The thoughtful folks at Milwaukee Airport seem to have thought of everything. They even have an official “Recombobulation Area.” At least they know how to make us laugh.
Subscribe to Steven Kalas RSS feed
I think Einstein was right: Time doesn’t really exist. It’s an agreed-upon group illusion, designed to sell watches and clocks. And to tell me when to pay my quarterly taxes. And to count down the moments maybe to provide rhythm and context to this thing called life.
You can’t schedule grief. It doesn’t respect our orderly, tidy, well-planned lives. The mystery of both life and death sits above and beyond the comforting group illusion we call “time and space.” Grief trumps everything.
You feel like a naked newborn, squalling helpless into the night. Incredulity is the first response to epiphany. Gratitude should be the next. Thirdly, take action — redeem your past self with everything breath, word and deed.
There’s one sure test to know whether I love someone: I revel in their happiness. I’m invested in their happiness. Working for, inspiring, sacrificing for their happiness fills me with happiness.
My heart breaks, again, for our nation. In August, police officer Darren Wilson fatally shot Michael Brown, a civilian, in Ferguson, Mo. On Monday afternoon, I was listening to sports talk radio when the grand jury’s decision not to criminally prosecute Wilson first came to my ears.
Thanksgiving Day is without a doubt my favorite cultural holiday. For me, it is filled with peace, family, good food, football, sublime fall weather and nostalgia, the latter being a preferred indulgence of mine.
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) wrote one of my childhood books, “The Jungle Book,” the gripping tales of the feral child Mowgli and his animal friends Bagheera, the leopard; Baloo, the bear; Kaa, the python; and Mowgli’s deadly rival Shere Khan, the tiger.
A reader turns me on to a blog site by therapist Dr. Robert Glover. I like him. I like his encouraging energy. He reminds me of me, the way he is always writing, reaching out to the world and saying, “Hey, let’s think about this together!”
I’ll always remember my favorite clinical supervisor as Wild Bill, though I never called him that to his face. But he had a long, shoulder-length mane and mustache that recalled my favorite boyhood Old West hero, Wild Bill Hickock.
In 1979, author William Styron gave us the novel “Sophie’s Choice.” In 1982, director Alan Pakula gave us the film by the same name.
Self-esteem. Self-worth. How do human beings come to feel worthwhile? Or, to risk living as if they are worthy, even if they do not yet feel themselves to be?
Merely on the whim of a friend’s suggestion timed neatly on a Sunday afternoon devoid of Green Bay Packer football, I went to a meditation class. Like, whatever.
The presence of affection is, in the end, no valid measure of whether we love. To the contrary, the fidelity and quality of love is most fiercely tested in the absence of affection.
The best, most justifiable divorce is hell. It goes downhill from there in a big hurry. Which is why I admire people who can negotiate that hell with honor, justice and equity.
Everything we need to know about how and why Adrian Peterson could and did deliver a savage beating to his 4-year-old son is summed up in the words of Peterson’s lawyer, Rusty Hardin: “Adrian is a loving father who used his judgment as a parent to discipline his son. … He used the same kind of discipline with his child that he experienced as a child growing up in East Texas. Adrian has never hidden from what happened.”
When it comes to behavior in life, context is everything. More to the point, the relationship is everything.
As I ride the express elevator down the back nine of my life, I do what a lot of middle-age baby boomers do: I seek, treasure and cherish regular doses of nostalgia. Nostalgia is what finally takes me to see the film version of the Broadway hit “Jersey Boys,” a jukebox musical telling of the band the Four Seasons.
Here comes The Speech. I can see it on his face. I can feel the words gathering in the air between us. One part plea, one part protest, one part lamentation.
Celebrity is a calling. Fame is nuts. I think of this as I grieve the death of actor/comedian Robin Williams.
Trust isn’t something we learn. Trust is something we risk. Or don’t risk.
There is in my house a bookshelf reserved for “the museum.” By “museum” I mean a collection of books that have been, at one time or another, hugely important to me. Books from my childhood, my youth and then adulthood. From “Pippi Longstocking” to “Frankenstein.” From Mark Twain to Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
1993. Two days shy of his second birthday, my firstborn, Jonathan, is exploring the grassy area behind the apartment building. His legs, alive with energy and joy, make the swish-squish sound that is the signature of the modern disposable diaper. I watch him from a distance, sitting on a concrete staircase, guitar in my lap, dreaming, resting.
Sooner or later in long-term therapy, most adult patients will drift — or dive — toward their family history. They begin to take a more comprehensive, more honest and accurate inventory of realities they faced as children. The strength and weaknesses, health and unhealth, justice and injustice of the families in which they were reared. Because all families have some combination of all of those things.
I tune into the World Cup final just as Germany and Argentina head to “extra time,” deadlocked in an epic, scoreless tie. My son, Joseph The Football Player, says, “I didn’t think you liked soccer, Papa.”