The first is The Choice–Embrace the Possible. It is a memoir of parts of Dr. Eger’s life. She survived the Holocaust and time in the camps. Her father, mother, Eva and her sister were taken and she and her sister survived. 

But this is primarily a survival story with ways to apply it to your own life. She made a new life for herself in this country, worked to get a Ph.D and set up a practice and to help other people heal from all kinds of trauma.

At one point she writes: When we grieve, it’s not just over what happened–we grieve for what didn’t happen.

Her other book is titled The Gift–12 Lessons to Save Your Life. This is a shorter book and focused on the lessons she and all of us can learn. At the end of each chapter in this book there is a page of bullet points for that chapter’s particular focus. I am still reading them over one at a time just to check out where I am and how I’m doing.

The Choice is hard and inspiring reading. And The Gift is an extremely helpful I read. I recommend reading both.

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Another story has roots both in the winter and summer of ‘82. Debbie, 21, was home from Buffalo State College in January, between semesters. She and Dara, had agreed to drive Mother to the doctor’s. Dr. Goldfinger’s office was near my job and I would meet them there, saving me from taking an extra hour off from work.

Debbie called me at the nursing home. I could hear commotion in the background. Debbie said, “She canceled the doctor’s appointment. She’s really mad at Dara.” “It’s o.k.” I said, “just let it go and we’ll straighten it out when I get home.

When I arrived home, Mother was in her room, both doors firmly shut. The children gave me their version. “Grandma was getting ready to go and so were we,” Debbie said, “and Grandma came out of her room, looked up the stairs and saw Dara coming down. Grandma said, ‘No! I won’t go with you dressed like that. Go change.’ “

I interrupted the story, “What were you wearing, Dara?” Debbie continued, “You know–the way everybody dresses now.” It turned out that Dara was wearing the 1982 layered-look. She had on a pair of jeans and on top of them, pink shorts and leg warmers; a long-sleeved knit shirt and on top of it, a short sleeved shirt. Dara thought it looked pretty good.

Dara refused to change. Grandma insisted. Finally Dara went upstairs to change, but by the time she came down in different clothes, Grandma had canceled the appointment.

I talked to them—thanked Dara for changing, reminded them both that Mother doesn’t see many teenagers and how they dress, and went in to hear Mother’s side of the story.

It was pretty much the same. I said, “You know, Mom, it’s crazy but kids really do dress that way right now. It’s called the layered look.”

She said, “I still don’t like it. It’s not appropriate dress. I don’t approve of it.”
I hung in. “You know,” I said, “sometimes I think that the important thing is not whether it’s appropriate or not, but whether you’re comfortable. And sometimes I think that if someone has a problem with how you look, that that’s really their problem, not yours.”

She looked at me and listened. She usually took things in and considered them but in her time and her space. I felt like I had tried and I didn’t know if it was over or not. It was over for then but did crop up much later.

That summer in a separate instance, I had taken the day off to run errands and also to take her to another one of her doctor appointments. As she got dressed, I don’t think she made a connection with the other instance. I certainly didn’t.

She came out of her room and I grinned. It was hot outside and she had on her favorite aqua pedal pushers, white sneakers, ankle hose and bare, 72-year-old legs between the hose and the pedal pushers. She wore a white tea shirt with a huge strawberry on it, and on her head was a red and white checked spunky hat.

I said, “Dr. Goldfinger is going to think you look really spiffy.” And he did.

She had her exam. We left the doctor’s office, got back in the car, and headed down the New York Thruway for Nyack. As I drove, she said, “Now I want to go to lunch.” I glanced at her, “Where Mother?” She said, “The Nanuet Mall.” I looked at her again, “Mother, where at the mall do you think we’re going to go to lunch?” She said, “At Bambergers, at the tea room.”

I kept driving as I said, “Oh no! No Mom. You’re just not dressed for the tea room.”

A mile may have spun by as we rode silently with me thinking I had settled the question. Then she started to talk in her quiet, determined voice. I kept my eyes on the road as I heard her say, “I thought the most important thing was not whether you were dressed appropriately or not, but whether you were comfortable. And I thought you said that if people had a problem with how you looked, it was their problem, not yours.”

I still kept my eyes on the road and thought to myself, “O.K. Ann. Those are your words. You said it. Now see if you can do it.”

We got off at Nanuet and headed for the mall. We parked. I got the wheelchair out of the trunk and helped her into it. I looked at her crazy outfit, complete with bare knees now that the pedal pushers had shifted upwards as she sat in the wheelchair.

We headed into Bambergers. There was no line at the tea room and so we stood together waiting for the hostess. She came around the corner, well dressed, large menus in hand. She looked at Mother, stopped, closed her eyes, opened them again as if she thought she was seeing a mirage. She gracefully recovered herself and said, “Where would you like to sit, ladies?”

We had a good lunch and I tucked the story into my memory to help me remember how Mama and I pushed at each other.

Pick up your copy of Mama and Me HERE

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I have a place in my morning routine when I talk to God out loud as I lie in bed. And last week as I prayed, I said “Help me to remember…” and the phrase instantly brought this memory of Janice to mind.

She served as minister of Sparta United Methodist Church for five years and one of her amazing gifts was her relationship with the children of the church. In the halls she instantly knelt down to be able to talk with them on their level. She knew their names. She knew what was going in their lives.

And on Sunday morning when she was giving the children’s sermon, they scrambled quickly up to the altar to sit with her. They participated, answered questions, asked some of their own, and then at the end Janice and the children developed a prayer ending. 

She would say “let’s pray” and some child would say “Dear God” and everyone, including Janice, would echo “Dear God.” Then she would continue with a short prayer and it too was an echo prayer and the children (and the congregation) would echo each phrase of hers.

Usually at some point near the end she would say “Help us to remember…” and I can still hear the lilt of her voice. The children would echo “Help us to remember” and she would go on with the prayer.

Well, last week as I said my prayer and happened to say those words again, I thought immediately of Janice and the lilt of her voice, and smiled in thankfulness that we had had her for those five years.

I also thought how profound for me and for the children it was to say fairly constantly “Help me to remember…” because it reinforced that despite my very good intentions I do forget and that it’s a good prayer to ask God to remind me. Plus it’s reassuring to know that God will do that, without recrimination, without judgment (I would think you would remember yourself), just lovingly remind me again of whatever stumbling block I have come up against once more.

Our minds are interesting–in their darting from year to year, in their collections of memories, and in their holding carefully those things that we will need again. And that too is a gift from God.

Learn more about: Daybook of my Personal Faith

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This morning because of earlier reading I had already been thinking of different economic models of living, and of being a witness to what I believe in, and along with step by step, it just all meshed together.

It was a wonderful time. I used colored pencils, primarily because I thought that markers would bleed through to the other side of the page. And I found that the colored pencils had a quiet meditative feel to them. And to my surprise I could vary the background and make a sort of shady part. I used coloring the mandala as my meditation time, and breathed differently afterwards.

I was thinking afterwards that sometimes I approach some thing as if there are rules about it—when really you can make up your own rules. And I think that’s true of coloring mandalas. You can think deep thoughts. You can pray. You can just enjoy the beauty of what you’re doing.

There was one year where I started with a circle and I drew my own mandala—in fact that’s where the mandalas in this book came from. Sometimes they had a meaning. Sometimes they didn’t.

Try coloring a mandala yourself. It’s time well spent. Relax and enjoy.

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Cinderella SMART

Is Coming Soon

It’s a new book and it’s called Cinderella SMART. It is mostly for youth and adults and helps you re-think those old, old stories. I wrote the poem a number of years ago on the New York City Subway. My granddaughter, Lissa Siew did the illustrations. My daughter, Donna Price, pulled it all together.

One summer I was going to Cuddyhunk Island to visit friends. I called the husband and asked him what he was preaching on that Sunday. I often did that and tried to write a song to go with his sermon. This time he said “Fairy Tails” and I said, “Oh have I got a song for you.” When I got to Cuddyhunk I let him hear it to make sure it would fit. It did and I performed it at the Protestant service. And it did—it fit exactly with his sermon!

It’s got a beat. It’s got a message. Now it’s about to be a book, and I’ll let you know when and where it is available.

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I think my favorite one was Reason for Hope by Jane Goodall. It was her account of becoming involved with chimps and of establishing Gombe, and led me through her journey to helping others see that everything is connected. On her website, www.janegoodall.org the statistic is pointed out that in 1900 it is estimated that one million chimpanzees lived in the wild, and that today there are as few as 340,000.

One of the children’s books which was gentle and beautifully illustrated was A Different Pond by Bao Phi—about a Vietnamese father and his son as they go fishing each morning.

A disturbing book was Caste—The Origins of Our Discontent by Isabel Wilkerson. This was about the caste system in the U.S. and was an eye-opener to me. One of my book groups discussed it and it was good to have a group.

Two books filled my need for historical fiction, The Atomic City Girls by Janet Beard; and The Mystery of Mrs. Christie by Marie Benedict.

Lenten Lands by Douglas H. Gresham was satisfying. Last year I read C. S. Lewis’ book, A Grief Observed. Douglas Gresham was Joy’s son from her first marriage and it was somehow settling to fit his perspective into this part of their joint lives through his eye-witness account of Lewis and his mother, Joy Davidman.

And the last book I’d mention for January is This Is My Story, This Is My Song by Jerome Hines. I am not a fan of opera but I read about Hines in a book by Madeleine L’Engle and it led me to his autobiography (short, very readable book). He told of his daily relationship with God and his asking for and receiving guidance directly.

What a varied bunch of books for one month.

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My latest publication is finished and available. The title is Daybook of My Personal Faith and I started working on it in June of 2012—eight years ago. It went through many transformations and rearrangements.

Here’s what’s in it. Being a daybook it has 366 entries—one for each day of the year including a day for those years with a February 29.

I designed it so that it would be more than a book to read. There are active things to do both outside and inside, chants and hymns to sing, mandalas to color, meditations, poetry and practices to try in your life, favorite books I’ve read. Already I’m enjoying reading each day’s entry and it reminds again of the writing of it and the determination I challenged myself with every single day. I’m hoping you’ll like it too.

Pick up your copy today: HERE

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This was simply an amazing book. I have no quotes from it. But on the back of the book there is a recommendation from Dava Sobel, author of Longitude. This person writes: I found it almost impossible to read this book, or even to see the pages, at times, through my tears. It was equally impossible to stop reading it—to turn away from its red-haired teen hero or the voice of his adoring father. The boy Damon, whose life is delimited by his damaged heart, emerges here as the grandest spirit in a small body since Antoine de Saint-Exupery imagined The Little Prince.”

I too fell in love with this boy, with his father, with in fact the entire family. I loved the magic of Damon’s acting experiences and how good he was. I admired the father’s constant search for medical help for his son and his willingness to become so knowledgeable himself, that he could question the medical people authentically. And then I too became exasperated and frustrated by those same medical people.

I was amazed at the connection between father and son and if you read this book, you will know the scene that shouts that connection. It says something powerful about the individual’s will to live just to avoid breaking that tie.

I finished the book on a Tuesday and by Thursday it was still with me, complete with the tears. When I turned the last page, I found the small black and white picture of Damon and he looked exactly as I knew he would. I don’t often read books twice but for this book I would make an exception. I don’t often buy a book that I have already read but I will, so that I have my own copy of Immortal Bird by Doron Weber.

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