Real Life Matters

From July 1996 until June 1997, Jennifer and I lived in Wuppertal, Germany. I worked that year in the Legal Department of a German automotive paint company.^[1]Herberts GmbH was eventually bought, sold and merged into Axalta.

For a young couple, living in Germany was a thrilling experience, though it was not without challenges. My dad died unexpectedly less than a month after I sent this postcard. I’ll never forget racing home to see him before he died. We were all in the hospital room when he passed and he told us all that he loved us. When he died, he was two years older than I am now, which reminds me that life is both unpredictable and precious.

Getting back to Germany, it was fascinating to work as in-house counsel in a global business. Jennifer coached German executives in English, sang in a local chamber choir, and took painting classes. I worked around the clock (as usual), juggling projects with a laptop (cutting edge tech at that time) and a fax machine. Email was brand new.^[2]Before moving to Germany, I came back to Michigan from a trip to Sweden. I announced to everyone that someday we would all have email, and one of my colleagues laughed it off, saying that, in his … Continue reading I had a weird, numeric email address from CompuServe, but I was not able to send or receive any attachments.

My boss in Germany, Hans-Gerd Ebel, was a delightful, intense fellow.^[3]Sadly, he has since passed away. I tried every day to not disappoint him (as any good co-dependent would), while learning German and doing my best to be a transactional business lawyer. On most days I commuted to work with my colleague, Frank, in the Legal Department. We regularly ate together at the company canteen for lunch. We would wait for the entire team to be seated before picking up our utensils together, saying “Guten Appetit” and looking at each other’s eyes, smiling politely. How different things were when I stepped down from the practice of law in a big law firm in 2019, where people ate lunch mostly À la desk. Now it seems many lawyers hardly go into the office at all.

In the summer of 1997, Jennifer’s sister and brother and their spouses visited us in Wuppertal. We made plans to drive to Paris and meet up with Jennifer’s brother, and his wife, for some sightseeing. On the way to Paris, I stopped to check the oil. I put the dipstick back into its little sleeve (at least, I thought I did) and we resumed our travel.

Soon after, we were speeding along the French autobahn and a sudden popping sound came from under the hood. We pulled over to the shoulder, got out of the car and opened the hood, only to find motor oil everywhere. We called a tow truck from a phone box on the side of the highway. Almost no one had a cell phone at the time. Eventually, a tow truck appeared and whisked us off to a hotel in the French countryside. The hotel did not have any human staff until the next morning. One simply swiped a credit card, which dispensed a room code. I’m sure you can find things like this in big cities today, but in 1997 in rural France, it blew my mind.

Things were a bit awkward as the dealership leasing our Toyota to us was owned by the brother-in-law of my boss. I remember adamantly trying to convince everyone, including myself, that I was not responsible for our car’s engine dying on the French autobahn. I kept saying, over and over, in my best German, “I have seen with my own eyes that the dipstick was put back in the engine before I closed the hood.” I was, of course, deluding no one about the truth. I had messed up the dipstick somehow and caused the engine to seize up on account of a lack of oil. I just couldn’t admit it.

It started early with me. Indeed, I cannot remember a time ever in which I was not trying to be perfect at school, at work, and in life. You know, Type-A personality and co-dependent to the core. I project confidence, and yet below the surface I sometimes still have huge imposter syndrome, a mess of insecurity hiding under a thin veneer of success.

This makes for a sometimes tortured existence. I heard Kirk Gibson recently say words to the effect that he doesn’t want to be here to exist – he wants to be here to live.

Now, I couldn’t agree more!^[4]Kirk Gibson is a fellow PWP (Person with Parkinson’s). He founded the Kirk Gibson Center, which I attend whenever possible. It’s like Cross-fit for PWPs.

I am so grateful that through the miraculous grace, love and support of Jennifer, my family, my friends, and tons of therapy, I have been able to find some peace and live mostly in harmony with myself, which has made it possible, in turn, to live mostly in harmony with everyone else in my life.

“When perfectionism is driving us, shame is riding shotgun and fear is that annoying backseat driver.” – Brene Brown

We celebrated the marriage of Malin, to Sevrin, at the end of January. It was moving and breathtakingly beautiful. Jennifer and her father, Ralph, officiated the ceremony, surrounded by friends and family. I even got to play my trumpet! Everything was so green and fresh at Planterra.

Going into the reception, I was a bit nervous. It’s not a secret that I am having more trouble speaking lately, so I practiced my toast over and over in the days leading up to the wedding, projecting my voice as loudly and consistently as I could. During the reception, the time finally came for me to stand up and make a toast to the happy couple. I was able to be heard and understood, which was a huge relief. I was able to focus completely on Malin and Seve. I started by reading a brief excerpt from my diary of Malin’s childhood:

The date: Saturday, March 3rd, 2007… 

Malin, today was your seventh birthday party.  lt was quite a day! You woke up at 2 am and wondered how long it would be before the sun came up.  Of course, I slept through this experience, but this is what momma told me this morning! 

The theme was horses (the usual theme for your birthdays) and we had a grand time with all of the games that momma planned out for you.  We ended the day cuddling as you fell asleep in your bed.   You said “I love you more than you will ever know,” which is what I usually say to you.  

Fast forward to today, January 31st, 2026…

Seve, I knew you were special from the very start. We sat together in our living room drinking coffee. Your phone was tucked away somewhere so that you could be fully present with me. 

In the six years we have known each other I have learned so much from you, including how to live in the moment, how to appreciate the simple things in life, and how to cook delicious vegan dishes from scratch. 

We often joke that you were born in the wrong century. But right here in 2026, Jennifer and I could not be more pleased to welcome you into the family. We truly couldn’t be happier having you as our son-in law. 

Now, as we all raise our glasses together, I say to you, Malin, and you, Seve: We love you both more than you will ever know. Skål!

I smile whenever I think about the wedding, how lovely Malin and Seve are to each other, and what a gift they are to their families and to the many people in their lives.

If you have ever talked with me for more than five minutes you know that I love coffee. I’ve been drinking the stuff since a friend introduced me to it at summer camp in high school. During my freshman year of college I recorded the “Coffee Song” on my roommate’s four track tape recorder.^[1]The first lines of this little ditty were:
“Coffee works well for everyone.
Take three sips and experience fun.
Coffee. Coffee.”
Yes, I know! It’s so bad. And I still love it.

The coffee machines I have used over the years cover a spectrum from the most basic (a 1984 Proctor Silex machine featuring a rudimentary circular basket) to the most elaborate (a Flair hand-pulled espresso maker, which I still sometimes use. It pulls delectable double shots).

You could say that I am obsessed. But here is where things get interesting. I am – or was – thinking about upgrading my current Kalita pour-over system to a Moccamaster machine made by Technivorm. I returned to the link on Amazon over and over. I nearly ordered it several times. But the thing is expensive. Also, the more I read about it the more doubts I began to have, like: what about the negative reviews online? And do we really have space for another device to worry about and clean? And what’s wrong with pour-over coffee, which not long ago was all the rage? Now, after testing my desire, I am content with the status quo. The urge came and went. Problem solved.

Isn’t this true? By avoiding the urge to get a dopamine hit buying something we want but do not need, the urge to buy it eventually goes away.

“The best measure of wealth is what you have minus what you want.”^[2]Housel, Morgan. The Art of Spending Money: Simple Choices for a Richer Life (p. 35). (Function). Kindle Edition.

The Coffee Weed
For being dubbed invasive
when all you want to do
is take root where you’re planted
and grow, grow, grow,
strain with all your might
to the sky, open your flowers
to the heat and promise
of the same sun as everyone else.
Did anyone ask you
if where you are is where
you choose to be, said,
What about here? and you said, Perfect.
Most of us are blown backward
through life, buffeted by fate
doing the very best we can
with what and where we land.
Even then the grip is tenuous,
shifting soil and slope
that can be washed away
beneath us by turbulent water
we never even knew was there.
I watch the birds out my window,
remember the man who told me,
I don’t want any sparrows around.
And why not?
Just like the other man who said
his understanding was that
Beavers are destructive
and I can’t help but wonder
to whom, and to what?
Put me in the vicinity
of a beaver dam.
I’ll build my nest with
the sparrows, sing in
the morning over breakfast and
brew my coffee from roadside weeds.
– Chris La Tray^[1]Chris La Tray kindly gave me permission to include this inspiring poem in this blog post. Thank you, Chris!

Each of us has a place in this vast and fragile world that is our collective home. You belong. I belong. We all deserve to have a fair chance to thrive upon whatever ground we find ourselves, peacefully and without judgment, fear or shame.

I will push back against any attempt to exclude, impair or diminish the worth of any other human being based upon their physical appearance, economic status, or how they identify themselves.

I’m just as guilty as you in “othering” and judging others. But I am a human being. As such, my highest purpose is to respect everyone else on this planet in love and acceptance.^[2]As for people who are truly evil or sociopathic, I acknowledge that love must have boundaries sufficient to ensure the safety and protection of others. Everyone gets invited to the party. There are no exceptions.

“Our refusal to acknowledge grief and death has twisted us into a culture riddled with death. One of Jung’s more chilling observations was that whatever we put into the shadow doesn’t sit there passively waiting to be reclaimed and redeemed; it regresses and becomes more primitive.”^[1]Weller, Francis. The Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief. (Function). Kindle Edition.

I follow a prescribed daily regimen of vocalizing to strengthen my voice, which is increasingly affected by my Parkinson disease.^[2]I used to deal only with hypophonia, which is a decrease in the volume of my speech. Now I am also dealing with dysarthria, which for me involves the slowing of my speech, some unexpected pauses and … Continue reading I also play the trumpet and my guitar and sing – anything to keep my vocal cords active and moving. This strategy seems to be helping. On days I vocalize, my voice is noticeably louder. This always makes me happy and relieved.

Not being able to express myself through speaking is unnerving! It does, however, have its benefits. No one would ever say that I talk too much!

I find it curious that the grief over losing my voice dissipates almost immediately after I simply acknowledge this loss. I say quietly to my grief: “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable. You can stay as long as you like.”

By the same token, whenever I take steps to avoid grief, I almost always end up making things worse – allowing the situation to be even more painful and distressing.

People always seem to have something to say, but it is also interesting to notice what people are not saying. Many of us are walking through life carrying unmetabolized grief.^[3]Francis Weller writes about the importance of metabolizing grief, and this resonates with me. Sometimes grief hides in plain sight as anger, bitterness, and resentment. These are cover emotions, concealing the genuine grief and hurt stuck just under the surface.

By leaning into grief – saying yes and welcoming it into the daylight – I actually bring myself into closer alignment with the universe and my truest self. I witness both the beauty and loss within and around me with a full, open heart.

“Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know that we are not alone.” – Fred Rogers

In the early 1970s, my dad served as pastor of First Covenant Church in Cadillac, Michigan. My mom worked as a public health nurse for Wexford County and took classes at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor to become a Pediatric Nurse Practitioner. If you yapped with my mom for more than ten minutes, you already knew this about her.^[1]They say that people tell you the most important thing in their lives in the first ten minutes after meeting them.

In October of 1975, I sat in our family room and looked carefully through the Sears Christmas gift catalog. In some ways, Christmas in the Anderson house was transactional. One would simply pick something out in the catalog, bring it to the attention of our mom and it would appear on Christmas Eve under the tree.

I had never heard of the Guns of Navarone novel, let alone the movie, but upon seeing the cutaway interior of the mountain fortress in the Sears catalog, I was awestruck. I studied the picture in the catalog like a student studies for an important test. Two mounted howitzers, dozens of plastic soldiers and a working elevator to move soldiers up and down the fortress – so many possibilities for hours and hours of death, destruction, and righteous mayhem!

The Nazis were always the bad guys, even though the Korean War and War in Vietnam had been much more recent. One of our favorite outdoor games to play in the neighborhood in the summer was what we simply referred to as “war.” If you were shot during the game, you laid down, closed your eyes and counted to one hundred. After that, you jumped up and went right back into battle. It was like a childhood version of Valhalla.

On Christmas Eve, we ate Swedish meatballs for dinner and headed next door for the evening church service. I wore a white suit with a red shirt and was at the top of the world. Upon returning and gobbling down Swedish Christmas cookies for dessert, it was finally time to open presents. When it was my turn to open my first present, I zeroed in on the Guns of Navarone shaped box, ripped off the wrapping paper, and was thrilled to find that my dreams had been fulfilled.

On Christmas Day, I set up the fortress in my bedroom closet. I staged elaborate battle scenes there for hours, knocking over the plastic soldiers when they were hit by the good guys, or the bad guys.

Later that winter, during an arctic blast, it got so cold that all of the public schools were closed. My dad went to the local hardware store down the street, Gambles, and bought two ski masks. After loading our second-hand skis in the back of our Ford Gran Torino station wagon, we drove to Caberfae, where we skied all morning together. I remember my dad losing one ski somehow at the top of one of the runs. He hobbled down the hill with one ski, cursing as he went after the runaway ski. I smiled and laughed. So did he when he finally caught up with it.

Now that both of my parents have departed, my love for each of them seems to be entering a new phase. Their absence has allowed to soften some of the hard places that always seemed to get in the way when they were here. It is like the war I sometimes waged against them is finally over.

It is Christmas Eve. I’m in my white suit. Dessert is finished. I am waiting to open gifts that they got especially for me. Thanks, mom and dad! I love you.

“When dogs go to Heaven, they don’t need wings
because God knows that dogs love running best.
He gives them fields. Fields and fields and fields.
When a dog first arrives in heaven, he just runs.”^[1]“Dog Heaven” by Cynthia Rylant

The unthinkable, and inevitable, finally happened. On December 12, 2024, we said goodbye to Freja after fourteen thrilling years with her independent, active soul.

Almost our entire pack was with her when she departed. We gathered around her during her final moments. Jennifer pictured her in her mind’s eye, running after her beloved orange ball into the commons area behind our home. Malin then opened the sliding glass door, and Freja was gone.

As anyone with a beloved furry family member can tell you, losing them is heartbreaking. In the days since she has passed, we have continued some of our daily rituals with her, including walking to her favorite spots in our neighborhood. We love picturing her now running free, her sniffer guiding her wherever she wants to go.

I am convinced that there is a heaven, and that Freja is there, along with my mom and dad, aunt, uncles, grandparents and their grandparents. They will all be there, waiting to greet me there when it is my time to arrive.^[2]Who knows when this will happen? I often joke to my friends and family: “Live each day as if it’s your last, and one of these days, you will be right!”

Theoretical physics, and the field of advanced mathematics support the notion that there are many dimensions of reality beyond the four conventional dimensions of space and time. While the actual number of dimensions remains a topic of scientific debate, it does not take much imagination to postulate that time is merely a social construct. “In the worlds above this one, time simply doesn’t behave as it does here. It’s not necessarily one-thing-after-another in those worlds.”^[3]Alexander III M.D., Eben. Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon’s Journey into the Afterlife (p. 143). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

We know only a tiny fraction of all there is to know in our galaxy, much less the entire universe. Acknowledging the limitations of our understanding provides me with hope in what awaits us all somewhere down the line.

A few days after Freja passed, I heard this song by Coldplay, which I often imagine Freja singing back to everyone in her pack:

We’ve been through low
Been through sunshine
Been through snow
All the colors of the weather
We’ve been through high
Every corner of the sky
And still we’re holding on together
You got all my love
Whether it rains or pours, I’m all yours
You’ve got all my love
Whether it rains, it remains
You’ve got all my love.^[4]“All my love” by Coldplay.

I picture Freja eagerly awaiting my arrival, sitting next to her orange ball with great excitement and anticipation about what comes next.

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting – over and over announcing your place in the family of things.”
― Mary Oliver

The other day I went to a cider mill with my friend, Anna, after a walk on the West Bloomfield trail. It was a beautiful fall day with a clear, blue sky, and fall colors. I’ve known Anna since my first year at Wayne State University Law School in 1988. We edited articles for the Wayne Law Review.^[1]This is where I learned the joy of a good footnote. We eventually worked together at two law firms over the course of our careers. After all of these years, we still have plenty to talk about. This is the best part of friendship. No matter how well you think you know someone, there are always new things to learn.

After the cider mill, I drove home, turning into our neighborhood just behind a school bus. It ambled through our quiet streets, stopping here and there to let off a handful of young children. At each stop, every single child jumped from the bus and ran joyfully into the arms of their moms, dads and other caregivers. I paused, smiled and remembered what it was like with our girls at that age. Where did the time go? Time flies. Don’t miss it.

Jennifer and I both love taking walks with Freja through the park in our neighborhood. We walk slowly these days so that Freja can take it easy, explore every smell, and pursue every possible side track, which makes her happy. After 14 years, she deserves whatever she wants. On our walks, I absolutely love to hear the groups of children playing outside of their apartments next to the park. There is something about kids that is so freeing and joyful. It’s like they are saying: Life is happening now. Joy is here.

Today, I am living life to the full. I am deeply sad. I am also profoundly happy. It’s a paradox. Without lows there are no highs. Indeed, it is pointless to try and run away from the pain. What we resist persists. Negative emotions that we repress grow even more toxic in the shadows. They cause much more harm when they do finally manage to escape.

So I welcome the pain. Bring it! I can handle you – at least for today! I trust that joy is waiting just on the other side.

“The rain to the wind said,
You push and I’ll pelt.
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged – though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.”
― Robert Frost

“Where there is sorrow, there is holy ground.” – Oscar Wilde.

Lately, I have been cycling on some of the most beautiful country roads in and around Onekama, Michigan. As my riding pal, Jeff, reminds me, “cyclists are not bikers – we cycle.”^[1]Jeff is my cycling sensei. He has taught me everything I know about cycling. He also introduced me to The Rules, many of which – except the ridiculous ones – I follow fastidiously.

One spot on my favorite cycling path through the country has captured my imagination: Erdman Road. Along it, I cycle past spacious, working farms, open fields and three hillside cemeteries. Each one is beautiful and quiet. I am in awe every time I cycle down this road. The last cemetery along my route has a sign announcing “Catholic Cemetery” and features a large crucifix at the front.^[2]I tell myself that it serves as a reminder so that Jesus knows to stop there first when he returns.

As I cycle on the road past neat rows of tombstones, which are remarkably diverse in size, texture and shape, I always wonder about the gravesites that no one visits anymore. Almost everyone here has certainly been forgotten. It got me thinking: who will remember me when I am gone? Also, what do I actually know about my ancestors?

My great-grandfather on my mother’s side, Carl Johan Engblom, served in the local militia and received good marks for shooting a rifle.^[3]Engblom means “meadow flower” and is a soldier’s name. Jennifer’s ancestors in the Swedish military also adopted a soldier’s name: Stadig, or, translated into English, … Continue reading He raised his family on a rocky patch of ground in Småland, Sweden in a small house without indoor plumbing. Carl’s wife, my great-grandmother, died when a horse pulling her carriage got spooked by a backfiring automobile. She was ejected from the carriage and hit her head on a rock.^[4]There are plenty of rocks in Småland. Legend has it that when God was creating the world, he was sprinkling rocks over the earth and one of his bags of rocks broke over Småland.

On my father’s side, my great-grandfather, Andrew Gustaf Andersson, emigrated from Lindesberg, Sweden and bought a farm in Swedeburg, Nebraska. He and my great-grandmother, Sophia Skoglund, who came from the same area in Sweden, had eight children. As a child, my grandfather told us that he looked forward to the fall harvest because the corn husks that were used as improvised mattress padding for his bed could be refreshed for the coming year. In addition to raising cows, pigs, and chickens and growing corn, my great-grandfather was a plasterer.

For anyone who has seen me spackle, you know immediately that this skill was not passed down through my DNA.

As for my great-great-grandparents on either side of my family, I do not really have a clue, though I am now in the process of creating a virtual family tree on 23 and Me, where I already have over 1,500 DNA relatives with accounts on the site, which is incredible.^[5]https://www.23andme.com.

My father’s mother, June, died tragically during pregnancy.^[6]Pain is Necessary. Suffering is Optional. She was laid to rest in Moses Hill Cemetery just outside the remote town of Holdredge, Nebraska. In an example of how small and insular the Swedish-American church community was in the past, Jennifer’s maternal great-grandparents are buried just one row away from June.

As I parse through these scant artifacts, it reminds me that everything we cherish and everyone we love will be lost and forgotten. Other people will live in our houses and, as we approach our final days, our belongings will be sorted by our family members. A few things will be kept. The remainder will be donated or taken out to a dumpster that will inevitably be parked outside of our last earthly home.^[7]As they say, you never see a U-haul behind a hearse.

While we are here, each of us can benefit from spending time with our grief instead of running from it. Francis Weller points out that there are two primary sins of Western civilization: amnesia and anesthesia — we forget and we go numb.^[8]Weller, Francis. The Wild Edge of Sorrow. North Atlantic Books. There are huge dividends available to us if we slow down and lean into our grief.

In The Wild Edge of Sorrow, Francis Weller wrote about the importance of becoming skilled at working with grief:

Learning we can be with our grief, holding it softly and warmly, is the first task in our apprenticeship. Approaching sorrow, however, requires enormous psychic strength. For us to tolerate the rigors of engaging the images, emotions, memories, and dreams that arise in times of grief, we need to fortify our interior ground. This is done through developing a practice that we sustain over time. Any form will do—writing, drawing, meditation, prayer, dance, or something else—as long as we continue to show up and maintain our effort. A practice offers ballast, something to help us hold steady in difficult times. This deepens our capacity to hold the vulnerable emotions surrounding loss without being overwhelmed by them. Grief work is not passive: it implies an ongoing practice of deepening, attending and listening. It is an act of devotion, rooted in love and compassion.^[9]Weller, Francis. The Wild Edge of Sorrow. North Atlantic Books.

Remembering our ancestors, their stories and the people we have lost in our lifetime can help us appreciate the now, including all of its pain and joy. Indeed, “Grief and love are sisters, woven together from the beginning. Their kinship reminds us that there is no love that does not contain loss and no loss that is not a reminder of the love we carry for what we once held close. Alone and together, death and loss affect us all.”^[10]Weller, Francis. The Wild Edge of Sorrow. North Atlantic Books.

Cycling down Erdman road, I am surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. I am not, nor have I ever been, alone.

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.” – Rumi

My mom could deliver judgments from the bench at a rate that would put Judge Judy to shame.^[1]See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judge_Judy. It is obvious that I have unresolved “issues” with my mom, as she somehow keeps finding her way into these posts. So I continue to post these … Continue reading

No one within reach of Ingrid was spared. Her critiques were usually witty, brutal and accurate. You would think that the pastor’s car on the way home from church would be a place filled with engaging and profound discussions about heavenly matters. Instead, Ingrid went down the list of the faithful as we drove home, dolling out imaginary awards for crimes against humanity committed by members of our little flock.

Of course, she had plenty of good things to say about folks, too, as long as they didn’t cross her. We knew many delightful people and they were duly praised and complimented. My mom called this “giving people strokes.”^[2]But not that kind of stroke. According to research, “the ideal praise-to-criticism ratio is 5:1. Meaning, for every negative comment you make, you need to share five positive comments as well.”^[3]https://hbr.org/2013/03/the-ideal-praise-to-criticism

I was taught by my mom to view people in black and white terms, which is, of course, wrong. Everyone is shades of gray, even on our best days. My mom confronted our friend, Norma, during a discussion with a nurse about my mom’s medication (a favorite topic): “Norma, are you for me, or against me?” When Jennifer joined our family, and started attending church with us, she marveled at how brutal we could be, even though our comments were often masked by humor. Of course, our family’s criticisms sprang from a deep well of insecurity and shame.

Since my experience growing up is what comes naturally to me, if I am not mindful, I can easily return to the backseat of our old family sedan in 1982, taking pot shots at those around me with the best of them.

Today, when these temptations to judge grab hold, if I happen to be in a mindful state, I counter them with the lovingkindness prayer:

May you be well. May you be happy. May you be free from suffering.^[4]Here is a more elaborate version of the lovingkindndess prayer practiced daily by the Dalai Lama. Here is a sample of a lovingkindness meditation led by Tara Brach.

I can’t tell you where I learned to use these particular words, but they are easy to remember, which makes them handy.

First, I picture someone who is easy to love, like our nearly 14-year old chocolate lab, Freja. May you be well. May you be happy. May you be free from suffering.

Next, I picture someone with whom I have a neutral relationship – a person who I have no strong feelings about, either positive or negative. May you be well. May you be happy. May you be free from suffering.

Finally, I picture someone who is difficult for me – for example, someone with whom I have a complicated relationship, or someone who has hurt me. May you be well. May you be happy. May you be free from suffering.

The lovingkindness prayer helps me to settle my busy and anxious mind. A good time for me to say this prayer is when I have my morning or afternoon coffee, if I am able to savor the moment without simultaneously gazing into the screen of a laptop, iPhone, iPad or Kindle.^[5]There are so many devices now. What was life even like before we had these beautiful screens available 24/7? What did introverts do with the inability to escape easily into the wonders of the web? … Continue reading

Practicing lovingkindness is a remarkably effective way of slowing down and putting everything into perspective. There I hope to find a place where words escape me, and love overtakes me.

You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come, to take you back.
Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.
Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.
Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.
Draw alongside the silence of stone
Until its calmness can claim you.
Be excessively gentle with yourself.
– John O’Donohue ^[6]John O’Donohue, excerpt from the blessing, For One Who is Exhausted, “To Bless the Space Between Us.”