Author: Sharron Burnett

Letting Go

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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“Leave your worries for awhile. They’ll still be there when you get back.” –Unknown

We admittedly have many things about which to worry in today’s world. Much to our displeasure, Russia appears to be as big a problem as Mitt Romney predicted that it would be. The entire Middle East is a hot mess. North Korea is being run by a spoiled psychopath who thinks nothing of executing uncles, brothers and generals on a whim. China is a mysterious nation whose leaders probably should not be thoroughly trusted. Venezuela is on the verge of total collapse. Terrorists are afoot and we have little idea when the next attack will occur. It seems that we can’t even enjoy a plane ride without fear of being accosted by security guards wanting to forcefully take back our seats. It’s enough to drive those of us who have a natural propensity for overthinking to throw up our hands and just surrender to to our sometimes outrageous concerns.

I come from a long line of worrywarts. My grandfather often complained that my grandmother never quite knew how to relax. She was almost always concerned that some bad thing or another might happen. She wondered if a drought would ruin the crops that they had grown or if a deluge would drown them. She fretted over whether  they would have enough money to stay afloat in their old age or how someone she loved might get hurt. She had already lost her first husband and two children to disease. When her only son, my dad, was killed in a car accident it convinced her that we all live on a dangerous precipice filled with harmful possibilities. Instead of simply enjoying her days on her farm in Arkansas she stewed virtually all of the time. I suppose that in some ways it was a habit that was part of her DNA as a woman. We ladies tend to be sometimes overly anxious about those that we love.

I remember watching my sick children in the middle of the night and staying up until my teenage girls came home from their dates. They chided me and complained that I didn’t trust them, but it was the big bad world that gave me pause, not them. I knew that there were hundreds of different dangers that they might encounter. I was never able to rest until they were safely at home in my care. Of course every mom must eventually give her babies wings to leave the nest. It is the way things must be, but it is never a comfortable thought, especially when they are far away from home. Over time I learned how to let them go and maintain a faith that all would be well, but even to this very day they are never far from my mind. Over time I’ve added thoughts of my grandchildren to the daily list of my concerns, along with former students, friends and the members of my extended family. Obviously I would be unable to operate in a normal world if I were to become too engrossed in dire predictions about all of these souls. Instead I have learned how to let go of obsessive concerns about people and situations over which I have no real control.

The only person over whom I have total power is myself. I can be the same or I can change. I am free to make choices all day long and mostly I choose to be optimistic and happy. When I am in situations over which I have no influence, the only thing that I might do is decide how I will react. I have learned the art of allowing adequate time for venting anger and for grieving over loss, but not so much that it overwhelms me. Eventually I purposely leave my worries for awhile. Even if they are still around when I return I find that I am better equipped to deal with them.

Sometimes work is the best tonic for anxiety. Other times the situation calls for a vacation from routine. We can’t really run away from our troubles but taking a break from them provides us with an opportunity to clear our heads of the cobwebs of negativity that often coexist with worry. Once we are feeling better it is amazing how much sharper our problem solving skills become. We find ways to deal with whatever has been bothering us and take the needed steps to rehabilitate ourselves.

I have found that a small amount of worry keeps us safe and on track. It is in habitual overthinking that we become lost and confused. It steals our happiness and deprives us of sleep and laughter, both necessary components of a healthy life. We need to learn what works best to chase away the noisy thoughts that crowd into our brains, keeping us from feeling joy.

I have found that exercise is one of the best medicines going. It doesn’t need to be anything fancy, just a walk in the neighborhood is often enough to clear the head. Sometimes silence is just what the doctor ordered, becoming so relaxed that we are literally as one with our breathing and the beating of our hearts. If we practice we can reach a state of total tranquility.

I rely on my faith in times of trouble and find comfort in reading scripture and devotionals. Silent prayers bring me much needed peace as well, but I understand that many do not have religious beliefs. There are still lovely books with reflections that teach us how to find our own inner strengths. Many of them help guide us out of our preoccupation with a crazy world that seems intent on driving us to distraction.

Having dealt with my mother’s mental illness I understand that sometimes worry becomes so all consuming that nothing seems to chase it away. There are indeed times when seeking the help of professionals is the wisest thing to do. There is nothing wrong with admitting that we need medical assistance now and again. There are therapies and drugs that are sometimes the best answer for unrelenting anxieties and obsessions.

If I have learned nothing else in almost seventy decades, it is to be very good to myself and to do whatever I need to keep myself feeling happy. Then and only then will I be of any worth to everyone else. I try to mostly surround myself with positive people and thoughts. I walk away from negative situations and individuals that I cannot change. Of course I still worry just as we all do, but I try not to allow my troublesome thoughts to overtake me. When I realize that they are becoming the central focus of my days and nights I do what I can to fix the situations from whence they came and then I do my best to move on.

Yes, the world is filled with worrisome situations but most of the time we never encounter them, so why needlessly expend our energy stewing over what might be or what is already past? Instead of listening to the voices that cause us to fret, we need to make room for the sounds that make us smile, like the laughter of children, the rain on our windows or the voices of the people that we love.

We All Fall Down

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maxresdefaultI was twenty years old when my mother had her first mental breakdown. Mine had been a somewhat sheltered life. Aside from my father’s untimely death when I was only eight, I had not seen much of the dark side of existence. I certainly knew nothing about mental illness and the dramatic symptoms that seemed to so suddenly change my mom from a strong, independent woman into someone paralyzed by depression, paranoia and manic episodes. As I witnessed her decline that summer I was overtaken by a state of anxiety that made me feel as though I might surely die. I would visit her during the daylight hours and then return to my apartment in the evenings where I attempted to understand what was happening and to rally help for her among my aunts and uncles whom I was certain would have much better insights into her condition than I had. Mostly though I suffered from my own form of mental stress experiencing panic attacks that threatened to render me useless in the battle to bring my mother back to a healthy state of mind.

I slept little during that period. In fact, that August marked the first time that I was plagued by insomnia. I generally lay awake each night silently crying and feeling as though an elephant was sitting on my chest daring me to breathe. I felt so very alone, convinced that nobody might possibly understand how worried and sad I was. I was walking through those days in a continual daze, pretending to be in control of my situation while actually wanting to run away screaming in desperation. As my mother’s symptoms grew worse I realized that I had inherited total responsibility for her welfare. Circumstances forced me to grow up by a factor of one hundred. While my friends, save those who were fighting in the jungles of Vietnam, were still enjoying the adventures of college and the freedom of their youth, I understood that if I didn’t take charge my mother and my brothers would be in danger. I took a deep breath and became my mother’s keeper in a strange relationship that would span four decades. It was something that I would have happily given up if given even half a chance but the reality was that there was nobody else who could do this for her.

I was as imperfect at being unselfish as anyone might be. There were times when I was hardly able to function myself and when I resented the cross that I had to bear. I became an Academy Award worthy actress, hiding my fears and pain along with my mother’s tragic story as though it was an ugly and unspeakable secret. My unwillingness to open up to people who might have provided succor to me only made things worse but I was not yet ready to accept that I would be far happier bringing the truth into the light. When my mother became well again I naively believed that all of us were going to be fine and that I would never again have to face such a daunting experience. Sadly, she was sick again in only a matter of a few years and I fell apart at the realization that her illness was going to be a chronic fact of our lives.

I continued to be quite secretive about my mother’s fight with mental illness. My own stress increased to an unfortunate level as I quietly and continuously watched for symptoms that would alert me to get her to a doctor before she devolved into a more serious state of mind. I failed to mention my own bouts with anxiety and mild depression but they were quite real and they made me feel as though I wasn’t nearly as strong as I needed to be and that I was somehow defective.

At some point I was no longer able to maintain my silence. I began to speak of my concerns, my feelings of guilt, and the sense of despair that often overcame me. At first it was only the most trusted friends who heard such things but eventually I found the courage to talk with my doctors and finally anyone with whom I had contact. I learned that nobody was going to think ill of me or my mother. Nor was I abandoned. In fact, my admissions generally lead to sharing of similar stories and unlikely alliances. Over time I realized that we all fall down from time to time for one reason or another. We may lose a loved one, face a terrible disease, endure the breakup of an important relationship, fail in achieving a goal, become a victim of violence or suffer from mental illnesses of our own. The truth is that we are both fragile and resilient beings. As such we experience ups and downs throughout our lifetimes. Sometimes are lows are so devastating that we feel as though we may not make it through to the light of day.

I have found that there are always kind and empathetic individuals who are just waiting for our cries of help. All that we have to do is open up our hearts and we will find them, kindred spirits who have also had moments of brokenness and terror. They lovingly provide us with comfort just when we need it, but they will not be able to do so unless we are willing to confess that we are hurting. In acknowledging our humanity we take the first steps toward healing. It took me far too long to admit that I was as imperfect as I am.

I remember kneeling in prayer in the office of an assistant principal who cried with me as he spoke of the people in his family who also suffered from severe mental illnesses. I found succor from a doctor who was giving me a physical for work. He noted the checkbox that indicated that some of my relatives suffered from depression. He gently guided me to a confession that radically changed my life as he assured me that I had no reason to feel guilty about the times when I resented my role as a caretaker. I have had countless individuals hug me in an embrace of solidarity as they outlined their stories of struggles with either their own or someone else’s mental illness. Never once has anyone reacted negatively to my recounting of the journey that me, my mother and my brothers had taken in the house of horrors that was the reality of mental illness. Instead with each telling I felt reassured that I was not and never would be alone.

We all want to be viewed with dignity and respect. It is difficult to admit that we have feet of clay or that we make mistakes and yet it is in facing the demons that attack us in the middle of the night that we find the clarity and calm that we seek. Not only do we find a clearer focus for ourselves, but often we help others as well.

I know of two young ladies who are dealing with very difficult situations. They are far more advanced than I was at their ages. Rather than hiding the hurt and the pain that stalks them, they have been willing to share their feelings and the efforts that they have made to set themselves aright. They write blogs and speak to other young people. They tell of their journeys and admit that they still falter from time to time. The work that they are doing for themselves and for others is not just laudable, it is important. They are living proof that even the seemingly most perfect individuals often find themselves struggling to cope. They are both exceedingly beautiful, intelligent and talented, hardly the type of women who might falter, and yet they have. Their willingness to unmask their struggles is inspiring. They prove that the world is far kinder and gentler than we may imagine and that even the most remarkable among us may need a safety net now and again. It’s as easy as voicing the word “help” to begin the process of healing. We all fall down but there will always be someone willing to pick us up if only we ask.

Remembering the Lessons

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

KnotTry to imagine this scenario. Groups of Americans from the United States begin to peacefully demonstrate against the president of our country in locales all across the country. The government sends in the military to quell the disturbances and in a show of force they gun down protesters. This angers even more people who join the rebellion which grows angry and violent. There are enraged armed mobs in your town fighting against the soldiers. You watch as the disturbances grow into all out civil war. The lines between enemies are blurry and take on a religious aspect as well as political. Splinter groups form, some of which are barbaric. You and your family members are caught in the crosshairs. Bombs from the government come into your neighborhood. Bullets from the rebels forces lodge in the walls of your home. Terrorists taking advantage of the unrest kill your friends and relatives in the most brutal manners. What was once a place of peace has become hell on earth. You do not want to leave your home but fear that if you do not, you and those that you love will surely die. A final blast of chemical weapons from the government forces convinces you that it is no longer safe to stay in the place that has always been your refuge. You watch children who live near you dying in the cruelest manner. You can’t take the horror any longer and so you decide to flee.

At first you make your way to Mexico or Canada. You are placed in a refugee camp with thousands of others. You are told that you may not stay indefinitely. There are too many of your kind seeking escape from the war. Your temporary residence is infested with crime and want. You live in a tent that is either too hot or too cold. Disease breeds freely in the unsanitary conditions. You feel only slightly better than you did in the place from which you have fled. You try to get to other places that might be more welcoming or more pleasant. The process is difficult and even if you are lucky enough to gain a passage to some nice town in Europe the residents of those places view you with suspicion and disdain. All you really want is to be able to sleep at night without fear. Your dream is to one day be able to return to your home and begin your life anew. Your whole world is upside down and none of it is of your own doing. It all feels so hopeless.

In the meantime, different nations are choosing sides in the battle that rages back in the United States. Not only are there disagreements to resolve between the government and the rebels but also different factions within factions as well as other countries. It is such a tangled mess that you despair that it will ever be possible to sort things out and find the peace that you so desire. You cry for your country and for yourself as years pass without resolution and the gordian knot of trouble only grows tighter.

Of course, these events are not unfolding in the United States but in Syria. Try as we may we will never know the heartache that has so defined the lives of the people of that country since 2011. Their nation sits on the Mediterranean Sea just across from Egypt bordering the countries of Turkey, Iraq, Lebanon and Jordan. The war has displaced more than two million people and stretched the resources of their neighbors and countless European nations. Diplomatic and military efforts have failed to broker any kind of resolution and all the while terrorist groups like ISIL have taken advantage of the situation to make their own claims on the land and its citizens. Shia Muslims have taken to fighting with Sunni Muslims. Russia, China, and Iran side with Syrian President Assad. The United States, Germany, Britain and France have attempted to aid the rebels. It is a standoff that threatens the Middle East, Europe and much of the rest of the world.

I cry for the people of Syria. I understand that the vast majority of them simply want to be left alone and allowed to return to their homes where they might live in peace. None of the rest of us want war either. Nobody seems to have any idea of what is the most effective solution to a daunting problem. Here in the United States we have learned that sending troops and treasure to fight battles can be a solution with no endgame. We have also seen that diplomacy does little. We are caught in a conundrum in which the choices are all unpleasant and the results are uncertain. Do we do nothing and let the people of Syria figure out the path to eventual peace or do we choose a side and commit to fighting for what we believe is right?

The answer to such a question is both confusing and frightening. If we stay out of the fray, things may only escalate and make the situation even more dangerous for all of the world. If we show force we may become involved in a fight from which we cannot extricate ourselves without great loss of life. It feels as though even the wisdom of Solomon might be wanting in knowing what to do.

Today is Good Friday, a day on which we remember the crucifixion and death of Jesus of Nazareth. Politics and religious debates were in full force in the time of Christ just as they are today. An innocent man was put to death for fear that his teachings might result in a rebellion that would topple the power structure. Two thousand years later mankind is still feuding over differences in beliefs but millions in all parts of the globe now follow the lessons of Jesus. His message was powerful and his disciples spread the good news of his word in spite of their own persecutions. It is rather amazing to realize that Jesus Christ is even more revered today than he was when he walked in the Middle East two thousand years ago.

This is a time of reflection and prayer in the world. Perhaps it should also be the moment when we join with people of all faiths in imploring the heavens to help us find a resolution to the unrest that so threatens all of us. We can be inspired by the life of Christ whose constant admonition and example was that we forgive and love. I wonder how we can possibly solve the problems of other nations when we continue to be so hateful with one another right here in the United States. It is truly time for us to set our personal differences aside one individual at a time. It is the moment for us to shed our pride, our hypocrisies and our obstinance. Those are the elements that lead to a Syrian-like war. First come the words and then come the weapons. We must do whatever we need to bind the wounds that have turned  brother against brother right here in our own nation. Perhaps once we have learned to be civil with one another again we will enjoy the combined wisdom of many points of view in finding solutions to the problems that plague our world. I truly fear our future if we fail to return to a state of understanding and humanity within our own ranks. It is only in valuing our collective differences that we will be able to exert the power needed to propel ourselves and the world in the direction of good. 

The Little House

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2012114-collations-cottageLBLLast week we had some of the most beautiful weather that I have experienced in a great while. The air was cool and crisp, and the sky was a brilliant blue with the sun shining so brightly that it brought a smile to my face. I happened to be tutoring at a high school back in the old neighborhood where I grew up and I suddenly felt a sense of deja vu. The conditions reminded me of the days when I was young and my whole life lay before me. Suddenly I had an urge to drive to my former home just to see how it was doing on such a glorious day. Somehow I imagined that it might have been transformed from its rundown state by the sheer wonder of spring just as the formerly barren trees that were now filled with green had been with the bloom of spring in the air. My thoughts of returning to the center of my youth faded as quickly as the silly idea that my mama might be waiting for me there. Instead I headed for my present home in the opposite direction.

Perhaps my mother had been looking out for my welfare after all. I later learned that a Houston Police SWAT team had been engaged in a four hour standoff at Belmark and Crosswell just down the street from where I once lived. It seems that one of the residents had taken to shooting his gun anytime that he wished and on this particular day one of the bullets had found its way inside the home of a neighbor who decided it was time to report the inconsiderate resident to the police. The rest as they say is history.

After hearing of the latest difficulty in the area I was reminded of the need to be vigilant when I drive over there for my sessions with students. The loveliness of the trees and the sounds of the birds had lulled me into believing that all was well in a part of town now known more for its toughness than the pastoral feel that it once had. I should have been warned by the burglar bars on the windows and doors of the nearby houses, but somehow in my daydreamy state I had forgotten that things had changed so much.

I thought of a book that had been one of my very favorites when I was no more than five or six years old. It was about a delightful little house that stood in the middle of a country field and belonged to a big happy family. Initially life for the house was grand but as time  passed its paint began to fade and peel. As it aged so did the area around it. More and more buildings popped up here and there until one day the little house was surrounded by skyscrapers and tenements. It was only a shell of itself, an abandoned heap of broken glass and rotting wood that had once been so loved. Because the book was a story for children it naturally had a happy ending as someone purchased the tiny place, renovated it, and moved it to a hill filled with wildflowers and lovely shade trees. The little house was smiling once again.

Sadly the real world if far less like that story. I often envision a time when my old neighborhood will be rediscovered by people willing to return it to its one time glory. So many of the folks who now live there appear to be trying hard to make it a good place for their families, but as long as there are those who seem not to care about the rights and the safety of their neighbors it remains a dangerous place to be. I suspect that when the sun sets and the streets get dark there is much fear inside the walls of the houses surrounded by high fences that sometimes sport concertina wire as an added way to keep out marauders. Given that most of us at one time slept in the same structures with our windows wide open at night, it is difficult to imagine having to live with the worries that must surely plague the good people who want to provide a nice family atmosphere for their children.

The signs are all there that caring people inhabit the neighborhood. There are still lovely roses growing in many of the yards and fresh coats of colorful paint brighten the exteriors. Sadly here and there are the marks of neglect, eyesores that clash with the efforts of the vast majority of residents and everywhere there are the barriers erected in an attempt to keep intruders at bay.

Schools like the one where I tutor are doing their best to bring a light of hope to the people who live nearby, but their hard work is too often offset by stories like the SWAT standoff just down the street. On the same day as that horrendous event there was also a news item about a teacher at the local middle school who had impregnated a thirteen year old girl. Little wonder that so many of the people who live where I once found so much innocent adventure and security feel as though they are forgotten.

I’d like to believe that the work being done inside places like the school where I help young people is the key to changing the fate of those who live in less than ideal circumstances. Education will surely make a difference. The men and women who toil each day at Cristo Rey are providing hope one student, one family at a time. Many of the youngsters that they teach will be the first to graduate from high school and then continue on to college. The knowledge that the students acquire will most surely bring them the power to take control of their destinies.

The criminal element is everywhere, all over the world. Seeing evil is an inevitable part of life, but being continually victimized by it is not. I still harbor dreams that we humans have the capability of reviving even dilapidated neighborhoods into vital and inviting centers for living well. The spirit of hope is still evident in my old stomping grounds. Most of the people there really care and want to eliminate the hopelessness that sometimes overtakes them when they see the gangs and the drug deals just outside their doors.

After the SWAT team had subdued the trouble maker who lived on the street where I once did a newscaster interviewed an old man who voiced my own thoughts. He proclaimed that his was a nice neighborhood with good people who just wanted to feel safe. He hoped that the man who had been stealing their security would go away for a very long time so that they might live in peace. Even though I no longer live on Belmark Street like that man, I felt a kinship with him and I too would like to think that things will get a bit better for the folks who might have been my neighbors had I stayed. Today is a beautiful day and tomorrow should be quite fine as well. I pray that the sunshine will bring a ray of hope to Belmark Street and all of the places where darkness sometimes descends and that there will be better days just like there were for the little house in the story that I read so long ago.

Becoming Temporary Hermits

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

solitude.jpgAbout a hundred years ago my maternal grandmother traveled from Slovakia to Galveston, Texas all by herself on a steamboat. It must have taken incredible courage for her to leave everything and everyone that she had ever known to meet up with my grandfather who had taken the same journey a year earlier. In the beginning of her American adventure she held a number of jobs outside of her home, including one in which she worked behind a counter at a bakery. Before long she had so many children that she devoted all of her time exclusively to running the family household. Her life was demanding with one pregnancy after another, poverty and the deaths of two of her babies weighing heavily on her. At some point she had a breakdown and was committed to the state mental hospital. She was taken by force in front of her children who would never forget the horror of that moment. When she returned she was not the same, and she became a recluse, never again leaving her home save for a couple of medical emergencies that required hospitalization.

I met my grandmother long after the incident that so altered her life. She seemed happy enough to me, but even as a child I wondered how it was possible for her to be content with such a strange and limiting way of living. Her days were so routine. Her self imposed boundaries were so confining. She had the habit of repeating the same tasks day after day. Each morning she made coffee in a big enamel pot whose inside was stained a warm brown color from the countless iterations of the warm brew. Her rituals included sweeping and mopping the floors, a task that took little time because her house was so small. She worked in her garden, preferring to water her flowers by hand rather than with the hose that stood at the ready nearby.

Grandma often sat on her front porch surveying her domain and the world that kept changing around her. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, and so her bare feet dangled from a chair like those of a tiny girl. Everything about her was childlike, her seeming contentment and lack of worry, her surrender to an uneventful lifestyle, the sweet smile that rarely left her face. She was at once both somewhat strange and quite wonderful to me. She appeared, at least on the surface, to have found a kind of nirvana that few of us ever achieve. I always wanted to know more about her. I desired to learn her thoughts and maybe even her secrets. She was so wonderfully simple and yet her long journey across an ocean told me that there was far more to her than I would ever know. Like my cousins I simply accepted her just as she was, a kind of saintly woman who had chosen to avoid the complexities that so often distract humans from what is most important in life. The essence of her existence was to love and be loved.

As strange as it may sound I thought of my grandmother recently when I was reading a magazine at my dentist’s office. I was anxious about my checkup on a number of levels. I have a phobia about dental work that was born when I first began seeing a pediatric dentist at the age of three. For whatever reason I am one of those unfortunates who has a tendency to get cavities, so at a young age I learned all about anesthetics and the drill. It was horrifying to me and I have never quite developed a more adult way of thinking about dental care. Thus I was attempting to distract my thoughts by reading about the strange case of Richard Simmons.

For those who may not be up to speed, Richard Simmons was a fitness guru who gained great popularity for his bubbly personality, frizzy hair and enthusiasm for a healthy lifestyle. He had his own televised exercise program and was a frequent guest on talk shows. He made a small fortune with fitness videos like Sweating With the Oldies. Up until 2014, he was still quite active, regularly holding exercise sessions at his gym and visiting with his countless friends. Then without warning he one day became a virtual recluse. Few of his former associates have even seen him for the last three years. The concern for his safety grew as this once gregarious man became a seeming prisoner in his own home, creating talk that something terrible must be happening to him.

A podcast detailing the strange disappearance of Richard Simmons became an instant hit as a former business partner took on the role of amateur sleuth in search of answers. Millions tuned in week after week to hear many strange theories being proposed. One fear was that Simmons was being held hostage by his longtime house keeper. Another idea was that he was transitioning into being a woman. It was unfathomable that such a vibrant individual might simply have decided to take a break from the madding crowd. The public concern for Mr. Simmons became so strong that the Los Angeles police eventually visited his home for a wellness check. They reported that they found a very healthy and happy Richard Simmons who spoke of enjoying his new quiet life.

It seems that Richard Simmons who is now sixty eight just decided that it was time to scale back the intensity of his existence. He no longer wanted to be that celebrity that we all know. He wasn’t mentally ill, but he was tired. He didn’t want to be a woman, but rather just to be himself, which included growing a beard and letting his hair go grey. He was not being held against his will, but had chosen to spend time in the serenity of his gardens. He now luxuriates in the quiet and simplicity of a life that he believes he has earned. He feeds the hummingbirds that skitter among his flowers and watches their antics for hours. He luxuriates in the peacefulness that he now feels each and every day.

We modern souls are constantly rushing. We fill our calendars with appointments and rise each morning certain that there will not be enough hours to accomplish all that we must do. We chide ourselves for sleeping too late or allowing ourselves to get off schedule. We are so busy exercising our bodies, counting our calories, building our resumes that we are often chronically exhausted. We race around and around and around like little gerbils on an infinite wheel. We look at someone like my grandmother or Richard Simmons and think that surely there must be something terribly wrong with them. After all, who would choose to stop the world and actually get off? And yet, somewhere in the back of our minds we envy their wisdom and their courage. We sense that they have found the ultimate secret to a life well lived.

Few of us have the capability of dropping out. We don’t enjoy the wealth that would provide us with surrogates to take care of our duties like Richard Simmons. We are not blessed with eight children who will provide us with all that we need like my aunts and uncles did for my grandmother. We have to buy our food and pay our bills and taxes. We must clean and repair our homes and care for our family and friends. We can’t simply hide ourselves away from the world, but we can learn how to give ourselves the gift of solitude now and again. We can plan our calendars in ways that allow us to relax and reflect. We don’t have to have an all or nothing way of dealing with our responsibilities, but we really should learn how to bring more balance into our days. We should find time for ourselves and never feel the need to explain those moments when we become temporary hermits escaping the hustle and bustle and finding peaceful solitude. It is our right to be good to ourselves.