One of my daughters sleeps on a buckwheat husk pillow; the other sprays her bedroom with lavender when she turns out the light.  One friend packs up her white noise sleep machine whenever she travels; another just bought a mattress that cost the same as my first car. My pharmacy sells a half dozen herbal products to entice falling asleep, and if they don’t work, the gift shop next door has these cute purple sleep rocks to put under your pillow. Catalogs and websites sell power-napping kits to take to the office. And chances are if your life includes speaking to someone on a daily basis, one of you will mention last night’s sleep.    

Until a few years ago, my knowledge of slumber time was limited to the obvious. That babies, with their little bellies going up and down and their sweet hurrying breaths, were the best practitioners. That people catch up on sleep in church and at the opera, and teenagers remain forever rest deprived, surviving on some kind of adolescent standard time. When I’m too many hours away from rest, my mood whizzes past cranky and brakes at mean. A day might be 12 hours long but a sleepless night feels like 50.

In 2014, sleep, or rather lack of it, has morphed into a serious health hazard. Forty-three percent of Americans claim they don’t get enough sleep. The National Commission on Sleep Disorders calls our sleep deficit “as important as the national debt.” Estimates of the annual cost of sleep deprivation are said to be over 16 billion dollars. Almost overnight fifteen hundred sleep disorder clinics sprouted up across the country. Statistics in popular magazines showed that since Edison invented the electric light bulb in 1879, our average night’s sleep dropped from nine to seven hours a night, with one third of us sleeping six hours or less. Psychologically and physiologically we’re all paying the price for the anxiety our addiction to 24/7 stimuli has produced.

For years sleep deprivation was a macho point of pride. The less you slept, the less you missed, the more you accomplished. Socially unacceptable, like watching soap operas, daytime sleeping was reserved for unambitious, lazy slugs. Women are even more puritanical than men when it comes to naps, even though we are more likely to have difficulty falling and staying asleep.

Then came research showing that far from being a character flaw, the need for a nap is a simple biological fact of life. Sleep is so much more than self indulgent down time, it’s a complex dynamic activity we should devote more time to, like exercise and reading food labels. By adding 12 hours to the midpoint of your nighttime sleep, the doctors stated, you arrive at your nap zone, the optimum time for your body and mind to rest. Lie down for less than a half-hour and doctors swear you’ll feel the rejuvenating effects for the next ten hours. Google and Procter & Gamble have invested in Energy Pods and Ben and Jerry’s and Levi Straus instituted nap breaks in the middle of the afternoon.

Just because TV and Kinko’s and CVS and the Internet are open for business around the clock doesn’t mean we should be. Eighty-five percent of all mammals break the day with short naps. Winston Churchill, JFK, Thomas Edison and Salvador Dali snoozed regularly. Millions of our successful Mediterranean neighbors enjoy a siesta every afternoon. Wouldn’t it be great if we followed their escape into a brief plunge into oblivion? Sigh. A girl can dream.

The modern miracle of television gained popularity during the nascent days of the Baby Boomer Era, and it wasn’t very long before there was a TV set in every home. Playing outside for hours on end was the norm for the Boomers back then, but there was still more than enough time to watch our favorite shows.

If you come through this quiz with flying colors, we’ll send you a box of Pensy Pinkies and some Double Bubble gum. (Nah, not really, but wouldn’t that be nice?)

1. The home of the family on Bonanza was

1. Falcon Crest
2. the Ponderosa
3. Southfork

2. The maid on The Jetsons was

1. Rosie
2. Alice
3. Hazel

3. Mary Richards lived in what city on The Mary Tyler Moore Show?

1. Cincinnati
2. Minneapolis
3. Milwaukee

4. Keith, Laurie, Danny, Chris and Tracy were

1. the Partridge Family
2. the Brady Bunch
3. the Swiss Family Robinson

5. The annoying little girl on Dennis the Menace was

1. Lucy
2. Nancy
3. Margaret

6. The sitcom Benson was a spinoff of which TV show?

1. Who’s the Boss
2. Soap
3. Dynasty

7. Mrs. Munster’s first name was

1. Lily
2. Morticia
3. Olivia

8. The name of the hangout on Happy Days was

1. Arnold’s
2. Mel’s
3. Central Perk

9. Who shot J.R.?

1. Sue Ellen Ewing
2. Liberty Valence
3. Kristin Shepard

10. The aunt on The Andy Griffith Show was

1. Dee
2. Bee
3. Gigi

If you got more than half of these right, you are a reputable member of the Baby Boomer Generation…and, you spent waaay too much of your childhood in front of the TV. So, is it any wonder that you spend so much of your midlife time in front of a computer screen?

Answer key:

 There is scientific evidence that shows how the young brain is more able to soak up a new language –which makes sense considering we all need to learn to communicate when we’re young. When we get older our brains change; the way we learn changes; we become better in other aspects, but the ability to learn a language drops off.

That being said, there’s no substitute for hard work and perseverance.

No matter what age you are, a new language isn’t going to be easy. So the first and most important thing to do is commit yourself — don’t start if you’re not going to be able to give it the time and attention it needs and deserves.

• Schedule time each week (every day if you can) to practice, practice, practice.

• Look for some good classes to sign up to, a good teacher will have a set structure and be able to help you with your individual needs.

• Find people in your community that speak the language you’re learning, it’s easier today than in the past to find them, a simple web search should turn in results; schedule a time each week to meet with them so that you can talk in your new tongue.

• Convince a friend they too should learn, having a partner means you can both help each other move along a little quicker — Also, a little competition will be good!

If you follow these methods you should acquire your new language in no time, no matter your age. Yes, it’s going to be a lot of work, but if something is worth doing then it’s worth doing right, and learning a language is worth doing.

Your brain is like a muscle, it becomes stronger when it gets exercise, while you might find it more difficult to pick the language up than if you started in your teens, the many benefits apply all around.

You’ll become smarter, more decisive, and better at English. Being able to switch between two languages strengthens your ability to multitask. The mean age for the first signs of dementia is 71.4 for monolingual adults, that age jumps up to 75.5 for those that can speak more than one language. It will improve your memory, make you more perceptive, and stave off Alzheimer’s.

Then there’s that little added little benefit of being able to travel, to find that far away land and retire in paradise; it’s not the same when you’re in a new environment, a new culture, and unable to talk with the locals — With your newfound linguistic abilities you’ll have no such barrier.

Sam represents Language Trainers, which provides individually-tailored language training on a one-on-one or small group basis worldwide

It’s been 50 years since the Beatles first came to America, but even if you’re 64, their songs are probably as fresh in your mind as they were when you first heard them. Don’t believe me? Just take this test.

Help! I need ____

l)  a groupie

2) Instant Karma

3) somebody

All you need is ___

1) love

2) royalties

3) Yoko Ono

Picture yourself in a boat on a river with

1) Desmond and Molly Jones

2) Mr. Kite

3) tangerine trees and marmalade skies

She’s a woman who ___

l) follows my tour bus

2) screams through my concerts

3) understands

Her majesty’s a pretty nice girl but ___

1) the monarchy should be abolished

2) she owns too many Corgis

3) she doesn’t have a lot to say.

If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be

1) blue

2) true

3) a Jew

You know I’d give you everything I’ve got for a little piece of

1) cake

2) honey pie

3) mind

Let’s all get up and dance to a song that was a hit before

1) Beyonce was born

2) auto-tune

3) your mother was born

Everybody’s got something to hide except me and

1) the Walrus

2) my monkey

3) Rocky Raccoon

I’ll get by with a little help from

1) Bungalow Bill

2) LSD

3) my friends

Why don’t we do it in ____

1) a yellow submarine

2) an octopus’s garden

3) the road

Here comes the sun and I say ____

1) it’s all right

2) it’s uptight

3) where’s the sunblock?

Is there anybody going to listen to my story all about ___

1) Sexy Sadie, Eleanor Rigby and Polythene Pam

2) the girl who came to stay

3) the Beatlemaniac under my bed

The Magical Mystery Tour is coming to

1) take you away

2) teach you to pray

3) call it a day

And in the end, the love you make is equal to ____

1) the enjoyment you get from taking nostalgic pop quizzes

2) the great memories you have of a lifetime of enjoying Beatles songs

3) the love you take

Today’s music-lovers have a lot that we didn’t have back then. Digital downloads! Music videos! Illegal music sharing! But they’ll never know the joy of hearing “If I Fell” on a transistor radio or a just-purchased 45 for the very first time.

Those were the days, my friend.

(This piece first appeared on www.Zestnow.com.)

I don’t know if I’m going to get Alzheimer’s, but know I don‘t want to.  That’s why I just read “100 Simple Things You Can Do To Prevent Alzheimer’s“ by medical journalist Jean Carper.

Doing simple things is something I’m good at.  And while I’m usually skeptical about advice givers, Carper is reassuringly credentialed. She’s written 23 health-related books and penned USA Weekend‘s “Eat Smart” column for years. Besides which she’s got a personal reason to get this one right — the book’s dedication notes that she and two sisters share “a single copy of the ApoE4 susceptibility gene.” (“Know About The ApoE4Gene” is one of the things she recommends we do.)

“100 Simple Things” is a grab bag of advice to follow if you want to stop the big A in its tracks, from the predictable (“Eat Antioxidant-Rich Foods”) to the unexpected (“Consider Medical Marijuana.”) (I’d be glad to! But first they’ve got to legalize it here in Pennsylvania.)  Each recommendation is presented in a concise chapter which includes the science to back it up.

The book is packed with fascinating (and potentially useful) facts, such as:

How long you are able to balance on one leg is a predictor of how likely you are the develop Alzheimer’s.

Women who drink only wine and no other type of alcoholic beverages are 70 percent less apt to develop dementia.

Some people with Alzheimer’s temporarily become more lucid after taking antibiotics.

I began reading the book on the treadmill, which took care of Items 99 (“Walk. Walk. Walk.” )  and 37 (“Enjoy Exercise”).  How difficult could it be to cover all 100?  I decided to try to incorporate as many of Carper’s suggestions into my life as possible.

Some items were easy.  For instance, “Beware of Being Underweight.”  Being underweight isn’t something most menopausal women need to fret about. Then there are  “Google Something” “Be Conscientious” and “Say Yes to Coffee”  – those three things pretty much describe my life in a nutshell.

Working in a public library, I’ve got  “Have An Interesting Job” covered. On the other hand, that  makes it a challenge to “Avoid Stress.” The next time a patron hollers at me for refusing to waive his fines, I’m going to ask, “What are you trying to do, pal  – give me Alzheimer’s?”

“Get a Good Night’s Sleep?” No problem. Sleeping is another activity at which I excel.  But my sweet tooth will make “Cut Down On Sugar” difficult.  Luckily there’s “Treat Yourself to Chocolate.” (Cocoa increases blood flow to the brain.)

Thankfully, some of the advice just doesn’t apply to me.  “Think about A Nicotine Patch.” “Overcome Depression.” “Get Help For Obstructive Sleep Apnea.”  And there are some things I just won’t do, however useful they may be. “Put Vinegar On Everything.” “Play video games.” “Embrace Marriage” (Been there, done that. Never again. )

Some advice is easier to give than to follow. “Try to Keep Infections Away?” Good luck with that when you deal with the public all day. (Folks think nothing of sneezing on their library card, then handing it to me.)

It’s no surprise that much of Carper’s advice is about food and nutrition. “Eat Berries.” “Eat Curry.” (Not together, thankfully). “Drink Apple Juice.” “Drink Wine.” “Eat Fatty Fish.” “Go Nuts Over Nuts.” “Don’t Forget Your Spinach.”

I thought about preparing one gigantic meal with all the recommended foodstuffs, but I came up against “Count Calories.” Not to mention “Worry About Middle-aged Obesity.”

It was fun to see how many of the non-food items I could combine. For instance, I was able to “Be Easygoing and Upbeat” “Keep Mentally Active” “Beware of Oemga-6 Fats” and “Drink Tea” all at the same time.

But I’m afraid that “Be An Extrovert” will forever be beyond my capacity.

Most items, like “Beware of Bad Fats,”  make sense at first glance. Others are more mysterious.  What does “Have Your Eyes Checked” have to do with preventing Alzheimer’s? Read the book and find out! If you do, you can cross one recommendation  – “Find Good Information” — off the list yourself.

(This essay first appeared on www.womensvoicesforchange.org.)

New York Times columnist, David Brooks, asked persons over the age of 70 to send him a brief report “…on your life so far, an evaluation of what you did well, of what you did not do so well and what you learned along the way.”  I sent it to my friends as an assignment for our Wise Women’s Weekend.  Eighteen women reflected on the experiences we have lived and explored future life issues, even though not all of us are, as I am, of une age certaine.

This is our executive summary.  Listen up.

Number One:  Grow to like yourself.

Do whatever it takes.  If you want to be thin, get thin.  If you want to be a mother, get pregnant.  If you want to be a boatwoman on the Amazon, learn to row.  Appreciate your uniqueness.  The corollary is to tolerate everyone else’s uniqueness even if you don’t like it.  Comparing yourself to anyone else is a waste of the time you have.  Acknowledge your ridiculous and annoying tics and work on changing them. (Like my tendency to always know some arcane trivia about everything and say it.)  More importantly, value your virtues – name them to yourself (not others) and build on them.  As Margaret Thatcher said in the movie, The Iron Lady,“Your virtues become your character and your character becomes your destiny.”

Number Two:  Take care of your body.

Start with the relatively non-replaceable parts – teeth and bones. Flossing is not just about a pretty smile. Weight-bearing exercises and calcium with vitamin D have long-lasting effects throughout your life.  Avoid systemic diseases – the usual killers of heart disease, cancer and diabetes. Obesity and lack of exercise is a risk factor for cancer as well as almost everything else that can go wrong with you. Your body is going to change no matter what you do, but good habits can make a big difference in the quality of your life from age 50 and beyond.

Be slightly vain but don’t count on beauty.  I have seen, in both women and men, that relying on your cuteness can result in a lack of being appreciated for your more permanent qualities.  Above all – nourish your brain.  It is not only the biggest sex organ you have, what you feed it will bring you riches all the days of your life.

Number Three:  Listen to your inner self.

Even if you don’t understand what it is saying. Listen. When your gut or heart or bones send you a signal that something isn’t right, pay attention.  The big mistakes I have made in my life have been because I let my head distort what my body was telling me.  Conversely, 40 years ago, after a four-month long siege of sciatica had me in pain, immobilized and on drugs, I figured out that it was due to hugely unexpressed anger.  I controlled incipient lower back pain for over 40 years by determining why I was mad.  Not surprising that the sciatica started again the week I began cancer chemotherapy and ended the week of my last radiation treatment.  That doesn’t take Dr. Freud to analyze.

Number Four:  Choose to be happy.

Happiness or unhappiness exists only in the brain, in your brain.  It does not exist because you are eating at The French Laundry, watching an exciting football game, having great sex or seeing the Taj Mahal.  You can be happy or unhappy in any of those circumstances.  You make the choice.  You can be happy when you have cancer.  Believe me, I know.

Number Five:  Be realistic – awful things happen.

Accidents happen, illness happens, recessions happen, if not to you then to someone you love.  Deal with it realistically.  Don’t waste time wishing someone else will behave differently.  The daily Ann Landers columns are filled with people wanting someone else to change to fit their needs.

Terrible boss?  Try to work it out with her, learn meditation techniques or quit and take the consequences. During my working life I had several unhappy situations. Overall they stemmed from the fact that I did not listen to my inner self. I like to direct things, make things happen.  I should never have worked in a department where I could not possibly be head honcho.  I compensated by finding other areas in which I could be Queen (my family nickname). I started a new area of research that put me in touch with scientists from all over the world.  This ended up with my having decision making positions on executive boards of several organizations. Very satisfying.

Do not forget that each of us is going to die.  Accept it.  What is possible is to live each day and moment with mindfulness and care.  Find something every day to admire, be grateful for or learn.  It is one more tool for growing to like who you are.

Margaret S. Burns burns.margaret99@gmail.com 530-795-3524

This piece is the second in a series.  To read the first, click here.  The last in the series will be published on Wednesday, Sept. 4.  This piece was originally published in The Davis Enterprise.

******************

When I was offered a free gene test kit from a company called 23andMe, I signed up as a lark. I was curious to learn about my ancestors, and I didn’t pay attention to the fact that I’d be receiving health data, too. When it arrived via a web site, the little padlock around my Alzheimer’s risk brought me up short.

Should I look?

Instead of clicking, I headed for the library where I found a book titled “Here is a Human Being,” published in 2010 with the subtitle, “At the Dawn of Personal Genomics.”

The author, Misha Angrist, was one of the first to have his entire genome sequenced. Although he describes himself as a pretty anxious guy, he has a strong background in genetics and was comfortable making his genome public.

However, most of his book is about other people: scientists and entrepreneurs who have been trying to decode DNA and market the decoding. In addition, Angrist tells stories of first-time users like himself.

It turns out that I’m far from alone in being nervous about my Alzheimer’s status. The APOE4 gene correlates with higher-than-average odds of getting Alzheimer’s, especially if you receive copies from both parents. No lesser person than James Watson, co-discoverer of the structure of DNA and one of the first to have his genome sequenced, chose not to know whether he carries APOE4.

Unfortunately, another scientist was able to deduce Watson’s APOE4 status from studying genes around what Watson had put in the public domain. Angrist doesn’t reveal Watson’s results, but he observes that nowadays steps you take toward privacy don’t necessarily succeed.

***

The company I used, 23andMe, does not decode your entire genome. Rather, it studies something less expensive: about one million individual points on the genome called single-nucleotide polymorphisms (SNPs), biological markers that offer clues to your DNA.

When 23andMe utilizes a marker for disease, how much is known about that marker? How does it compare to other markers they don’t test for? For each disease, does it take one marker or many to know your risk?

These are important questions.

23andMe cites numerous research studies from all over, but it is difficult for a non-scientist like me to weigh the importance of one study over another.

In addition, scientists agree that environment plays a huge role in whether or not you develop a disease. If, for example, I have a susceptibility marker for diabetes but I lead an extremely healthy lifestyle and eat a good diet, what are my chances of getting the disease? If my uncle had diabetes, am I more likely to get it?

Some day aggregated data from millions of people will provide answers. 23andMe asks customers to fill out questionnaires that will contribute to that kind of research, but how much should I trust what I receive right now? How well do I understand it?

Angrist writes, “I knew enough about statistics to know that having a risk ratio go from 1 to 1.6 or even 2 meant my absolute risk had only risen from, say, 1 in 10,000 to 2 in 10,000.”

I didn’t know that. Most of the risk numbers I received from 23andMe compare my risk to average risk. This is confusing. Do I have to investigate each marker further to understand my absolute risk?

***

People react unpredictably to news about their genes. Some of us are great at denial or letting go of worries, while others are inclined to make mountains out of mole hills. When it comes to health, I’m in the latter group.

Angrist cites one scientist, Harvard neurologist Robert Green, who discovered that people who learn that they are at higher-than-average risk for serious disease become distressed at first but then return to normal, with no regrets about having obtained the information.

Really? I’d like to know more about this.

Even if people remain calm in the face of bad health news, will they overload the medical system as they investigate possible future problems? Should we anticipate a new flood of medical spending?

DNA-related companies are proliferating and information about genes is coming at us like a tidal wave. For example, the director of the National Institutes of Health, Dr. Francis Collins, has predicted that complete sequencing of newborns “is not far away.”

How will this affect a child’s future? The brave new world of genetics could change our society as much as cell phones or the internet.

But interpretation of results is in its infancy. And we don’t know enough about human response to receiving this data, which my own psyche says could be painful.

In his last pages, Angrist reminds us that the devil is in the details. He gives the example of a gene for type 2 diabetes which, if you receive it from your father, puts you in danger of the disease, but if you receive it from your mother, protects. It will take huge population studies to tease out the truth of such things; those of us who get genetic information now don’t receive much that is comprehensive and verified.

I still haven’t looked at my Alzheimer’s results.

I finally got past level 65, and I’m still sleeping like a baby

A friend asked me the other day what I was reading, and I gave her a blank look.

“Uh, I don’t know.”

“What?  You can’t remember?”

“Right. Give me a second.”

And it was then I realized that I hadn’t been reading at all lately.  I looked at my shoes and suddenly remembered I had somewhere to be.

“I’ve been playing Candy Crush,” I told her, hoping she would understand, hoping that seemed like a reasonable answer. She just looked at me blankly.  She had never played.

Since I started with Candy Crush about two weeks ago, this is the scene in my bedroom on a typical weeknight:

It’s 11:00PM, and my husband shuts the light off on his side of the bed.  Having taken a little nap on the couch during TV time (he loves it when I ask him to explain in detail what happened on House of Cards) I am very much awake. I grab my iPad, looking for distraction and something to make me sleepy.

There are four things that grab my attention in the darkness (there were five, but one of them has rolled over and has begun to breathe heavily.)  There is 1. the NY Times online; 2. Words With Friends- six people waiting for my move (damn it, let them wait); 3.  The Wave, the book by Susan Casey I started two weeks ago; and 4. Candy Crush.

There is no contest. The familiar music starts up, and I sit up in bed and smile. I’m feeling lucky. My husband stirs.

“Are you kidding me?” he groans from the other side of the bed.  But he’s too groggy to be really angry, and I turn down the sound.

“I’ll just be a second.” I whisper.  “I don’t want to miss my daily free spin.”

I am lying of course.  He knows I am lying, and I know that he knows I am lying, but he’s too tired to argue.  I have every intention of playing until I lose all 5 of my lives and the game won’t let me play any more. I’ve got to get past level 65. It’s a killer.

So, while my husband sleeps, I continue to play until I am out of lives.  It doesn’t take long- I am still on Level 65 when I close my eyes, too tired to read, too tired to play WWF (my opponents are no slackers—you don’t want to make your move half asleep.) I turn off the iPad and roll over, and as I drift off I think only of colorful balls and striped jelly beans. I am not anxious about the kids or work- my mind is too full of exploding mints, expanding chocolates, and lollipop hammers.  When I wake in the middle of the night, cascading jelly beans continue to fall, and my mind is thick like the jellies that I try so hard to eliminate.

The bad thoughts have no room to enter. The voices in my head are singular- the Candy Crush Narrator telling me I’m “Tasty,” “Sweet,” “Devine.”

The Wall Street Journal just reported that Candy Crush is showing signs of fatigue, but I don’t care– so am I! This game gets so in my head that it takes up the space that used to be filled with—yes, not only semi-intelligent contemplation– but also buckets of anxiety and worry.  Forget about Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) —Candy Crush is the ultimate Mind-lessness Based Stress Reduction.

And perhaps this new find is good news for Candy Crush and developer King Digital, which could use some good news since it’s disastrous IPO last week.  And according to the WSJ on March 31, income from the game declined in the fourth quarter of last year compared with the third, and in the U.S. the game was recently leapfrogged as the top-grossing mobile game by Clash of Clans. Please, people, don’t less this game fail– don’t make me renew my Lorazapem prescription!

Because I know that if I start reading again before bedtime– if I read a chapter of The Wave before bed instead of gaming, there is no question that while I may learn a bit about giant waves, my thoughts will be only of gargantuan waves swallowing our family as we sail to Block Island this summer. I may be getting stupider by the minute, but at least I’m well rested.

And please, don’t ask me what I’ve read lately.

Twelve years ago, a casual elevator conversation with my neighbor led me to consider the absurd notion of learning classical piano at the age of 45. Like me, she had opted out from a full time executive career to focus on raising her two children, but unlike me, she had discovered a new challenge.

I grabbed the railing behind me to help stifle my envy and its inevitable sarcasm as she excitedly described her progress on a Mozart sonata. It had been a long time since I felt that kind of thrill. “Would you have any interest in lessons?” she asked. “My teacher comes to the building every Tuesday for the lesson, maybe you would like her phone number?” I had never considered taking up the piano, but when she asked, I was intrigued. My childhood pianistic endeavors had lasted two months, and as my mother had predicted, I had come to regret abandoning those lessons. I thought of the piano my husband and I had purchased the year before, now sitting silent in our living room upstairs. It was a Yamaha digital, and with the headphone jack, it was feasible to practice early in the morning or late at night without disturbing my family or neighbors. “Sure, give me her number,” I said as the elevator door opened.

I’m now 57 years old and if anything, I’m working harder now than I did in my business career. The Yamaha was replaced long ago with an acoustic upright, which was later replaced by a Steinway grand, a celebratory gift for my fiftieth birthday. My family’s move to an apartment downtown, inconveniently timed with my teacher becoming a mother, led me to my current teacher, a serious musician dedicated to teaching adults only. Her students range from complete beginners to conservatory level musicians, adults who reclaimed their childhood piano study, and myself, a former record executive, who, by putting rock & roll aside, fell in love with music from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

I have amazed myself by learning and then performing compositions from Bach, Mozart and Beethoven. I’ve learned scales, the circle of 5ths, chords and inversions. But my type “A” competitive record executive personality pushed for even greater challenges. I wanted to memorize a piece of music. As a child, I struggled with memorization of the simplest of poems; a mere 5-line stanza terrified me. I can’t retain jokes or lines from movies, television shows or books. C’mon, wasn’t it enough that I was attempting to learn to play piano at this late stage in life? What more did I have to prove? But truthfully, I envied fellow piano students who had accomplished this feat.

In particular, I recall a young woman who was close to completing her degree at a Manhattan conservatory, performing a difficult composition from the Russian composer Shostakovich. She began at the lowest register of the keyboard, and in what seemed an instant, she had risen off the bench, and her hands, fast as a Japanese bullet train, had moved to the highest register.

That’s a level of piano playing I have little hope of reaching in my lifetime, but since that performance I had been dogged with the idea of memorizing. That young woman had been so profoundly engrossed in her playing. I wanted to feel that too.

One day last spring, under my breath, hoping she wouldn’t hear me, I whispered to my teacher that perhaps I could try to memorize something. “Of course you should, Robin,” she replied, implying with her tone that of course I could, and suggested I start with a piece I had already mastered—“From Foreign Lands and People,” a short, two page composition from Schumann.

In his excellent memoir, Guardian editor, Alan Rusbridger, an accomplished amateur pianist himself, shares stories about his own difficulties with memorizing music. In particular, he writes, “Ronan (head of keyboards at London’s Guildhall School of Music) tries to reassure me, telling me I probably don’t have a problem with memorizing, just an anxiety about forgetting.” Aha! Thank you, it’s precisely this anxiety I wanted to conquer.

It took me most of the summer to memorize the two pages. The work was so tedious and frustrating, that on several occasions I was reduced to balling up my fists and banging on the keys like a child, leaving me to wonder why I ever thought I could accomplish something I couldn’t do when my brain was young.

Luckily for me, my teacher never doubted that I could.

The first time I attempted the entire piece from memory, I went blank. But I refused to give up; I’d already spent my entire summer on this challenge. I opened the music, played through and started over. When my brain froze at certain measures, I repeated the process until I finally made it through without the music. To finish off, my teacher insisted I close my eyes and play. This was tough, like closing your eyes and walking a straight line, but eventually came a stunning reward.

By closing my eyes, I shut the world and its myriad distractions out, and for those three minutes, it was just Schumann and I.

I wasn’t rising out of my chair, but for me, I was flying.

This Spring/Summer has come on with a blast. We have been catapulted from the couch to the tennis courts, from the kitchen to the grill and from warm red wines to crispy whites. We are off stationary bikes and onto road bikes, kayaking against strong harbor currents vs. ramped up tension settings on our gym rowing machines. Our lettuce comes from our freshly raked garden instead of the plastic box.  And, it has taken just a few weekends to embrace outdoors life again in all its glory.

Friends show up for impromptu dinners, and group cooking winds it’s way into late night dinners. Weekend guests abound and our lives feel full again.

And all feels great until — slam, we realize that our schedules have out-stretched our energy and we desperately need to head for the couch. As we settle into the Sunday New York Times our lids go heavy – we find ourselves in a deep snore when curled up with a late afternoon book.

There’s no escaping it, we are desperate for a nap.

According to The National Sleep Foundation, “A short nap of 20-30 minutes can help improve mood, alertness and performance.”

Up until (like last week), I’d never given myself permission to nap. I power through heavy lids until I am giddy with exhaustion or I can’t string a sentence together. Napping has always felt like an indulgence.

I just can’t imagine leaving a roomful of people to go to a quiet corner for a nap. It sounds like something “elderly” do. But, it turns out that not all nappers are over-age. In fact, there are some really famous nappers in the textbooks including: Winston Churchill, JKF, Ronald Regan, Einstein and Thomas Edison.

Aside from not wanting to join the rank of elder nappers, I have always perceived it as incredibly unproductive. Hey if I nap, then I won’t get the laundry done, or finish my photo albums or I won’t get in 20 minutes of afternoon writing, or return those calls I never seem to get to. Napping means giving up 20-30 minutes and “losing” a precious piece of the day.

But my body has been screaming for a nap lately. And last weekend I gave in. I joined my guests on the couch who were watching afternoon baseball and closed my eyes for 20 minutes. I awoke refreshed. The next day I put in a load of laundry and lay down with my book for 20 minutes between cycles and snoozed. Again, I felt rejuvenated. I was way more alert, way more productive an hour post-napping.

So this summer, I’ve decided to give myself permission to nap. I’m adjusting the way I think about naps –reframing my attitude. I’ve even crafted 6 napping visuals to encourage me to go for the 20-30 minutes time-out:

1. A nap is like a meal – once I’ve fully digested its benefits – I will be able to draw on the energy I have fed myself.
2. A nap is a rest for my eyes which unless closed are focused on fine print, computer screens, chasing balls and the eyes of those I am listening to.
3. A nap is a reprieve for my muscles and joints that inevitably ache and need a break from the gluttony of excessive summer playtime activities.
4. A nap is a rest for my busy mind, which attaches to every conversation and distraction like a dog chasing a ball.
5. A nap is a moment of quiet which allows me to pause during the day – and breathe in the richness of my world.
6. A nap is a way to harness the runaway advance of time – and take charge by saying “I’m in charge of the next 20 minutes.”

What about you — Are you a napper?

Family rumor has it that in 1972 my precocious 17-year-old cousin was filling out her college applications, and to the question, “what do you see yourself doing in 10 years?”  she bravely answered: “still filling out these college applications.”

At 3:00 AM the other night, I was lying awake in bed, my insomnia fueled by the hundreds of unsolicited messages cluttering my inbox. All I could think of was that my answer to the question about what I see myself doing in 10 years might be: “still unsubscribing to spam.”

Earlier in the day, a friend had sent me an article titled,“10 Things Organized People Do Every Day.” I read it in bed just before closing my eyes and spraying my pillow with a new Ayurvedic-essential-oil-aromatic-sleep-therapy-spray. (The spray did nothing for my sleep, but Mike told me the smell is so revolting that it might make a great contraceptive spray.) I had organization, and one of the tips- cleaning out your inbox every day- on my brain.

When I found myself still awake at 3:47AM, I tiptoed downstairs (like an elephant might) to take charge of my inbox.  I unsubscribed from emails concerning pet insurance, tech solar solutions, Japanese dating services, hotels in Nice, and a hockey camp that my daughter attended ten years ago.  One spam, for a miracle pill for weight loss endorsed by Dr. Oz, stopped me in my tracks as I quickly read the subject line: DR. OZ ENDORSES FORSKOLIN. Huh?  Was I the only one who got that email who was thinking circumcision?

By 4:30 AM, there were three more junk emails in my inbox and I hadn’t made much of a dent.  I poured another cup of coffee, ate half a banana, and headed for the kitchen cabinets.

By 5:00AM, I had dumped every plastic container from the cabinet where they lived, matched each container with a top, tossed the rest, and put what was left neatly back.  I marveled for a good 5 minutes at my gorgeous arrangement, and suspected it will stay that way for a good 5 minutes more.

At 5:05 AM, I tackled a cabinet way high up, above the double ovens. I found a set of dishes that we had purchased in Italy in 1992. I recalled my husband lugging these dishes in 90 degree weather after an evening of eating and drinking heavily. Since we have used these dishes about 6 times in 22 years, I decided to move around all of my dishes so we would use them. It was a tad noisy.

From 5:45-6:30 AM, I organized the baking area, the tray area, the utensil area, bashing around and banishing items either to the basement never-never land or the trash.

At 6:30 AM, Mike came down, bleary eyed.  He had heard every bang and clang for the last hour and a half, but really, how angry can a neat guy be when he sees that his sloppy wife has taken on so many awesome organizing projects?  He took one look at me knee deep in pots and pans, shook his head and said, “I don’t know whether to kill you or kiss you.”

At 6:45 AM, I went back to my email. I forwarded the organizing article to my youngest daughter who, unfortunately, has inherited my tendency to messiness.  Melissa had just moved into a new studio apartment in the LSE (Lower East Side for all of you who are not cool) and I know how much she likes my advice. Luckily, she didn’t clutter up my inbox with a reply.

So that was my productive night of insomnia. Have you embraced insomnia lately?

“I partied with a porn star last Saturday,” my co-worker Cat confided during a lull at the circulation desk in the suburban library where we work.

I’m 60. Cat is 30.  Despite the age gap, we’re workplace pals.

“You partied with a porn star?” I asked. “Tell me more.”

“His name is Colby Keller. He invited my friend Jeff to a party at his place in Baltimore, and Jeff brought me along.  Jeff didn’t tell me that his pal Colby was a porn star. If I’d known, I might have felt uncomfortable or awkward. But I had no preconceptions. So it was like meeting any other really cute guy.”

“A really cute guy? Let’s take a look.”

Did this qualify as a valid research question? I didn’t see why not. But just to play it safe, I looked up Keller’s blog (www.bigshoediaries.blogspot.com) on my IPAD mini. And…. there he was!  A full frontal photo of a very buff dude wearing nothing but a smile.  And glasses!

Nothing makes a librarian’s heart beat faster than a cute guy in glasses.

“Colby Keller,” read the banner at the top of the site. “Colby like cheese. Keller like Helen.”

There was nothing unsavory, sad or sleezy-looking about Mr. Keller. He looked happy, fresh-faced and engaging. (And, anatomically, more than qualified for his chosen profession.)

In my youth, I definitely would have partied with him.

“What kind of party was it?” I asked. “Dancing and drugs and debauchery?”

“Actually,” said Kat, “it was rather spiritual.”

“A spiritual porn star? No kidding.“

“He had decided to give away all of his possessions,“ Cat said.  “As a kind of spiritual exercise. Or maybe as a conceptual art project. Everyone he’d invited over was supposed to choose a few things they wanted. Then we each took a photo with Colby and the things we’d selected. He’s going to post them on his blog.“

“That’s not what you imagine when you think ‘party with a porn star.’”

“I know! That was the cool thing about it.”

The library remained quiet, so I was able to devote a few more minutes to researching Mr. Keller. I quickly turned up a Huffington Post interview which called him an “introverted gay porn star.” Not only that, but he’s apparently quite the intellectual. A sample quote:

“A good part of sex and nearly all of ’love’ is a frustrated (through immensely rewarding, if done properly) attempt to experience and share in the subjectivity of others.”

Next to these words? A breath-taking shot of the speaker in nothing but the skimpiest of briefs. Sharing his subjectivity would be no trouble at all.

“Was there a mad rush for everybody to grab his stuff?“ I asked.

“Not at all,“ Cat said. “We were all very well behaved.”

“So, what did you end up with?“

“A couple of great — and expensive — art books, a beautiful vintage 80s dress and a terrific piece of costume jewelry.”

“Do you think you’ll see him again?“

“I hope so! I gave him a big hug when we left.”

In my life I’ve done my fair share of partying. And I once spent the night with a famous singer-songwriter.

But I’ve never hugged a porn star.

“If you’d asked if I wanted to party with the star of “Deep Water Beach Patrol,” “Cowboys 2,” and “Splittin Wood,” Cat said, “ I might have hesitated. But since I didn’t know about that stuff, meeting Colby wasn’t a big deal at all. He’s just a great guy.”

Do you think that you wouldn’t enjoy partying with the star of “Dragon Cumblast?” Or that hot young porn stars can’t also be intellectuals? Do you assume that we librarians never party with porn stars?

Don’t be so sure.

The only thing I know for certain at age 60? Life is full of surprises.

This essay first ran on www.zestnow.com

Yesterday my father tried to eat a small purple flower.  When I quickly said, “No, Dad.  That’s a flower, it’s not to eat,” he looked puzzled and reluctantly pulled his hand back from the planter.  His jowly, putty-colored eighty-five-year-old face reflected the innocence of a toddler scolded for a harmless misdemeanor.  I felt at once guilty for denying him his desire and saddened that he no longer understood that sage blossoms were just to admire.

A former avid gardener, Dad, along with my late mother, used to spend hours each day companionably tending their roses, peonies and scores of other colorful species, the names of which he could recite as readily as the periodic table of elements.  As I watched him lift the bloom to his mouth I thought back to just eight years ago when my parents would crouch along the small stone pathways that crisscrossed their backyard, nurturing the plants as they would their grandchildren, had my two brothers and I produced any.

Before I could move Dad last month from assisted living to a specialized memory care residence nearby, state law required that he undergo an assessment.  “Do you have any children?” the gentle-voiced social worker inquired.  My father looked to me, hoping, I think, for a hint at the correct response.  I kept my face neutral.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice lacking the conviction it had held for so many years.  “Oh, that’s nice.  How many?” she asked.

“Ten,” Dad answered, his tone more tentative.  When I recounted the story to a friend that evening, he said, chuckling: “Great!  Look at all the help you’ll have instead of just your two brothers.”

Dementia has robbed my father of his past, both distant and recent, as precisely as if a surgeon had sliced through his prefrontal cortex and removed it from his brain.  Gone are his wife of fifty-four years, my two brothers, his decades as a successful executive in science and health policy, his passions for photography and classical music, his friends, neighbors and, finally, me.

He used to smile and visibly perk up when I approached.  Now when I walk towards him there’s no sign of recognition.  Sad as it has been to watch his deterioration in recent years, I realize now that I should have been grateful for the lift of his shoulders, the peck on my cheek, the small wave goodbye.

As my husband and I packed my father’s belongings the day before the movers came a few weeks ago, I lifted the mattress to remove the linens.  The dark wood bed frame was coated with an unexpected layer of whitish dust.  I knelt down to examine it, cloth in hand, and realized it was my father’s skin, shed in thousands of tiny, dried specks over the six years he had lived there, molted from his diminished body.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I couldn’t help but think.

I wondered what is in his mind as his watery eyes sought mine.  I pictured the holes in the Swiss cheese I ate for lunch a few hours earlier.  “Flowers are just to look at, Dad,” I repeated, my hand sliding down his back as we made our way along the walkway into the sunlit garden.

The other day I saw two teenage girls sitting on a park bench, staring at their phones. A small dog was sitting in front of them wagging his tail, desperately trying to get their attention.

Still fixated on their phones, one of the girls started smiling and handed her phone to her friend. She said, “Is that the cutest dog you’ve ever seen?”

At that exact moment, their little mutt looked over at me as if to say, “And what am I, chopped liver?”

The phone world got their attention. The real dog didn’t.

This morning I walked into Starbucks and saw an entire family sitting at a table, sipping on coffee, which was a little alarming since two of the family members looked like they were under the age of nine. All of them were staring at their phones, except Grandma, who was staring off into space with cloudy eyes. Nobody was laughing, or telling stories, or interacting.

The observation disturbed me, so I forced my husband into sharing an interesting story so we could laugh and show them the importance of interacting in the three-dimensional world.

As my husband stumbled, trying to come up with something to entertain us both, a woman literally backed into me, ass to face. because she was staring at her phone and was oblivious to her surroundings. I’ve heard the term “ass face,” but I’ve never experienced it. It isn’t pleasant.

I’m not going to lecture everyone about technology and how it’s ruining the world, because I believe it is behavior that makes or breaks the utilization of a new tool. And I think we’ve proven as far back as the discovery of fire that we can use innovations for good or evil. I’ve sat around a campfire on a cold night and seen the good. I’ve been forced to cook on a gas stove and have witnessed the evil.

So, let’s assume that technology is neither good nor bad. It simply is. But our fascination with things on a flat screen when we have the real thing right in front of us is disconcerting. Because the real, 3-D people aren’t constantly clever. Our houses aren’t all white like those posted in Pinterest. That white couch lasts about 14 seconds in the real world of children and pets. Our cakes are rarely picture-worthy, although mine could be part of the Good Housekeeping “What Were You Thinking” series.

I believe we are falling in love with a convenience and perfection afforded only through technology. I was watching a little league baseball game and realized that I missed a good play while talking to the person next to me. I immediately yearned for a replay, and was alarmed when I realized it didn’t exist in the real world. I have stood in front of annoying real-life people, pressing my thumb into my palm hoping that I could somehow advance the channel.

Comparing our real world to the screen world is going to set up a competition that the real world will never win. When a wife goes through menopause, the husband is going to look at his screen and see Cindy Crawford and Jane Seymour, still stick-thin and sitting in all white pants with nary a bad mood. As his real wife spits venomous, inexplicable accusations about how he left his shoes in the middle of the bedroom floor causing her to trip in the middle of the night, the husband will gaze at his device and yearn for Cindy and Jane. Because they are skinny and happy and spend their menopausal years creating open-heart necklaces.

In the real world, if we covered our naked bodies in blue paint and ran through a jungle, James Cameron would NOT follow us with a camera. Most of us would simply scare the squirrels and end up with poison oak in unfortunate areas.

I even believe animals are feeling the pressure between daily life and YouTube life. Go to the zoo, and you’ll find people standing in front of the gorilla display, staring at their phones, searching for a gorilla who does sign language or is saving a small boy who’s fallen into his habitat. The actual gorilla, who is simply throwing his feces at the crowd, is disappointing.

Lions are expected to jump up and hug you around the neck like the one did in my favorite YouTube video — you know, the one where that lady saved him and seven years later she banged on his cage and he jumped up and hugged her. I pity the fool who confuses reality with screen life and tries to lean into the cage of any ordinary lion to hug it out.

Our lives are now in limbo between imagination and the real world, and I’m not totally sure the real world is going to hold up. That old high school boyfriend on Facebook lives in our memories, and will always be a little more interesting than the man you love who is farting in the kitchen.

We have to remember that the real world is something we can be a part of, flaws and all. We might not have constantly clever quips coming out of our mouths, but we are there holding each other’s real hands when a crisis occurs. And we might not be airbrushed, but we jog when we want to eat, and we pay for new haircuts and we try to look nice for those we love.

Maybe we should just realize that real life involves all the flaws that make us laugh and all the love that makes life worth living. And that man farting in our kitchen might not always compete with our high school fantasies, but he is our very best friend and he’s loved us when we’ve spewed words like Linda Blair during our worst menopausal moments ever.

And that gives the real world a tiny edge in my book.

Last week I took my first Spanish lesson. Apparently, I am as qualified today as I was at my last language lesson almost 40 years ago. Surely, when I travel to Costa Rica this winter, I’ll be able to dazzle the kids with my ability to converse with the locals.

It turns out that there really is nothing holding us back after 50- there is no critical period for second-language learning, “no biologically determined constraint on language-learning capacity that emerges at a particular age, nor any maturational process which requires that older language learners function differently than younger language learners.” 

According to AARP, older learners have some advantages: they are not only motivated to learn, but they have acquired study strategies, mnemonic devices, literacy skills, and other resources to make learning easier (like a private tutor that comes to the house.) Plus, learning a new language is great for the brain- it actually develops new neural pathways, makes new connections, adds flexibility. And who among us couldn’t use a few new neural pathways?

All of this is good news of course, but may not be such great news for me. Because while I might be as good at learning languages as I ever was, I was actually never very good. Because here is another truth: the same brain system that helps us learn language, also helps us learn music… and as far as I can tell, that system in my brain just isn’t that strong. Six years of piano lessons, and I can barely play chopsticks. Granted, I didn’t practice much- I’d spend my half hour with the piano eating the “guest chocolates” in the living room, later making excuses for my inability to learn the scales I’d been assigned (“I swear, Mr. Stern, I DID practice!”) Our piano had quite a few chocolate stains.

So why did I decide to learn Spanish?  My friend Sandy and I were loitering together after an event we had attended…

ME:  “I think I would like to learn Spanish.  It is ridiculous not to know Spanish in this day and age.”

SANDY:  “I agree.  Me too.”

ME: “But I’m pathetic with languages, and I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast.”

SANDY:  “Perfect. Me neither. Let’s do it.”

ME: “OK, then, you’re on.”

We were all talk at that point, and from time to time, I’ve talked about all sorts of things: learning to knit, mastering basic car mechanics, becoming a wine connoisseur, finishing War and Peace, to name a few. Naturally, I soon forgot about learning Spanish.

But a few months later, Sandy and I each got an email from a mutual friend who teaches Spanish at the local high school.  Did we know anyone who might benefit from being tutored in Spanish?

How could we not answer this calling?

Before my first lesson, I thought back to my experiences with Spanish. I had a pretty big head start, but I didn’t tell Sandy- I would just let her think I was a quick learner. After all, I had watched Sesame Street religiously with my kids (and almost mastered numbers 1-10) and helped all 3 kids with their Spanish homework in high school, holding up flashcards while they attempted to memorize. There was also a “lave la cocina” thing my mother used to say at one point in my childhood, but no need to get into that.

Empowered, I drove up to Sandy’s house at the same time as our tutor.

“Hola!” she called out to me.

“Hola,” I replied back. And that was as far as I got with Spanish.  “How are you doing? So good to see you!  How’s your summer?” In return I got a babble of words, of which I understood nada.

Luckily, Sandy and I were in the same, equally pathetic place. Our tutor handed us each a book called “Exploring Spanish,” the outside of which made it very clear, in big block letters, that it was for “Grades 1-2”.  While we both liked the idea of coloring, we thought we might be better off with a book called “Spanish For 50-Somethings Who Can’t Remember S#%t!” It would be really short, highly repetitious and not require any practicing.

Luckily, our goals are modest:  Sandy is a big baseball fan and just wants to be able to pronounce the names of baseball players correctly. I want to make sure I get the right drink on our family trip to Costa Rica. If I learn, “Please, I’d like a Silver Patron with a splash of Cointreau and a wedge of lime, on ice,’” I’ll be happy too.

And maybe, just maybe, with a little luck, this whole experience will help me remember what I had for breakfast.

This morning I flossed my top teeth, then the bottom. And when I was done with the bottom, I couldn’t remember if I’d flossed the top. I actually had to stand there a minute to see if the top teeth felt any different. That’s when I realized they tingled a bit from the minty floss.

Last week at work, I walked quickly and with purpose to pick up a document from the printer. I walked at a New York pace right past the printing room and into the kitchen. And I stood there bewildered, wondering why in the world I was there. I didn’t bring any change for a Diet Coke.

So I ask you … a woman with a lot on her mind? Or a sign that I’m one step closer to being spoon-fed Jell-O right before my sponge bath?

Don’t answer that.

Two weeks ago I chaperoned my daughter’s high school Thespian team at the big regional competition. I met three really lovely moms, and one of them definitely acted like we’d met before. A few hours later, we were sitting in the auditorium waiting for a musical number to begin, when I saw her doing some realtor work and had this strange sense of déjà vu. I knew she was a realtor. How did I know that? Had I finally honed my psychic abilities?

“Mom, you are such a loser,” my daughter said on the ride home that night. “We were sitting with the other Danielle and her mom at the Lifetouch studios, when I was waiting to get my senior portraits done. You talked to them for half an hour.”

I had met this woman and her daughter just three weeks before, and I had no recollection of either of them – except that they looked mildly familiar. I just figured we’d run into them at the college fair or a parent-teacher conference. Once my daughter placed them, it all came back to me.

Sometimes I think life just gets so crazy, I don’t stop to take it all in. That’s what I hope this is, anyway … that I’m working full-time and trying to pursue this dream of being a writer at night, while still being active in my daughter’s life this last year before she heads to college … that I’m just tired or distracted and can still fix this train wreck.

I know I’ve gained weight, and my sleep apnea is back, and I hate that damn headgear I’m supposed to wear, because nothing says sexy like a catcher’s mask with an oxygen hose. So I don’t sleep well. And even when it’s not the apnea, I find myself awake at 3 or 4 every morning, panicking over how on earth we’re going to pay for college. I hope that’s what it is … that I’m just so exhausted it’s affecting my short-term memory.

Because the other explanation is terrifying: that my life is turning into a scene from a horror film – and I’m not talking about The Conjuring; I’m talking about The Notebook. Some people go to scary movies and can’t sleep for days, because they’re living in fear of Satan. I’m more terrified that I’ll be slow dancing with my husband, and right in the middle of Moon River, I’ll no longer remember who he is.

I have this recurring nightmare where I find myself in a meat market and I’m crying, because I don’t know where I am. And the butcher keeps asking me who he should call, but I can’t remember.

So that’s the standing joke at our house.

“Oh my GOD, mom. Come back from the meat market.”

“Honey, you’re in the butcher shop again.”

So here’s what I want to know. Why is it that I can remember all the lyrics to every commercial jingle from 1965 to 1995, but I cannot remember why I just walked into a room?

Why can I sing, “Oh Fab, I’m glad there’s lemon fresh and borax in you,” having no idea on earth what borax is, but I can’t remember someone with whom I had a conversation three weeks ago?”

I know that “Honeycomb’s got a big, big bite – big, big taste in a big, big bite,” but I can’t remember where my glasses are, until someone points out that they’re on my head.

A few years ago, I liked that song How to Save a Life, and apparently, I asked my daughter, “Who sings this?” every darn time it was on the radio.

“The Fray, mom,” she’d say. “The same people who sung it yesterday.”

“Cuckoo,” she’d add, pointing at her head and circling her index finger.

But ask me to sing the entire Friday night lineup from 1973 … the themesongs from The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Room 222 and The Odd Couple, topped off with a rousing rendition of Love American Style, and I’m all over it.

I can still recite jingles I used to remember 10^th-grade chemistry:

Meth, eth, prop, but

Organic acids are really cute.

Ane, ene, yne, yl

Shout ‘em for a real thrill!

I remember the Andy Griffith Ritz Cracker commercial I translated into Spanish in the 7^th grade and performed in front of the class for extra credit (“Mmm, mmm. Galleta Buena”).

But I cannot remember the name of the lady next door, her husband, her two toddlers, or her golden lab, without stopping to think about it for a minute. Wait, it is a golden lab, right? Or is it a black poodle?

I’ve been told the mind is like an incredible computer. The problem is, how do I hit delete? Do I really need to know all the lyrics to Kung Fu Fighting? I’d like to get that out and make room for something a little more important in there.

I used to get so angry when my grandmother went through every grandchild’s name in the book until she got to mine: “Uh, Linda … Diane … Alan … Scott … Parri. That’s it, Parri.” But that’s me now. Half the time I address my daughter, I start saying my husband Jim’s name first, and it comes out Janielle.

Oh my God. Maybe I’m overweight because I forget that I eat and eat again.

Here’s an even scarier thought:

You know all those missing socks?…

What if I’m the one hiding them?

My eyebrows need a good tweezing, my hair is a tangled mess of curls, and I haven’t even thought about makeup. I’ve been wearing the same shorts for the past four days. I haven’t been to the gym. Every morning I wake up in a big, overwhelming fog. And I haven’t been reading.

Sound like a case of depression? I understand if it does. To my landlubbing friends, my vacation- sailing the coast of Maine, with only my husband for company- might put them over the (l)edge. But actually, I couldn’t be happier.

There are over 4,000 islands that dot the shores of Maine, and Mike and I have been discovering just a small fraction of them. We are living the remoteness, the beauty and yes, the excitement, of Maine’s northern Bold Coast, Acadia and Pennobscot Bay.

“Wow, you must get a lot of reading done,” a friend of mine commented as I described our sailing vacations, how we sail for hours and hours at a time.

“Actually, I don’t,“ I told her honestly, but I felt my face reddening.  I realized I was ashamed- very embarrassed to admit that I do not read much on my sailing vacations, when I have so much down time.

“Well what do you do for hours at a time while you’re on the boat?” she asked.

I stared at her blankly. I had no idea. I decided to pay attention this year.

The obvious things, putting the sails out and in, trimming them, watching the course, talking about the micros and macros of our worlds, the wind, the current, where we are going and what we are going to eat next (a major topic of conversation) – those things don’t take up too much time.  There are still hours and hours at sea and at anchor…when I don’t take out a book.

Sometimes, I’m just too busy. The fog has come in thick. The winds are fierce. Lobster pots are everywhere ready to be caught in the prop. Something drops down below, or breaks, or I’m holding on at an uncomfortable angle- difficult to to pee (I do that a lot), let alone read.

Sometimes, it’s too hot and sunny and I can’t find both my sunglasses AND my reading glasses.  Or it’s so cold I have to cuddle under a big soft blanket, and I have no hands left to hold a book.

Sometimes it’s a classic case of FOMO.  Look down at my book, and I might miss the life in the water that shouldn’t be missed: the whale, the porpoises, the harbor seal pups poking their little heads out of the water, or the nude bather (ha ha, not a chance in these frigid waters…)

But more often than not, the real reason I’m not reading is because I am just Being…. Being and Thinking…

And that is something that I don’t often do.

Like most of us, I am generally not very comfortable with my own thoughts. A New York Times article recently described a University of Virginia experiment where 64% of men and 15% of women began self administering electric shocks when left alone in a room to just think. That’s how far people will go to avoid introspection.

And I don’t generally let my mind wander.  I am one of those women at the check out counter line at Shaws, reading my emails on my cell. I’m the woman you have to beep at when the red light turns green because I’m  texting an “urgent” response.  If I have a free moment at home, I pick up a book, run an errand, do work, go for a run with headphones blaring music so I don’t have to think.  Perhaps that is why I wake up at 4AM on most nights …not being able to stop thinking. Perhaps that is why I have some of my best ideas for blogs during a leisurely shower.

But on the boat, I look out at the sea and let my mind wander. I ponder the cloud formations.  That one- over there- looks like a heart, doesn’t it, Mike? I was just thinking about my dad…is that a coincidence?  

I wonder about the lives of the lobstermen on the boats, and the seagulls that follow them, the people who live in the beautiful houses along the shore. I stare at the lone bird sitting silently on a far away bell buoy.

I picture what these great islands of granite and spruce must look like in the winter.  I marvel at the brilliant colors of thousands of lobster traps, and notice how the sun shimmers like diamonds on the ocean between them.  I feel the thick, wet fog as it creeps in the harbor and into my bones, or watch as the setting sun reflects wave patterns onto the hulls of other boats.  I listen to the water lap under the boat, and imagine the life going on under our keel.

I pour a glass of wine, and watch and think and ponder some more. And I think a lot about how lucky I am.

Soon enough, I’ll be back to self-grooming, checking my emails in the supermarket checkout line, and no doubt I will have some excellent book suggestions for my friends. Hopefully, my sense of sarcasm about daily life will also return.

But for now, just Being is enough.

The doctor’s diagnosis: A broken heart. Yes, that’s what is ailing me today; causing pain so deep it seems to be the only thing anchoring me to Planet Earth. The proximate cause: a late afternoon text message yesterday from my publisher with the news of Robin Williams’ suicide. The root cause: this is hitting close to home, just two years after losing our youngest son under similar circumstances – death by mental illness. It has ripped the scab off a slowing healing wound.

Williams didn’t commit a crime; he suffered like 25% of humanity, straddling two worlds with two very different faces – one public, one private. The public face blessed our lives with his outrageous brand of humor and pathos that invariably cast a revealing light on what makes us perfectly imperfect humans. His genius was an innate ability to tap into his Inner Child with total abandon, being marvelously outrageous while revealing the human condition. At times he made being a jerk way-cool. Other times he brought us to tears.

Let’s not forget that his very private face – the struggles with deep depression and substance abuse – also fueled his genius. This part of his life was less understood and through the years it would, at time, seep into public view. The tabloids had a field day with it, while other mainstream and online media respectfully wished him well in rehab – but please spare us the details. We were less concerned about the impact these cycles of euphoric genius and black-hole depression had on his family. It was the public face we clamored for and adored.

Having survived our son’s suicide, I can speak to that.

Each family’s journey is different but the underlying heartache is similar. There is relief shrouded in guilt and sadness. The ambivalence comes with thanks that our loved one is free from the demons and despair that haunted them coupled with the infinite emptiness and pain left behind. I call this The Empty Heart Compartment: it is an irreparably broken part of the heart. Some days it feels like a crater. It is not as blistered as it once was, but today it is rubbed raw by the news of yet another family starting this journey – surviving suicide and searching for their “new normal”.

There is so much still unknown about mental illness and brain disorders but recent brain imaging and Human Genome Project research studies are zeroing in on genetic, chemical and biological markers that influence it. I have seen how mental illness can be present in an individual’s DNA and pay forward in the family’s DNA – nuclear and extended family. As we are seeing, collectively, it is surfacing more often in society’s DNA with death by mental illness increasing among seniors due to financial insecurity, loss of independence or death of a partner; war veterans unable to reintegrate after combat due to PTSD and war injuries; middle-aged and young adults experiencing un- or under-employment; and teens and adults self-medicating with recreational drugs, over-medicating with prescription drugs, and adding binge drinking to the mix. Meds all have side-effects that impact individuals differently but one fact that cannot be dismissed is that people who suffer from mental illness can have amplified reactions to drugs of all kinds and even for those who are mentally healthy, combining drugs and alcohol can be toxic.

So how will we honor Robin Williams?

I don’t mean now, that is the easy part. The real honor will be to celebrate not just his talent but also the illness that propelled it. May we work together to dispel the stigma that surrounds mental illness by bringing it out of the darkness, into the light and giving it a voice.

Let’s encourage our legislators to fund mental health research independent of pharmaceutical industry influence. Let’s ensure patients, caregivers and families have community resources and services so they are less isolated and more connected. Let’s recognize and address health privacy legislation that prevents families from getting needed medical treatment for adult family members. Let’s wisely approach recreational drug legislation by assessing possible unintended consequences on minors as well as ensuring the infrastructure is in place to support and mitigate those challenges. Long overdue is a sensible approach to gun legislation that respects gun ownership as well as public safety.

May Robin Williams rest in peace. The world has lost an incredibly gifted and talented man but it seems this world was getting even too crazy for him. May we also honor his family by giving them space and time to find their “new normal”.

photo credit: Theresa St. John

I remember finding my mom and dad together on the kitchen floor. I had run up from my house, which stood right down the hill from the home I grew up in. His wails had woken me from a deep sleep.  I could hear him through the pitch-black woods between the properties. He was covered in her blood, having run around the house, trying to find something that would stop her wrists from bleeding her life out. He was screaming for me to call the police.The ambulance, whoever could come and help us.

Depression is a horrible disease. For whatever reason it decides to stop and find a home in the heart and head of it’s victim, it is a terror. My mother was not even fifty and had tried many different things over the years to escape it’s clutches…. Religion, alcohol, adult education.

She was studying to be a pilot and member of the Coast Guard Auxiliary. She was acing all of the college courses on Women’s Literature and History of WWII. She spent hours on the potter’s wheel, throwing clay and creating many beautiful pieces that she would sell at booths at local art shows.

But, still, things from the past haunted her and there seemed to be no other way but to take a knife and carve her memories out.

I can still see me in the hospital with my Father. He was dressed now but mom’s blood still covered both of us. His eyes were stark with the dread of what had just happened, spilling out sorrow because we had not been able to stop it.

Luckily, momma lived. She had not finished the deed before the running water from the kitchen faucet woke my dad and he came out of their bedroom to see what was happening.

The Doctor’s explained what was going to happen now, she would have to be admitted to the Psych ward. They would have to evaluate her. They wheeled her by us, arms wrapped in gauze bandages, while the medical personnel talked in soft, compassionate voices.

I left them all in the hallway. I can still see me, rushing to my mother’s side. This woman who was such a huge, wonderful influence in my life.

I only saw rage. Anger spewed from my mouth. “You were going to leave me! You weren’t even going to say goodbye!”  She was so frail – probably needed words of comfort and love right then, but I didn’t care. I had never been so mad in my life.

It took a long time for me to understand any part of mental illness. Or suicide. It took me many sessions of intense therapy, a safe place where I could scream out my grief and anger and the feelings that I’d failed my mother, my friend.

For the first several visits, I could only cry. I would sit in a chair, curled up in a ball and just sob hysterically. The therapist let me. Thank God. Finally, talk came, peppered with questions and I could listen, to some degree, while they explained that my mom’s depression and suicide attempt had nothing whatsoever to do with me. That, even if I had seen every single sign, I would not have been able to stop it.

Mom got better, for a time, coming home and re-acclimating to life on Maple Street. I seemed to live to hear her laughter – which was bright and bubbled up and over our every day existence. It was not long before mental illness crept in again and then cancer eventually took her.

Mental illness is a very real disease that affects every single person in the family and in the wonderful circle of friends that tries valiantly to help. I keep a careful eye on myself, as it can and does run in families. I try to be opposite of my mom in some ways. What she was afraid of, I decide to do. Things she was weak over and stressed incessantly about, I decide to be strong and let them roll off my back.

If there comes a time in my life when I need help – I will make sure I get it. Depression is nothing to be ashamed of. Oftentimes, it can be kept at bay, under control, so the one suffering is able to enjoy their life to the fullest.

The core of my mother was wonderful. Her essence was kindness, she had a huge heart, loved to read and cook and take long walks in the woods. She loved her husband and she adored her five daughters. I learned so much from her while she lived. I want to be like her in those ways.

Sometimes, when I am quiet, I feel her arms around me, even now. I hear her whisper my name as she gives a word of advice or encouragement in my own life. I know she is proud of me. I know she cheers me on. I am grateful for those little things, they have made all the difference in my world. Xoxo, momma. Always.