Category: Commentary

I am among the the 1.4 million people who purchased Prince Harry’s memoir, Spare, on the first day that it became available. I was not so much interested in learning salacious details about the royal family in England as attempting to understand why Harry felt compelled to flee so dramatically from the duties and the life he had been trained to experience from the time he was born. I had already watched his interview with Oprah Winfrey as well as the multi-episode documentary on Netflix in which he and his wife Meghan attempted to explain their decision to leave Great Britain behind and begin a new life in the United States. I had my theories about Harry’s reasons for his public need for raw honesty about himself and his family, but I wanted to verify my thoughts by studying his words. 

As an educator and through my own experiences with trauma I have learned that each of us bears wounds that affect how we approach life. Some people are willing to share the secrets and concerns that affect them and others believe that it is best to keep such things private. Many, like me, remain silent and stoic about our trials until they become so unbearable that we have to talk with someone or set down our thoughts in journals. If people are kind when we reveal our suffering we may learn to become more and more open to telling the darkest stories of our lives. It is indeed a freeing experience to be honest. Not having to hide behind a facade is healing, but it is also fraught with possibilities of being totally misunderstood and even spurned. 

The key to Prince Harry’s motivation is sprinkled throughout his book, but it is in the first fifty or so pages that the heart of his thinking may be found. He begins with a dedication to his wife, his children and “of course” his mother. Then in a brief but moving introduction he speaks of a meeting with his “Pa” and his brother “Willy” after his “Grandpa’s” funeral. It is there that we learn of his love and admiration for Prince Phillip, a man who liked a good joke and needed to stay busy, the man who seemed to best appreciate Harry’s “mummy,” Diana. As Harry nervously waits for his father, Charles, and his brother, William, he thinks of all that his family and his country mean to him but he nervously hopes that the two men that he most loves will finally understand why he has decided to step down from his duties and relocate to another land. When they arrive and seem as clueless as ever about Harry’s feelings even after his explanations it becomes apparent that they are tied to the stoic traditions of their duties. It is then that Harry proclaims that the book is meant to help “Pa” and “Willy” see more clearly why he has chosen his new path in life. It is his ultimate cry for compassion from the family that he still very much loves. 

The ultimate moment in Harry’s life centers on his mother’s death. He beautifully articulates how much he adored her and she loved him. He points out that there are no words that adequately describe what an exceptional person she was. His descriptions of his relationship with her and the shock and sorrow that he felt upon her death resonate quite personally with me. I would only have to change a few words and insert my father’s name to tell of how I felt as a child who was awakened to learn of her parent’s death in a car crash. Like Harry I softened the blow by imagining that Daddy would one day return. It was all too terrible to believe as truth. I created a fantasy in my mind even as I knew that he was really gone. 

The central moment in Harry’s life is the death of his mother. Everything before and everything after has affected who he is as a person. He admits that much of his memory of her death is a blur and yet critics of his book are pointing out that some of his assertions are inaccurate. They do not seem to understand, as I do, that our memories in times of great sorrow may not be the same as those of others, but they often explain our states of mind. Harry is not writing an historical tract supported by research, but rather explaining the impact of his mother’s death. He was a little boy who was expected to be stoic and dutiful at a time when his entire world had crashed around him. 

It was the end of summer vacation when Diana died. Harry was soon back at boarding school walking through a kind of fog. He seemed disinterested in his studies, mischievous in his behavior. All of it was a way of coping with the feelings that were most certainly haunting him. He became almost silly. I became withdrawn and serious when my father died. Each of us deals with death of a parent differently. All we know how to do is somehow cope or surely our loss will drive us mad. We put on a face simply to survive. 

Harry speaks of a fall break when he returns home from school and his “Pa” suggests that they travel to South Africa together. He loves his “Pa” who calls him “his darling boy” and is excited that they will have time together, just the two of them. He longs for connections and time alone to process the devastating feelings that he has. Somehow there is never time for such a thing to happen. Adults around him don’t seem to understand that he is a child who is suffering and needs help. He pushes his feelings deeper and deeper inside. 

Harry mentions that he saw sadness in his father and that he wanted his “Pa” to be happy. When Charles brought Camilla to visit with the boys Harry did his best to be nice to her even though he vaguely understood that she had been part of his parents’ breakup. Harry wanted to see his father smile and have joy in his life once again, so he understood that Camilla would become part of his family’s life. He admittedly did not want his father to marry Camilla, but he also accepted his father’s needs. 

Harry is his mother’s son in every sense of that idea. He has charisma like she did. He spurns the stodgy traditions and prefers spending time interacting with people just as Diana did. He does not want a repeat of history with his family and so, like his mother, he is honest about his feelings, his struggles, his mental health. He believes that the forced lack of emotion associated with royal duties stunted his father and ultimately destroyed his mother. When he saw the same things beginning to happen with his wife he knew that someone had to finally draw a line in the sand and address the most toxic aspects of pretense. His book is his attempt to set things right. Sadly from the reactions I am seeing, it is clear that he has been totally misunderstood by far too many.  

I admire Prince Harry for his dedication to his wife and children and his mother. I applaud his honesty and willingness to speak about difficult topics like mental health. I hope that one day his father and his brother will learn to understand and accept him and to embrace his family. I believe that he needs them and that his mother would want them to love him and protect him in ways that they denied to her. It would be wonderful if this book were to finally bring healing to the royal family. After all, at the end of the day they are just people like the rest of us and their emotions matter.

For a couple of years my husband and I lived in an apartment in Pasadena, Texas, a generally blue collar town just outside of Houston. It was a place dotted with refineries and manufacturing alongside nicely groomed neighborhoods and a multitude of churches serving it’s generally family oriented population. Much has changed since I lived there in my twenties just as I have changed from the wide-eyed innocent who grew up in a quantum leap of maturity during my short time there. 

My eldest child was only two years old when we moved into our two bedroom apartment on the first floor. Ours was a quiet community of about sixteen units creating a square that overlooked a small garden like area. I quickly learned that the young women who lived there gathered on most days to chat with each other while they watched their children play in the sunshine. Before long a sweet gal from Pennsylvania named Debbie knocked on my door to welcome me and invite me to join them in their daily gab sessions. 

I soon found myself in a group rather unlike the people with whom been friends up to that point in time. Most of these women had a rough edge brought about from life experiences that were gritty and well beyond those of my heretofore mostly insulated life. Of course I had lost my father at an early age and had begun to care for my mother after her diagnosis of mental illness, but for the most part had only interacted with people who were highly educated and often rather circumspect in their behavior and their willingness to discuss their problems. Such was not the case with my newfound acquaintances. 

These women smoked and cussed without filters. They showed up for our daily meetings in bare feet with tousled hair, totally unconcerned with pretense. They shocked me day after day with their total honesty about their lives. I learned that one of them had worked in a movie theater that showed pornographic films. She laughed about her job of cleaning the seats after an especially vivid film. I sat wide-eyed as I listened to her hilarious descriptions of the “creeps” who came ther.

I heard about the woman whose husband was physically abusing her and later witnessed one of his tirades in person. I heard stories that curled my hair and helped me to realize that the world is filled with a great deal more tragedy than I had ever imagined, but it is also a haven for survivors with determination to overcome the hardships that have befallen them. I listened to their homespun and rather incredible advice about how to live and I loved every minute of being with them, of seeing a slice of life that felt so genuine and wise.

One day we were stunned to learn that one of our members had been raped. She had left her sleeping infant for a couple of minutes to race to the laundry room in order to place her washed clothes inside a dryer. When she returned to the apartment, which she had left unlocked. a man leapt out and attacked her. The tale of her ordeal haunted all of us. We whispered about it for days urging each other to be more circumspect and observant in our comings and goings. We grieved for our friend who out of fear and trauma remained locked in her apartment until she moved without ever saying a word to us. 

The incident left a pall on our gatherings and slowly the women moved one by one to rental homes in quiet neighborhoods. While I was waiting for my lease to end I too searched for another place to live. In the meantime I visited my friends in their new abodes. Our one on one conversations became ever more revelatory as I learned more about their backgrounds and the tragedies they had overcome. They had an earthiness about them, a kind of survivor’s honesty about themselves. They were determined to take charge of their lives and to teach their children and me how not to be victims. 

I suppose what I really learned from them is the value of those who seem different from ourselves. I was certainly better educated than any of them with a background of book learning that had somehow precluded the everyday common sense that they possessed. I was in awe of their confidence and grit, but most of all of their willingness to be shockingly honest about their mistakes. It felt good to be around such transparent women who also allowed me to express my feelings and my fears without judgement. With them it was okay to be imperfect and I found my time with them to be emotionally freeing. 

One by one members of our once close group moved away like the vagabonds they had been for most of their lives. The woman from Pennsylvania moved to Dallas. The gal from New York state went to live in the tiny town of Brazoria. Another chose east Texas as her next residence. We tried to stay in touch from afar but those were the days before cell phone and computers. Our efforts soon lapsed into longer and longer periods of time between reaching out to each other. Then they stopped altogether. 

I’ve often thought of these mighty women who played such a crucial role in forming my personality. Being with them was akin to attending a kind of reverse finishing school. They taught me about the realities of life, not just how to carry myself like a lady. They showed me how to find myself just as I was, not how I thought people wanted me to be. They enlightened my beliefs and showed me a confident and open way of approaching the world. The helped me to burst from the cocoon that had sheltered me and showed me how to emerge into the world like a butterfly, happy with who I am. 

I’m not sure where any of them are right now. I often contemplate attempting to find them on the Internet but I’m not so sure what I would do if I found success in doing so. Instead I remember them with so much joy and appreciate what they unknowingly did for me. They were a great big wonderful surprise in my life and I’d like to think that in some tiny way they know how much I enjoyed my time with them.

My cousin, Paul, has died. That makes four from our baker’s dozen who have left this earth. Paul was a most delightful human being from as far back as I can remember. He was calm and happy and full of laughter. We all loved him because he seemed to be almost perfect and quite humble in his giftedness with words and human interactions. I can’t remember a single time that he got mad at any of us, or for that matter any other person. He was easy going, forgiving, understanding and compassionate in the most honest ways. We all looked up to him and felt proud to be related to him

Paul was a favorite of everyone and that seemed to be true everywhere he went. He loved his time in the Air Force and that love was reciprocated by his fellow soldiers. He was proud of serving the country and he would tell stories of his time given to our nation until his mind made him unable to voice the honor that he felt in doing his duty. He wore his Air Force ring as a sign of his devotion to freedom and democracy. 

Paul loved jokes and stories. He had a knack for delivering a punch line with precision. His tales were fascinating and revealed much about his values and the unmitigated joy that he found in the people that he encountered. That his coworkers loved him as much as we cousins did was not at all surprising. Paul was such a truly good person that it was almost impossible not to feel how truly good and special he was.

Paul was the quintessential husband and father. He loved his wife Carolyn and daughter Jan with all of his heart. He worked hard to care for them and provide them with a good life. The pride that he had for them was apparent on his face. They brought out his beautiful smile whenever he was with them or even thought of them. 

Paul was incredibly loyal to his God and his country and his family. The stories of times that he helped people are legendary. Of course, he never told us about his good deeds because he was never one to boast. We had to hear them from those who had learned from him or been better because of him. He loved deeply and that love was returned by virtually everyone who knew him.

Paul’s mother and father died when he was still rather young. My mama felt compelled to watch over Paul and to pray for him. She did not announce her intentions but she was forever requesting that I accompany her to watch Paul’s daughter perform on the ice or to attend a special occasion. She loved Paul like a son and he in turn was always so good to her.

Until Covid halted my partying I was happy that Paul and his family came to my yearly Christmas Day dinner. Everyone enjoyed having him with us, especially me. I remember how often he rolled up his sleeves to help me wash dishes after the meal. He smiled while he worked as though he had done nothing special at all, but I always appreciated his thoughtfulness.

We lost touch a bit during the pandemic but Paul was quite good about posting jokes on Facebook or telling stories that made us smile through all of the isolation. He loved to walk in the park and when he set goals for himself he met them rain or shine. I was always amazed at how many steps he took in a single day, even it that day was so hot that the rest of us were lingering in our air conditioned homes rather than enduring the heat.

I suppose that I have always had a tendency to block the idea that anyone that I love will actually die. I even thought as a child that one day my father would walk back into our house and reveal that he had not died at all. When I heard that Paul had an advanced case of dementia and that his days were numbered, I spent hours on Google hoping against hope to find out that there was an easy cure for the disease inside his brain. It was hard for me to imagine a world without him and yet when I visited him I saw that he was not the storyteller that he once was and that somehow his mind had been attacked in the most horrific of ways. Still, he managed to smile and weakly laugh during our conversation. 

I held onto that little bit of positivity thinking that at least he might be with us longer than the prognosis from his doctor predicted. I longed to keep him for just a bit more, crying for his family and for all of us cousins who loved him so. A day or so before he died I was storing Christmas decorations away when I came to a nativity set that my mother had given me. Somehow I felt her presence in my mind and it was as though she was helping me to understand that it was time for Paul to get some rest. I understood completely that he was not going to be with us much longer for the very first time. I sobbed uncontrollably as I grieved the loss of such a great man and how it would affect his wife and daughter and all of us. A day or so later I got the call that he had passed. 

Paul was truly a gift to all of us on this earth. He was a beautiful soul who seemed untouched by the darker natures of humanity. If ever there was an angel or saint on earth, it was Paul. We were lucky to know him and now he is resting and enjoying his reward in heaven. I’m happy for him. I have little doubt that he is back to telling stories and jokes and lighting up heaven with his beautiful and impish smile.

I wonder if it’s a sign of aging to become less and less interested in titles and possessions. In my younger years my goals were to earn advanced degrees for the career advances they would surely include. Now I simply like to learn for the sheer joy of increasing my knowledge and stimulating my mind. At an earlier time I dreamed of living in a big house in a coveted section of town and driving a flashy car that might turn heads as I drove along the highways. Now I find myself downsizing, giving possessions away, enjoying my Toyota Tacoma truck that continues serving me well even with almost 200,000 miles of taking me wherever I need to go. 

These days I’m most comfortable in the seven pairs of jeans that I rotate during the week. They have become faded and soft, gentle next to my skin. I pair them with t-shirts in the summer and sweaters in the winter. I mostly tread around the house in my bare feet or wearing slippers when the temperatures fall. I like wearing my hair longer because I don’t have to take as much time styling it as I did with a shorter cut. I eat the same thing for breakfast every single day and find that I care less and less about food than I once did. I am quite content to lead a rather inauspicious life. 

I worry more about how my once more profligate ways have affected the environment than what kind of impression I make on the world. I recycle and reuse much more than I once did. In some ways I have become my mother and my grandmother who spent most of their lives living far more frugally than my generation ever did. They owned a few key clothing items that they wore over and over again. Their shoes consisted of scuffed and aged work shoes and a pair of nice pumps for church and grand occasions. The tiny closets in their homes were more than sufficient for holding the few items of clothing that they owned. They even went so far as to turn threadbare dresses and blouses into squares for quilts or rags for cleaning the house. Paper towels were a silly waste in their minds. 

Now that my father-in-law is living in my home I find myself marveling at his frugality. He is prone to reuse a paper plate if it is basically clean other than holding a few dried crumbs. He dusts off the excess and sets it aside for future use. He’d rather purchase a pair of jeans that do not properly fit at a bargain price than splurging for the ones that look as though they came from a bespoke tailor. He constantly cuts corners in his budget and looks for ways to keep his spending at a reasonable level. He is one of those souls who drives his cars until the wheels fall off. He has more than enough to live more lavishly but he has no desire to do so anymore.

I am becoming more and more like my elders were. I worry about the overuse of the earth’s resources and have become utterly unimpressed when I see someone driving a Bentley in my neighborhood. I find it difficult to actually want anything other than intangibles like peace among people and nations. I see nature with a new found appreciation and feel a connectedness with creatures and the land much as my Grandma Minnie Bell once did. I enjoy meeting friends and family more than extravagant evenings on the town. I am enthralled by quiet one on one moments with the people that I love. It takes very little to make me happy these days. My once hyper competitive nature has evaporated and been replaced by contentment and a desire to leave an uncomplicated legacy of kindness for my children and grandchildren to cherish. 

I’ve certainly had some outstanding role models to follow and I suppose that their influence on who I continue to become looms large. I prefer sharing what I have to storing up possessions and riches that no longer seem to mean so much to me. I have faith that I will not be left to fend for myself like King Lear if I am generous with those who have not been as fortunate as I have always been. My grandfather left this world with nothing to pass on to his heirs but the most wonderful stories of his greatness. He was a wealth of wisdom and love and compassion for his fellow man. His gift to us was immeasurable. No amount of money or things might have compared to the richness of his example of how to live a truly meaningful life. 

Sometimes we overlook the elderly in our midst. They seem out of touch with the rest of us, relics from a time so long ago that they have become irrelevant, and yet if we observe them closely we might see answers to many of the problems that we face in the world today. They require so little to be content. They emulate the joy of innocent children as though they have finally discovered the real secrets to happiness. 

I continue learning from them, modeling myself after them. As I want less my contentment rises. As my gratitude for what I have increases I find joy in places that I never before even noticed. Life is good without all of the trappings that we so often associate with success. I find myself more and more often returning to the mantra to “Simplify, simplify, simplify.” It is such a freeing thing to do.

We humans are social creatures. We need contact with other people as much as we require food and water to stay healthy. While we vary in just how much interaction with others is ideal, no person does particularly well in total isolation. Hermits are the exception, not the rule for humankind. Without social stimulation we whither away. Our brains starve for contact with people and when there is none, it does not perform well and may even become sick. 

Relationships are an essential element of existence. As far back as history records humans have joined together with others to work together in the common goal of surviving. Unlike most herds or flocks of animals, people also develop complex feelings for those with whom they interact. While people cannot exist without supplying their physiological needs or their sense of safety, having a sense of belonging and love is possibly even more important to them. It is in finding others with whom to develop mutual relationships of caring that people increase their self esteem and find the confidence to become better versions of themselves. 

In the past three years we have all witnessed the devastating effects of isolation caused by the worldwide pandemic that upended our normal routines. Most of us personally knew people who died during the long stretch of time during Covid. Our rituals of celebrating lives together were often limited to the most immediate members of the family. Our traditional gatherings at certain times of the year were smaller and more restricted than they had once been. We simply coped with the realities of our individual situations with even the most introverted souls among us feeling lonely and off kilter. We realized just how much we longed for hugs and seeing smiles instead of having to interpret how people were feeling behind masks that covered their faces.

The recent holiday season brought most of us back together again with great joy and celebration, but for some the rollicking times were reminders of people they had lost. Our outpouring of joy was a double edged sword for the lonely and forgotten souls, those not quite able or ready to join in the crowds. There is still much sadness in our midst that we sometimes forget to address. We seek happiness and often turn away from people or situations that remind us that for some among us all is still not well. it is important that we do not forget them no matter how difficult it may be to see their suffering. 

My friend Shirley had a stroke before Covid was even a word in our lexicon. She had been a delightfully talkative soul who brought smiles wherever she went. She loved to cook and she was quite good at creating delicious recipes and entertaining friends and family. The stroke left her unable to talk or move around on her own. The pandemic only emphasized the loneliness that she must have felt after losing her wonderful abilities to socialize. I suspect that had it not been for her daughter Chrystal’s unending devotion to visiting her on an almost daily basis she might have lost her mind or even or will to live. Instead Chrystal brought her so much joy with milkshakes, stuffed animals, movies, and even goofy hats that created an almost imperceptible glimmer to Shirley’s eyes.

Last weekend I spent over four hours with a group of very special friends who are more like sisters to me than mere acquaintances. We sat around a table under blue skies and balmy weather eating and drinking and telling our stories. We enjoyed a mix of emotions from tears to laughter. We opened our hearts to each other without feeling that we needed any filters to protect us what we might say or hear. We hugged and held hands  exchanging our devotion to each other. It was therapy for the soul, an infusion of emotional antibodies that chased away any doldrums that we might have been feeling. Each of us walked away stronger and more confident then might otherwise have been the case. Such is the power of loving relationships. 

We will get busy in the coming days and weeks. We may think that it’s time to concentrate on work and getting back to normal routines, but in the process we would do well to make connections with the people around us on a daily basis. Talk with the clerk in a store. Take the time to ask how your colleagues at work are feeling and allow them to understand that you really care. Step across the street to visit with your neighbor. Take time to smile at the people you meet. Contact someone who has been silent to make sure that all is well with them. Write or speak the words that tell someone how much you mean to them. Make those connections. Open your heart with gratitude and gladness. 

There is too much anger and war in the world today. It is making us anxious and sick. If we are to heal the way we should it will be in the quiet moments with our friends that peace begins.