late. I was not happy.

I should explain here that my husband and I are a tired people. We are neither night owls nor early risers. Rather, we like to go to bed early and wake up late, achieving a nice 10 hours of sleep per night. I tell you all this so you’ll understand how exhausted I was by eleven o’clock Christmas Eve when my daughter finally got into bed.

I waited a good fifteen minutes, then went down and performed the Santa miracle. I stuffed the stockings, left the gifts, ate the cookies, answered the questions in the note (yes, I really wear a red suit; my favorite color is green; the reindeer like carrots and apples). I wearily grumbled and grumped the whole time. Ah, the spirit of Christmas.

Christmas morning was a delight. The kids were sweet and excited but also generous and loving. The step ladder was a hit. Tara even designed an in-home church service, so the day wasn't simply a materialistic Bacchanalia.

That night, Tara and I were snuggling and she said, “Mom, are you Santa?”

I glanced around. My husband was occupied with the boys. “You really want to know?” I asked. She nodded. “For real?” I pressed. (In our house, “for real” is the safety phrase – we never kid, lie, joke, exaggerate when we’re asked something “for real.” We give the truth. Nothing but the truth.) She nodded.

“Yup,” Santa said.

She nodded again. “You should have waited longer before putting all the presents out,” she replied tartly. “I came out of my room a few minutes after you left and all the presents were here. But I wasn’t asleep. And the song says ‘he knows when you’re asleep.’ So why did he come when I wasn’t asleep?”

A miscalculation about someone’s REM state—that’s what did the guy in. Not the whole implausibility of delivering gifts to a planet of 8 billion people in one night. Not the fact that his elves are capable of making Nintendo DS’s, American Girl dolls and motorized mini-Jeeps. Not the fact that we donate gifts for poor kids whose parents can’t afford gifts and who for some inexplicable reason aren’t getting the Nintendo from Santa.

As I said, the mind is a terrible thing to reason with.

But back to my now traumatized daughter.

“Are you disappointed?” I asked. She nodded. Her dad came over and said, “Ah Tara, now your childhood is over.”

I jumped in. “No it isn’t. Tara, I didn’t believe in Santa as a kid, and I loved Christmas. To me, the real magic of Christmas is creating the miracle for each other. It’s all about celebrating the gift of love. And,” I added, “now you’re on our team. You have to be one of Santa’s helpers for your brothers.”

Tara thought for awhile, then smiled. “Hey, how did you get that bell from Santa’s sleigh for me two years ago?”

And so together we revisited Christmases past, and Tara’s face beamed as she heard story after story about how her parents toiled and schemed to conjure the Christmas miracle for the girl they love.

Teen Pregnancy and Weight Loss: We are What We Watch/Read

2008-12-29T07:43:00.001-05:00

In case you missed it...here's a couple of interesting health notes for tween-aged girls.

1. Read a book, lose weight!
At Duke Children's Hospital, a study followed 31 obese girls. Some were given an age-appropriate novel to read about an overweight girl who alters her lifestyle, loses weight and feels better. The book, Lake Rescue, was created for this project and written with the help of health experts. Guess what? The girls who read the book lowered their BMI while the other girls didn't. Wow!

2. TV and Teen Pregnancy
A Rand Corporation study published this fall demonstrated a link between watching high levels of sexual content on TV and increased likelihood of teen pregnancy. The study followed almost 1,000 girls ages 12 through 17 and found that the teens watching the most sexualized content were twice as likely to get pregnant.

One explanation is that "teens" engaging in sex on TV rarely talk about contraception or other negative consequences of early sex, like SDTs or unwanted pregnancy. (And of course, most teens on TV are played by 20-somethings.)

I myself am a secret fan of "Gossip Girl" (I suppose now it's not so secret). But this is a show where every teen kid is having sex and there's never a mention of a condom.

So it looks like your grandma was right--books are good. TV is bad.

Actually, the Rand study acknowledged that TV shows and movies highlighting the risks of sex also were effective. So TV can be entertaining and beneficial, but it takes a brave network to opt for healthy over hot.

The bottom line: Pay attention to what your daughter reads and watches. It could change her life.

The Gratitude Game

2008-12-20T08:47:00.000-05:00

My kids and I have started a new holiday tradition. Each night at dinner, we go around the circle and each name 3 things we're grateful for. Each night, we have to come up with a different 3 items.

Here are some things my kids are grateful for.

My mom. :)
Snow.
That we're not poor.
My green blanket.
Time.
That mom threw away the disgusting cookies she made and started over (in reference to a batch of gingerbread that tasted like salt water)
My teeth.
This yummy dinner.

I've watched sour moods turn sweet as we go round the table and list our 3 items.

Gratitude is a powerful potion!

Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, Joy and Peace to All

What NOT To Say

2008-12-12T12:16:00.000-05:00

In my work with tweens (Tween Tribe) we talk a lot about what's up in their lives, what's bugging them, what's going great.

At one Tween Tribe, we asked the tween-aged girls to think of a time they'd been misunderstood. A time when the other person just wouldn't listen to them. Who was the "villain" in most of their tales? Mean girls on the playground? Demanding teachers? Nah! You guessed it--Moms! Okay, so we moms are the villains in many of our girls' stories. No shock, right? After all, if we didn't mess up our kids now, then there would be no work for therapists twenty years down the road.

But in listening to these girls tell their tales week after week, I do sometimes want to take us moms aside and just have a little pow-wow about what NOT to say!

So...here's the first one.

YOUR DELIGHTFUL 5th GRADE DAUGHTER SAYS: Mom, I really want a pair of Ugg boots.

YOU SAY: What? Are you kidding? Those things cost like $200. And you'll just end up getting them all muddy like all your other shoes?

DAUGHTER: But all the girls have them.

YOU: Well, I'm not all the girls' mothers! I can't help it if everyone else spoils their daughters on ridiculous shoes. I don't even wear shoes that cost that much.

DAUGHTER: I hate you! (door slams)

Okay...let's try again.

DELIGHTFUL DAUGHTER: Mom, I really want a pair of Ugg boots.

What is she really asking for? Not boots, really. What's she's really asking for is the ability to fit in with her peers at school. The strong desire to fit in is a natural, developmentally appropriate urge for tween-aged girls. In fact, it's a healthy sign that she's aware of her social surroudnings and picking up social clues. Much of this social "mind reading" works in your favor. For instance, your previously slovenly daughter might start brushing her hair and washing her face unprompted by you. She's noticed the other girls don't show up to school with giant knots in their hair or poppy seeds in their teeth, and she's on board with fitting in.

The Ugg boots, however, may strain your budget or tolerance. Or both. That's okay. You don't need to get the boots, but you also shouldn't shame your daughter for her wish to be like her peers. You could probably glance around your own kitchen or closet and find plenty of examples of purchases you made in order to fit in at work, at a PTA meeting or when the neighborhood gals come by for wine tasting night. I mean, how many of really need those cutesy little wine glass charms, after all?

Okay...so instead of shaming, yelling, lecturing, let's try exploring, understanding,compromising and problem-solving.

YOU: Why do you want Ugg boots, sweety?

HER: Because all of the girls have them.

YOU: Well, I can understand you wan to fit it. Is there a girl in particular who wears Uggss?

Opportunity might be knocking! This might be a chance to explore the girls she knows, the girls she emulates and where she fits into the school's social heirarcy. The conversation could go on for quite awhile, and you might learn a lot of useful stuff. But let's get to the heart of the matter, from your perspective.

YOU: Do you know how much those boots cost?

HER: No.

YOU: I think they're about $200.

HER: Oh. I didn't know. Can I still have them? For Christmas?

YOU: That's just way out of our budget for clothing for you. I'd be willing to give you $40 for boots, and if you want to save up allowance money for the rest, that's okay. Or, we can find some faux Uggs that will only cost about $40. Do you want to go online right now and we'll see what's out there?

HER: No, I want real Uggs like the other girls have.

YOU: Okay. Well, let's start saving for them right now. I'll put aside the first $40 and you an earn the rest through allowance and other things. Why don't we go down to the bank today and start a saving's account for you.

Now, things might not go this swimmingly, of course. But you get the idea. The boots offer you an opportunity to explore Girl World. They also offer you an opportunity to talk to your daughter about money, budgets and savings. Who knew Uggs could be so useful?

Magic Breath: Or sucking sadness and sending sundaes

2008-12-11T08:59:00.000-05:00

This short story for middle grade readers will be published in "Oracle Story and Letters" in the spring. The events in the story introduce children to a Buddhist meditation practice called "tonglen."

Here's an excerpt:

Olive hated birthday parties.

And yet here she stood at Polly’s front door, waiting to be admitted to the most “totally awesome” birthday party of the Centerville Middle School social calendar. Polly, the birthday girl, lived next door to Olive and they had been gal-pals since the stroller days. It was an odd friendship because Polly was everything Olive wasn’t. Polly lived in a huge house with an in-ground pool. Olive shared a room with her sister. Polly dressed in the latest fashions and had a TV in her room that got tons of channels. Olive wore hand-me-downs and watched PBS documentaries with her parents. But Olive liked hanging out with Polly. So long as it was just the two of them, it was pretty great. But today it would not be just the two of them.

Olive was miserable.

The door opened and Polly’s mom chirped, “Hi, Miss Olive. The girls just ran down to the basement. You can go on down.”

Olive dropped her present—a book about famous women—on the table with the other gifts, noticing that hers was the smallest. One giant box actually had a book tied to it as a “topper” gift. Olive sighed and headed downstairs.

When she reached the basement, she gasped. The giant playroom had been transformed into a theater, with an actual stage, real spotlights and microphones.

“Hi, Olive,” Polly said. “Isn’t it great? It’s just like American Idol. Now that everyone’s here, we’re going to pick costumes and then we’re all going to perform karaoke.”

“Hi Olive,” said a tall, dark-haired girl named Lucy. Olive remembered Lucy from last year’s party. “I’m doing Because of You, you know, the Kelly Clarkson song. What’ll you do?” Olive didn’t really know what karaoke was, but she understood she was supposed to name a song she could sing. At home they listened to a lot of classical music.

“Um. Beethoven’s Ode to Joy?” she ventured timidly.

“Oh my God! They’re not going to have that song,” Lucy said loudly. “Hey everyone. Olive wants to sing to Beethoven.”

“Ode to Joy…” Olive said, feeling jittery, “…it’s part of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony,” she prattled on nervously. “He wrote it when he was deaf. My mom says it’s a celebration of joy over sadness…”

“I know who Beethoven is,” snapped Lucy. “I’m not dumb. But it’s not going to be on a karaoke machine. Everyone knows that,” she was laughing now, and the other girls had started laughing, too.

“Let’s go get our outfits on,” someone called, and the girls crowded around a rack crammed with sequined shirts and glittery stretch pants.

Olive stayed behind and ducked into the bathroom, locking the door. She slid to the floor, crammed between the toilet and the sink, her head in her hands. “I am so stupid,” she muttered to herself “Beethoven. What was I thinking? Why can’t I just be like other girls? I hate being me.”

Olive began breathing hard and fast, trying desperately not to cry. She didn’t need red, puffy eyes giving her away. She had to get back to the party. “Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe,” she muttered to herself.

She sucked in a big breath and let it out. She stood and looked in the mirror. Don’t cry. Just breathe. Just breathe, she chanted silently. She closed her eyes, took another deep breath, and then opened her eyes again.

She looked in the mirror.

She blinked. Squinted. Shook her head, blinked and looked again.

Because staring out of the mirror was not her own pale face, but a completely different girl, a girl she knew from school named Willow.

--Get "Oracle Story and Letters" to read the rest...

This Place Smells Like Love

2008-12-10T11:11:00.000-05:00

A short story for children.

Every morning, Tara Jane got a kiss from her mother, “Good morning, sweet love.”

She got a belly tickle from her big brother, “Good morning, funny girl.”

She got a snuggle from her father, “Good morning, yummy one.”

When her mom picked her up from preschool, Tara Jane got a big kiss. “How was your day, my sweet love?”

When her brother got home from school, he tackled her and gave her a giant bear hug, “Let’s practice football, funny girl!”

When her dad got home from work, he’d call out “Where’s my yummy one?” and scoop Tara Jane up into his arms for a giant snuggle.

When it was time for bed, Tara Jane put on her pajamas and brushed her teeth.

Then she said good night to her big brother. He gave her a bear hug, lifted her PJs and blew a giant raspberry on her belly. “Good night, funny girl,” he said.

Tara Jane’s mother sat in bed next to her and sang her a song. Then she kissed Tara Jane’s forehead and said, “Good night, my sweet love.”

Tara Jane’s father climbed in bed and snuggled under the covers with her. He read her a story. Then he wrapped his arms around her and gave her fifteen snuggles, and said, “Good night, my yummy one.”

He turned on the night light, turned off the big light, and left.

But Tara Jane could not sleep.

She went into her brother’s room. “I cannot sleep,” she told him.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because of the monster,” Tara Jane explained. “I am afraid a monster will come and take me away while I am sleeping.”

“Do not worry, funny girl,” her brother said. “There are no such things as monsters. Now go to bed.”

Tara Jane got into bed, but she was not so sure her brother was right. After all, he also said that playing football was more fun than playing tea party. Well, Tara Jane knew that was not right.

So she went into her mother’s office. “I cannot sleep,” she told her.

“Why not?” her mother asked.

“Because of the monster. He might come through my window and take me away.”

“Do not worry, sweet love,” her mother said. “There are no such things as monsters. Now go to bed.”

Tara Jane got in bed, but she was not so sure her mother was right. After all, her mother also said that fruit was better than candy. Tara Jane knew that was not right.

Tara Jane went down to the kitchen and found her father washing dishes. “I cannot sleep,” she said.

“Why not, yummy one?” he asked.

“Because of the monster,” she said.

“Oh,” her father said. He kneeled down next to her. “I understand. But maybe you do not know the secret of monsters and their noses.”

Tara Jane shook her head.

“Well, monsters have very good noses. They can smell just about everything. They love the smell of garbage and old, wet towels. That is why we always put a lid on the garbage and hang up our wet towels.”

Tara Jane nodded. This made perfect sense.

“But,” her father continued, “there are lots of smell monsters cannot stand. Like the smell of spring flowers or fresh-baked cookies. And the worst smell of all for a monster, is the smell of love,” he said. “They cannot stand the smell of love. It makes them feel sick. So, if a monster came into our house, he would pinch his nose closed” – her dad pinched his nose closed – “and he would say ‘Pee-ewe, this place smells like love!’ And he would have to get out of here as fast as he could.”

Tara Jane thought about this for a moment, and then nodded. Her dad scooped her up and took her back to bed. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her twenty big snuggles. “Good night, yummy one,” he said. “And do not forget, if the monster comes into our house, he would just say ‘Pee-ewe, this place smells like love!’”

Tara Jane went to sleep, smelling love all around her.

In the middle of the night, she awoke. She went to her parents’ bedroom and shook her father’s shoulder.

“Yes, yummy one?” her father said sleepily.

“I cannot sleep,” Tara Jane said.

“Why not?”

“The monsters,” she said.

“Remember,” he said, “they would just pinch their noses and say, ‘Pee-ewe, this place smells like love.’”

“I know,” Tara Jane said. “But then the poor old monster would have to sit outside, and it is so cold tonight.”

Her father thought for a moment and then said, “Perhaps you do not know the other secret of monsters and their noses.”

Tara Jane shook her head.

“Well,” her father said. “If a monster gets enough kisses, then his nose changes and he likes the smell of love. He loves the smell of love, in fact.”

Tara Jane nodded. She went downstairs and peered out the front door. There, sitting on the porch, was a big, furry old monster. He was pinching his nose closed and muttering, “Pee-ewe. This place smells like love.”

Tara crept out onto the porch and sat down next to him. She put her little arm around his shaggy shoulder.

“Hello, monster,” she said, and she gave that monster a big, warm kiss on the cheek.

The monster unpinched his nose and took in a big deep breath. “Hmmmm,” he said.

Tara Jane took the monster’s hand and led him into the living room. She showed him the sofa. He lay down on it, and she covered him with a warm quilt.

“Good night, monster love,” she said, tucking him in and giving him another kiss on the cheek.

“Good night, little love,” the monster said back.

Then Tara Jane went back to her own bed, and the whole house slept in peaceful, loving warmth all night long.

Bored to Enlightenment

2008-12-10T08:17:00.000-05:00

I meditate. Almost every day. For years now. And yet sitting still and doing basically nothing for 20 minutes is ridiculously challenging. It’s a pain in the butt—literally and figuratively. My Mexican-jumping bean brain bings around wildly and I squirm (again, literally and figuratively) in discomfort. I’m bored, really! Bored in that ten-year-old kid way. “Mom, I’m bored! There’s nothing to do!” You remember that restless, stomp around the house in search of something mood? Obviously there was plenty to do, in one sense, but there was nothing that captured your interest. Or maybe more accurately, nothing that soothed and comforted your restless soul.

Possibly when you were ten, you turned to Twinkies or TV. Lovely comforters. But often, of course, the TV had nothing but Jerry Lewis telethons and possibly your mom, like mine, didn’t stock Twinkies. And so I ended up flopping down on my bed in frustration. And then—sometimes--my attention would be drawn to the raindrops rolling down my window pain. I’d become absorbed in their funny, halting race. Which drop would win? And then two drops would magically merge into one and proceed onward united. And I’d contemplate whether people were like raindrops, just gliding down an invisible track toward an unforeseen but inevitable end. And then I’d just listen to the patter of rain on the roof and hear the musical rhythm underneath. And 20 minutes would slide by unnoticed. Twenty out-of-time minutes.

And without knowing it, I had meditated.

Is it a coincidence that so many religious and spiritual leaders have advocated some form of present-mindedness? Be it meditation, or repetitive chanting, or counting beads, or uniform praying. So many great spiritual teachers tell us to engage in a form of ritualized boredom. I think contemplative teachers realized the power of boredom. Something must happen to our synapses when we force our minds and bodies to settle. It’s such a struggle. And yet if you wrestle through the discomfort, something profound happens.

And I further wonder whether American children today spend enough time being bored. There are so many more opportunities for distraction, comfort and entertainment. Maybe boredom is the what’s really missing from the ADD/ADHD world we live in.

2008-12-09T09:06:00.000-05:00

The Martyred Mom

2008-12-08T17:44:00.001-05:00

"Mom, watch. Mom! Watch!"

I turn away from the onion I'm chopping. "Yes, sweetie. I'm watching." And my 5-year-old son executes a twisting "pirouette" that resembles someone slipping on a banana. Then he looks up at me and beams with pride.

"Did you see?" he asks triumphantly.

"Yes, sweetie. I saw. It was wonderful!"

I turn back and chop some more. Before I've diced one slice, my daughter emerges. "Mom, I just made all of my horses wreaths. Want to see?"

"Of course." And I follow her into her room, where she explains the intricate design of each of 7 miniature horse wreaths.

And on and on.

As moms, we spend our day watching. We praise indecipherable art. We applaud awkward dancing. We cheer off-key singing. We watch. We witness.

We martyr.

I read once that martyr means witness. It comes from the Greek and dates to the days of early Christians who claimed to have witnessed the risen Jesus.

What a perfect word for motherhood. Witnessing--the martyrdom of mom--is such an essential act. Children crave to be seen, to be witnessed. All humans crave it, really. And we know that people who do not experience themselves as seen on a deep level are in some fundamental way damaged. Or incomplete.

So we martyr ourselves for our children. We witness the triumphs and tragedies, from first step to graduation and beyond.

And sometimes we mothers can't help but wonder...who witnesses us?