In this together

Join us — a far flung group of like-minded souls, each in our own space — for a weekly, group meditation on love and peace.
From now until whenever, on Wednesdays at 8 p.m. EST (7 p.m. CST, 6 p.m. MST, 5 p.m. PST), we wiill pause individually, together, wherever, and devote thought and energy to healing.
Take two minutes, take 20. Whether closing eyes in quietude, bringing greater awareness in completion of daily rounds or merely noticing the unity taking place. It does not matter. We are all in this together.
One love, one heart.

The choice remains: Love or hate

Coming up on a week post election, the sun keeps setting and then rising yet again. There is much to be hopeful for along with moments that bring despair. A strong balance alternates with shaky ground.
In the midst of this, though, I still choose love and meditate on peace. I see the beauty in each of these days, not solely because the sky is gloriously blue and the sun continues to warm. Rather, I am lifted by what may be a groundswell, albeit faint, of a willingness to listen across ideology, religion, race, and gender identification.
If I emerge from 2016 with any greater appreciation, it is that my perception of the world is just that — mine; not right or better, just conclusions based on my life experience. We are nothing if not a country of many people deeply divided and troubled, yet also passionate about that which each of us perceives to be best and true.
Given that reality, I think, maybe if we work hard to understand each other better and the sources of our discontent, we can find more that binds than separates us.
Here, then, is my full disclosure:
I am a Jew, both second and third generation American. My mother's father fled Russia as a young boy, with his family, as Hitler was coming to power. His father was killed in a pogrom. If you know anything about me at all, it is that my children are the center of my universe — three daughters and a son; a son, who, because in this case it matters, is gay.The nauseating reality of a vicious, venomous hate unleashed on this United States of America feels — and is — intensely personal. The vile rhetoric spewed by the president elect and some of his supporters during his campaign fuel an unrelenting sadness. No, the people are not deplorable, but some of their actions and words were and continue to be exactly that. So, I will not go quietly, nor will I acquiesce just because of the voting outcome. My truth is that there are some things I cannot accept, and I will work to change them. I will speak up.
I get the concerns — lost jobs, immigration policies, liberal agendas, arrogant elitists — but what about the inherent right to safe passage? What some easily write off, others view as a direct and immediate threat. My daughters have the right not to be assaulted; my son, the right to live and love. I still hold childhood memories of seeing the ink number tattooed on a Holocaust survivor's arm.The consequence of this past year is that people like me and my family fear mightily the angry faction emboldened by what it interprets as a license to vomit hate and inflict harm. And because hate begets hate, the torrent flows both ways with retaliation in kind, epithets and name calling. Peaceful election protests are marred by violent acts.  What never Trumpers found so despicable in Trump Nation, they now freely fire back, bolstered by the sense that their hate is noble and justified even though hate is hate. Round and round we go.
It is in this maelstrom that we face many challenges, but the overriding question to answer in every situation remains: What is the loving choice?
There is no in-between, there are no other options. We can cloak ourselves in the sanctimonious justification of ideals and beliefs. Or, stand together. All skin colors, all religions, all genders, all classes, all political beliefs, all those yearning only for and deserving of equal rights. We can get on the right side of history. Or not. We can fight for the greater good. Or, turn a cold shoulder.
The choice has never been clearer. Love wholly and unconditionally or abandon humanity. The potential exists to go either way. Holocaust survivor Viktor E. Frankl chronicled his experience as an inmate at the Auschwitz concentration camp in his 1946 book, Man's Search for Meaning. He wrote:
“Our generation is realistic, for we have come to know man as he really is. After all, man is that being who invented the gas chambers of Auschwitz; however, he is also that being who entered those gas chambers upright, with the Lord's Prayer or the Shema Yisrael on his lips.”

Stay light and choose love

The temptation is great, if  not overwhelming, this morning, to run toward fear, if not the Canadian border, what with reports of global financial doom and the too real potential of unimaginable harm to domestic policy.
But, after the initial thought that I needed a national day of mourning, I found instead genuine relief in the postings of friends on social media. Rising amid the darkness and despair, messages of love and hope appeared. They shared compassionate talking points for calming the anxieties of distraught children and urged love, rather than the bile spewed throughout the election season.
I knew in my heart all along this past year that what we were seeing was a troubling reminder that we really had not come as far as we had thought; that despite advances in equality and rights for all, much work remained. We were smug. We thought we were better than this.
I remain haunted in particular by the painful, public humiliation of Donald Trump at the 2011 National Correspondents Dinner, which, although much deserved, got down in the mud and slopped around. In that respect, there is not much distance, then, between the nevertrump and trump factions. Hate is hate, and it is never justified.
So, for me, this moment is a time for soul searching and reflection, for determination and call to action. Who am I? What do I believe in? How will I stand up and fight for the less fortunate and disenfranchised?
I also find deep solace in the fact that in my home and the homes of everyone I know, regardless of political affiliation and votes cast, strong children have been and are being raised with the ideals and intentions that are the best of us. This fact alone tells me that where we have gone astray and fallen short, the next generations will be a force for good and change.
This is what I texted my children last night and will continue to reinforce in the days to come. President Barack Obama said don't boo, vote. Now, I will add to that — don't complain, act. And, above all else, keep choosing love.
The truth is — and no vote, no party can touch this — we are one and we are stronger together.

Dog poop spirituality

The walk is lovely along an empty wooded trail, all silence and stillness. Trees rustle in the gentle breeze. Leaves crunch underfoot and give off an earthy scent. Soon, though, the smell of dog poop permeates every intake of breath.
Check one shoe, nope. The other. Yep. There it is, pressed into the grooved design of the rubber sole.
"Oh shit!" the mind yells. Exactly. Feelings of annoyance, possibly anger, and disgust arise. Why don't people pick up after their dog? Don't they care? Have they no respect? Where is the individual responsibility? Yada, yada, yada. In the moment of righteous indignation, the questions seem relevant. Yet, none of them actually are.
The only point for me to consider is that only in my decisions do I face a choice, including how I decide to react to the choices of others. So, what is the value in anger, in casting judgment?
This autonomy (while frustrating because how nice would it be if I could ensure everyone made the right choice) is a good thing. I process decisions every moment of every day regardless of whether I am mindful of them. Imagine adding someone else's carpe into my diem.
Some decisions are as mundane as do I pick up my dog's poop or what do I do if he poops and I forgot to bring a bag? Do I cut off another driver in traffic? Do I grab the closest spot in the parking lot even though I am healthy and can walk far? Do I hold the door open for the woman walking into Starbucks behind me so she may get in line first and get on with her day?
Other dilemmas grow considerably murkier and carry far heavier burdens. But small or large, in every decision, I face the same choice — true or false?
Spirituality does not teach me right from wrong or good from bad. Rather, spirituality guides me to distinguishing truth from false at the level of thought — truth being loving thoughts and false ones rising from fear.
From there, it follows that the world I see depends on the thoughts I think. Loving thoughts bring connection and make me feel safer; I have nothing to fear, there are no threats. Namaste. The divine light in me sees and honors the divine light in you. We are one. We are connected. I am safe.
Fearful thoughts, in contrast, fuel disconnection. The world grows smaller and more lonely. I feel overwhelmed and threatened. I am separate and scared; this is where anxiety and depression can creep in.
So, let's go back to that pile of dog poop.
There is nothing I can do about the shit (real or proverbial) left in my tracks or the person who made the choice to leave it there. It bears repeating: I have no control over the actions of others. I can, however, pay mind to my own — and my dog's — business.
The loving choice or thought I face when my dog poops is to pick it up. It's a simple matter of feeling a connection to others and respecting their right to enjoy a walk without stepping in my stinking mess of responsibility. It is a seemingly small choice, but one that holds enormous implications. I make the loving choice. In that instant, I choose the loving thought. And, that is the only choice I have the power to make.
Clearly, in many instances, the loving choice isn't always as simple and unburdened as cleaning up after my dog. There are complications in loving choices that on the surface may not seem loving, but in the end, hew to the best interests of all involved.
In every situation, I, alone, also choose how I respond to the choices of others. When I am the one who steps in the dog poop, I can choose the anger and hate, and jump into the fear pit.
Or, being a dog owner who has run out of bags — because, who poops three times in one half mile walk — and slunk away in shame, I know firsthand the situation someone else may have faced. In a hurry, well reasoned or not, I have cut someone off in traffic. I was that asshole. So, it's possible, isn't it, that the person who cuts me off has somewhere to be? Or, maybe there is a deeper story breeding bitterness and discontent.
Whatever the case, I can choose to respond with love, compassion, and understanding. If I am honest and true, what I hate in others, in reality, offers a reflection of what I have hated in myself. If someone disrespects me or discounts my opinion, I must ask, have I ever acted in a similar fashion? Have I ever had a hateful thought? Does someone else have to be wrong so that I can feel right and good?
The key is to ask in every action I take, in every decision I make: Does this lead toward choosing the truth, choosing love? A loving choice that will generate feelings of safety and connection within myself and others rather than promote a specter of fear and separation?
For in the truth, in the loving choice, I experience a lighter life. I grow into a more spiritual person, connected to others. The truth is, I am part of the whole; the whole is within me. And, in that truth, I choose love.

(Writer's note: This and many other lessons I have learned come from practicing yoga at Rhode Island Power Yoga and the 200-hour RYT training with Live Love Teach.)

Lessons in choosing the loving thought

I saw ahead at the stoplight, someone standing on the rise of the median, holding a cardboard sign, asking for money. It was a moment many of us find ourselves in — driving in the luxury of having a car, not worrying about life's basic needs, confronted by a stark, visual reminder of the less fortunate. Or, so it might seem. That is where the mind starts spiraling outward.
In this awkward space, with absolutely no knowledge except what I perceived to be true, I easily could fall into the judgment trap. Was this person holding the sign being honest? Was he truly homeless? What if I gave money — would he spend it properly or be wasteful?
None of that actually mattered, though. I only had control of my decision, my choice to have and act on a loving thought. When I opt for love, it's not out of guilt, which is harmful, or feeling good, which feeds my ego. Rather, I can give solely because a human being asked for help.
In this moment, the only relevant thing to consider was that a young man with a cardboard sign was asking for money. In those few seconds before the light changed, I could give him money solely because he said he needed it, without me trying to determine whether he really did. Unless I followed him for the rest of the day, I would have no way of knowing.
I dug into my purse and grabbed my wallet, which usually holds no cash. This day, though, there was a $10 bill. I rolled down my window and handed it to him. Because, how could I miss something I didn't even remember I had?
"Thank you," he said. "I appreciate it."
I nodded and gave a slight smile; rolled up my window and turned back to watch for the green light. In hindsight, I don't remember why, but I kept looking straight ahead. I do recall thinking about the conflict of making the loving choice to give without strings attached and how easy it is to rush to judgment. How far down in life must you fall, I wondered, to stand at an intersection, where people are forced to stop, and ask for money regardless of whether there was honesty in the ask?
Then, for some reason, or not, I turned to look at him as the light changed. He was holding the cardboard sign higher, hiding his face behind it. And in that instant as I looked, he peered out from behind the sign and his gaze met mine.
I have no idea what he was thinking as he looked at me, and I at him. To be honest, my heart jumped a little. Was that a moment of genuine human connection? Did he feel the love in my choice?
No idea. I laughed at my immediate instinct to attach meaning and construct a story, and realized that this moment could be everything I thought or nothing at all.  My only valid takeaway was the experience of acting on a loving thought minus judgment, minus expectation.
That alone is all I have control over: To choose to act with loving thoughts, without any consideration of if, how, or where the loving thought might land or what it might lead to.
Therein lie both the truth and the question: In every action, in every decision, is it leading me to make the loving choice? In that space, there is no room for anything else. So, the truth is — and it is the only truth — in every situation, I can choose love.

(Writer's note: This and many other lessons I have learned come from practicing yoga at Rhode Island Power Yoga and the 200-hour RYT training with Live Love Teach.)

Our unfinished journey

Many mothers, at some point in the daily chaos, juggling multiple responsibilities along with any number of kids and their assorted baggage of school, activities and life upheaval, hear the accolades of being a super mom.

“How do you do it?” goes the refrain. “You’re amazing!”

I know this is true. Most of us do possess extraordinary if not superhero powers.

My eyes see messes, dirt, hairballs, dog puke, bathtub and shower scum, countertop crumbs, and piles of dirty and clean clothes — all invisible to the naked eye.

I sense harrowing danger lurking on every street, dark or daylight, and in the most seemingly innocent of situations. Only I know why curfews must be issued and obeyed, and can predict with uncanny certainty why doing homework, texting, listening to music and watching TV simultaneously will lead to academic ruin.

I also have the superhuman ability to determine when garbage must go out, dishwashers emptied and dogs walked. Amazing laundress powers allow me to fold clothing precisely and without wrinkles, put it into drawers, and make every piece fit without heaving an extra breath or rolling the eyes.

Trust me, I have worked diligently to pass along these seemingly mundane, yet exceptional skills to my children with mixed degrees of success and occasional flashes of brilliance. A bathroom cleaned without asking. A load of laundry started with no intervention. These are my small, treasured moments.

I have witnessed random bursts of capability, yet the siren’s call for Superhero Mom still sounds. Only I can hand-wash delicate clothes and wool sweaters or restore order and organization to a dorm room.

So, yeah, moms can be kind of amazing. It’s true.

And in typical mom-ness fashion, we shrug off the compliments with equal parts wonder (truly, how do I do it), self-congratulation (maybe I am OK), self-loathing (I really haven’t done it as well as it may look), and self-doubt (oh crap, I failed miserably).

Heading into my 23^rd year of mothering, I find the journey has been, for the most part, a long, hard slog intermixed with unparalleled joy, reward and drama  — and, always present, incessant worry.

Whether knee deep in diapers with the stench of baby puke lodged in nasal passages, plunged into the despair of teen hormones and angst, or working through college and post-college uncertainty, parenthood often means slapping on a set of blinders and digging through the trenches. It’s head down, butt up and mind focused on immediate survival.

I did the 70-hour workweeks with day care and fast food drive through meals on the run. I found myself mid-scream, wondering what kind of mommy monster I turned into, more times than I’d like to count. I locked myself in my bedroom, glass of wine in hand, husband out of town, and children left to roam free unattended for just 15 minutes, I promise.

I perched over the edge of craziness, unable to go on, and quit my job, angry at the overwhelming work and family demands, unsure and scared about where we were headed beyond a lot less income. Thirteen years later, still serving as home steward and working part time as our last two children navigate high school, I admit to bouts of what-ifs, would haves and should haves. Where would I be, where would our family be, had I done otherwise?

There is no definitive answer for the twisted and tortured soul-searching, no way to know for sure right from wrong direction. But, on one point I am unequivocally certain: This path and this journey worked for our family.

Would everything have worked another way? My best guess is yes. But really, who cares and does that matter?

As a society, we continually pass judgment on women and their family/work choices. Day care/preschool/nannies and staying home/working is good/bad. You can/can’t have it all.

We pass judgment and measure ourselves against others, nursing discontent about our choices and unable to simply live with the consequences of our own decisions.

President Obama, in his inaugural speech Monday, Jan. 21, 2013, told the nation of our incomplete agenda, that we have numerous challenges facing us before we can rest on our laurels. For women, he said, “… our journey is not complete until our wives, our mothers, and our daughters can earn a living equal to their efforts.”

I would add to that, our journey is not complete until we allow women the freedom to choose — without judgment — their life path.

The only mandatory quality should be that we raise our children with love and to love, with kindness and to be kind. And, as they head out from our homes to find themselves and their own life path, be a force for good and make a positive contribution to the world around them.

There's gotta be an app for this

@itselliedunkle it's only 7:15 and my mom has already managed to ruin my day #thanksmom #iknowyourereadingthis

Seriously? Twitter? What’s next, a My Mom Sucks facebook page?

And, the profile picture … an elephant behind bars? Please.

If this is where parenting is headed, give me back stomping up or down the stairs and slamming doors, punctuated by a dramatic, “I hate you!”

I mean, I knew my 15-year-old was mad, but broadcasting to the twitterverse about an alleged parenting fail? This is completely unchartered territory. Ten years ago, all I had to do was close the windows and our spats remained private.

In my defense, she’d been acting like a brat. She didn't deny this, but she did play the teen card as if her behavior was beyond her control and some God-given right of passage.

"I'm a teen-ager Mom," she said, rolling her eyes, which is code for "you're an idiot."

We'd barely moved beyond an episode two weeks ago, when I reinforced the decree that there be no sleepovers the night before an early morning swim practice, she retorted: “I’m 15. I’ll make my own decisions.”

The voice inside my head responded, “Like hell you will.”

My speaking voice, however, stayed silent. I bit my tongue and repeated the calming mantra, "You are the adult." I can’t say with any certainty whether I managed to keep my head from whipping into a 360-degree Exorcist spin.

But, to be sure, the maternal waters have been roiling ever since.

So, last night, as the conversation grew increasingly heated about what I perceived to be a lousy attitude and she believed to be verging on child abuse — I think the exact words were, “You have no right to know about every little detail in my life” — I threw down the grounding card gauntlet.

“That’s it,” I declared. “You’re done. You’re home after school tomorrow. No friends.”

“Whaaaaaaaat?!!!!” she cried. “That’s so not fair!”

Maybe not. But, that wasn’t the point. The point was/is, I am the parent and I decide. Fairness is not part of the equation. We operate on the benevolent dictatorship model, not a democracy. End of discussion. Or, so I thought.

I turned on my phone this morning to discover the offending tweet, which, admittedly, evoked a slightly horrified gasp.

From the Arab Spring to Anthony Weiner, we witness through twitter, texting and facebook, et al, moment-by-moment updates of breaking news events. It never occurred to me after 21 years in the mommy trenches that my parenting would become part of the scrolling update feed.

Thanks to continually evolving technology and new frontiers in social networking, raising children has never been more invasive, immediate and in your face. Even as I write this, I nurse a deep, dreaded fear of what this child may throw back at me.

She’s clever, quick-tongued and can write. She has a phone and computer access. Even if those privileges are revoked, there are too many ways around parental paywalls. As the mother of four, this is not, as the cliche goes, my first rodeo.

I’m wondering where we will go from here, how the parent-child relationship will evolve and if the friction will ease. Already, we’ve shifted from twitter to texting — “Ugh … can i not be grounded Saturday?? Please i wanted to go watch xc” — even though she is in school, where phone use is not allowed.

But, that’s another battle for another day. In the meantime, I'll update my blog password.