NOTE: At the time I wrote the book, It’s Not a Life Sentence, my chief interest was in helping readers become their own authentic selves and experience the comfort and sense of fulfillment that springs from a life in touch with one’s core.  However, like everyone else, I’ve evolved and find myself increasingly concerned with political affairs, which at every level impact how free we all are to pursue dreams and live authentic lives.  In this piece, I share some thoughts on the amazing Egyptian uprising of the past few days.

Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of revolutions.  They’re violent and messy and, even if  “successful,” often lead to something worse than the regime they topple.  That having been said, I’ve watched events in Egypt with a mixture of dread and admiration.

Dread, not only because of the ever-present danger of massive bloodshed, but also because, while it’s clear regime change has been needed for a very long time, the future direction of Egypt and the entire Middle East is unpredictable.

Admiration because of the grass roots nature of the movement, the amazing restraint of both protesters and armed forces, and, yes, because after the revolution, the revolutionaries again took to the streets to clean up after themselves.  How often do you see that?

While human rights activists say the number of deaths is undoubtedly higher than the 300 reported (perhaps by as much as 2 or 3 times), 300 is an infinitesimal number when viewed against the number of participants which observers put at well above a million.

This is not to say those deaths don’t matter.  Of course, they do. Every one of those deaths impacted moms and dads, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.  Sometimes I think we forget that when we look at numbers dead.

From a statistical perspective, however, it’s instructive to compare that number with the likely deaths by murder in the U.S. over a typical period of 18 days.  In 2009, the last year for which complete crime statistics are available, an average of 41 people were murdered on a normal day in the U.S.  In other words, over an average 18-day period, 738 deaths by homicide could be expected.

All of this raises many questions for our country, but for Egypt the most pressing one remains: Will those who risked so much now be able to create a government responsive to the needs and will of the Egyptian people?

Clearly, the people came to realize that what they were living was not a life sentence.  We can all learn from them.

At the time I wrote the book, It’s Not a Life Sentence, my chief interest was in helping readers become their own authentic selves and experience the comfort and sense of fulfillment that springs from a life in touch with one’s core.  However, like so many of my readers, I have evolved and find myself increasingly concerned with public life, especially the irresponsible course of our government: increasing debt, endless military action, reductions in programs supporting our social safety net, protectionism for the wealthy and large corporations.  The list goes on and on.  All of this ultimately affects whether individuals are free to pursue their dreams—and to live authentic lives.  Occasionally, as I do below, I’ll share my thoughts on the direction our politics are taking us.

When I wrote the book It’s Not a Life Sentence, my chief concern was helping readers find their own authentic selves in the whirlwind of lives so often focused on meeting the demands of others.  The individual was at the center of my work, although having majored in political science as an undergrad, I’ve always been interested in public life as well.  Rarely, however, had I considered how one’s place in the body politic impacts one’s private view of what is possible.

In the maelstrom of the past 10 years, however, my vantage point has shifted.  I’ve become increasingly aware of how easily many fall prey to the manipulations of those in the spotlight—politicians, bureaucrats, and opinion makers of all stripes.   The only thing that disturbs me more than the many falsehoods that masquerade as facts are the numbers of people who choose to believe them.  It’s disturbing not only because of the level of ignorance it reveals on the part of the believers, but because those believers cast ballots that impact us all.

Once, I assumed the misled simply couldn’t be bothered to question, to demand evidence in support of opinions, and to seek alternatives.  I found it astonishing that the points of view they supported often contravened their own self-interest.

While I continue to believe that lack of information and a shallow understanding of history, government, and politics are factors, I believe the root of the problem goes deeper. Underlying the slavish support is a sense of powerl

essness, a belief that, where government is involved, it is a life sentence and the individual is helpless in the face of it.  People who feel powerless are dangerous, gullible prey for those with easy answers.

But it’s not a life sentence and we can impact the direction of our national life.

With powerful, moneyed interests gaining ever more influence across the political spectrum, it’s up to all of us to arm ourselves with facts, make reasoned decisions about what will best serve the greatest number, and speak out, both with words and ballots, if we want to leave a just and decent world to our kids.  They’re counting on us.

More later . . .

Consider this:

“This is America, where a white Catholic male Republican judge was murdered on his way to greet a Democratic Jewish woman member of Congress, who was his friend. Her life was saved initially by a 20-year old Mexican-American gay college student, and eventually by a Korean-American combat surgeon, all eulogized by our African American President.”

–Mark Shields, PBS commentator

An expanded version of the above statement may be found in Mr. Shields’ recent column “Please Tell Me Why” at creators.com.

A few years ago, an unknown American climber, separated from his party, stumbled down the heights of Pakistan’s K2 and into the arms of rescuers from the tiny village of Korphe.  After regaining strength, this climber walked about the village one day and came upon a group of school children, squatting in the dirt where they scratched out their lessons with sticks.  Thus was sparked a most productive accidental passion.

The climber, of course, was Greg Mortenson, author of the best-seller Three Cups of Tea and, more recently, Stones Into Schools.  Those books recount the unlikely story of how this chance encounter led to the creation of a string of schools, most especially schools for girls, in the remote and impoverished reaches of Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Mortenson has been quoted as saying, “When your heart speaks, take good notes.”  And take good notes, he did.  Touched by the kindness of the Pakistanis who saved him and by the lack of opportunity for their children, Mortenson set out to give back.  Since the mid-nineties he and his non-profit Central Asia Institute have built more than 140 schools in some of the most inaccessible reaches of the planet.

Accidental passions.  I don’t know that any studies of this phenomenon—the triggering of a life’s work by some fortuitous encounter—have been done.  However, when it happens, the outcomes are often amazing.  The results may reach far beyond any imagining—and touch people in unexpected ways.  Having read Mortenson’s first book, I was eager to hear him speak when he appeared in San Diego.

Here, he received rock star treatment in a packed house—the auditorium of a metropolitan mega-church.   In an age where so much media attention is on out-of-control entertainers, disgraced politicians, and bizarre episodes of “reality” TV, none of which enhances our lives, it was inspiring to see such homage paid to a humble man who has done so much to improve the lives of forgotten people.

It’s easy to be discouraged these days about the course of affairs both at home and abroad, and there will be few Greg Mortensons who find such a profound, consuming calling in a place where their deep passions meet the world’s deep need.  But when this happens, it lifts us all.

Books can transport you not only to another place, but to another time.  Lately, I’ve been reading Gail Collins’ recent work, When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to the Present.

I find it a bit of a jolt.  How quickly we come to take for granted the enormous opportunities women now have, opportunities that, in the very near past, were easily denied.  The book has reminded me why I was such a rebel in my youth.  I saw no reason for the barriers that made it so difficult for us to become lawyers, doctors, TV news anchors, legislators, athletes—or, for that matter, Secretary of State or Justices of the Supreme Court.

As a young woman, I worked on a small daily newspaper where I covered the police beat, took pictures of conflagrations, interviewed local officials, and edited stories coming in off the wire.   After a couple of years, one of the senior editors told me I could probably land a job on the Chicago Tribune.  “But they wouldn’t let you work on anything except the society pages, of course,” he pointed out matter-of-factly.

Of course? And that would be . . .why?

Reading When Everything Changed, I realized anew how true it is that  “it’s” not a life sentence.  Whether we’re talking about the sentences we impose on ourselves or those society attempts to impose upon us, nothing—almost nothing, anyway—has to be forever.  Go up, young woman, go up!

Occasionally, I take a break to gaze out the window onto the large open field that abuts my property.  For years, the only movement involved rambling coyotes or rabbits or an occasional stray dog.  Now, however, I see humans.  Men and machine rearrange the terrain, dig trenches, and cover new slopes with erosion stopping fabric.

I often think about the difference between my process and theirs.  They dig a trench, lay pipe, hook one end to water line and the other end to faucet.  Voila! Running water!  The relationship between what they do and the results they get is clear.

Much as I delight in what I can do with iMovie, I don’t comprehend it the way those guys understand their work.  There’s not the same visceral connection between me and my results.  iMovie is . . .as I said . . .magical.

And sometimes I wonder: Do the proliferating devices that can whisk us away from present time and place unravel our connection to the planet and untether us from the physical world where “real life” is lived?  Sometimes I think so.

Recently I’ve discovered, quite unexpectedly, the satisfaction to be found in pulling weeds, nurturing geraniums, and seeing (eventually) plants begin to thrive.   I pull weeds, I fertilize, I water.  I get blooms!  Yay!  Like the construction workers, I see the connection between what I do and the results I get.   And it feels pretty good!  I wonder if we all need more of that.

Recently, The New York Times ran a piece entitled “Does Your Language Shape How You Think?”  The article was written by Guy Deutscher, a very interesting Guy, it turns out, who has researched and thought long and hard about . . .thinking.  And about the relationship between that and the language with which we express ourselves.

A linguist, Deutscher earned a Ph.D. at England’s Cambridge University and is now an honorary research fellow at the University of Manchester.   His latest book is Through the Looking Class: Why the World Looks Different in Other Languages.

He points out there are striking flaws in some old linguistic assumptions about the power of language to limit what we’re able to think and theorizes that language, instead, determines not what we’re allowed to think, but what we must think about in order to be understood by others.

One of his most thought-provoking examples involves the manner in which we identify the location of things around us.  An English speaker (and I would guess this is true of the vast majority of modern speakers, no matter the tongue) uses what Deutscher calls “egocentric coordinates”—right, left, in front of, behind, for instance.  We customarily use these not only to give someone directions (“turn left at the stoplight”), but to convey other information: “There’s a bee on your right arm,” for instance.

This egocentric manner of expression works, Deutscher says, because (to us) it feels so natural, so easy.  However, some time ago researchers discovered an aboriginal language (Guugu Yimithirr) spoken by a remote Australian tribe whose members use only geographical coordinates (east, west, north south) to designate location.  Here, you would be told not only to turn west at a designated point, you would be warned, “There’s a bee on your north hand” or “Watch out for the water on the floor on the south side of the table.”

It turns out that there are a number of languages similarly structured scattered about the globe.  Obviously, from a very young age, one who speaks in such a tongue would develop what would seem to us to be an uncanny sense of where she is in relationship to the universe.  She must, in order to communicate with those around her.  As she masters her language, she also develops the ability to pick up subtle environmental clues that those of us who use egocentric directions generally ignore.

I wonder what difference that awareness would make in the way we think not of the world, but of ourselves.  Hmmm.

My firstborn was a toddler romping happily with his cousins while the grown-ups enjoyed an after-dinner chat around the kitchen table.  Our conversation came to a halt, however, when my little offspring, squeezing into our space, misjudged his wiggle room and banged his head on a doorknob.  The damage was minimal but his misfortune elicited a collective “Awwww” from the solicitous adults.

Kevin, of course, burst into tears.  Comforting was required.  Recovered, he went on his way only to return a short time later to make the same mistake.  This time, however, we were ready for him.  We laughed spontaneously.  Shocked by our amusement, the hapless child froze for an instant, then joined us in our mirth.

Most parents know instinctively that infants and young children are profoundly affected by how we—parents and other adults—respond to life’s events.  Kids take their clues from us.

As adults, however, we like to think we form our own opinions, make our own decisions, and act accordingly.  But there are minefields.

A couple of years ago, I fell off a stepladder, broke my leg, and had surgery to repair the damage.  Arising in the hospital a couple of nights later, I fell and broke my wrist.  All right, that was all pretty extreme, but it didn’t render me incompetent or even, in the long run, noticeably damaged, though I was quite a sight for a couple of months.

Ever since then, however, I’ve noticed a shift in the way some people who know of this klutzy history treat me.  Take my hairdresser, for instance.  For something like 15 years, I’ve climbed in and out of her chair without incident.  Now, every time I approach her station, she admonishes, “Watch your step” as I climb into her chair.

Maybe she’s just concerned about her liability rates, but after awhile I realized what I was telling myself was “Wow, she must really think I’m getting old and decrepit—and inattentive, to boot.”   And then, of course, I wondered . . . “Am I getting old and decrepit—and inattentive to boot?”

I could have taken that in and begun to believe it, and I’m afraid that happens to many people as they age.  But I’m forming my own opinion.

The English word has taken on many other meanings, of course, the most prevalent being in the educational arena, where it can refer to a entire contingent of students in the same grade level or a group of students studying a particular subject together or, even more specifically, a period of time during which the latter group meets.

Dictionary.com, in fact, lists no fewer than 25 definitions of class as a noun, one as an adjective (as in “He’s a class act), and three as verbs.

The definition that seems most closely related to the origins of the word, however, is this (from the aforementioned Dictionarycom): “a social stratum sharing basic economic, political, or cultural characteristics, and having the same social position.”

Here’s what bothers me about the way the word used is so frequently today, especially by those in the news business:  When speaking of matters financial, they frequently use the term “upper income,” but in the same segment refer to those not in high income brackets as middle and working class.

It took me awhile to figure out why this offended me, and the bottom line is this: The word income is straightforward with little in the way of either positive or negative connotation; income simply is. Class, on the other hand, is fraught with secondary meanings and, used in contrast with “upper income” implies an inferior status, not only in income, but in social stature, accomplishment, personal and professional worth.

The speaker may not intend to convey that meaning, but that’s what comes through.  Anybody listening?

A few years ago I took a whirlwind trip to Italy with my son and three of our friends.  It was “whirlwind” of necessity.  We all had commitments that narrowed our options to one week in August when we were free to travel together.  At the end of that time, we scattered in three directions—my son to London, our friends to Sicily, and I (feeling somewhat martyred) back to work in the States.

After I returned to the office, a colleague asked, “Well, how was it?  What was the highlight of your trip?”  The question was unexpected, and I had to think.  The coliseum?  Michelangelo’s David?  Pisa’s Leaning Tower?

All fascinating.  All famous.  All historic.  All . . .everything a tourist might expect.  But no.  The highlight was none of those.

Finally, I confessed . . “You want to know the truth?  The most memorable experience was helping Kevin do his laundry in a Venetian laundromat.”

I went on to describe the experience: emptying my suitcase to fill it with my son’s dirty clothes,  trudging along the rough stone walks in hundred-degree heat, struggling together to decipher the laundromat’s posted instructions until we were joined by a helpful American experienced in such matters, chatting with a middle-aged Chinese student and sharing a laugh when he pointed at Kevin, now explaining the machines to another new arrival and said, “Aha! Look! Now he the teacher!”

As I described the day to my friend, I realized it wasn’t what we did—or even where we did it—that made that memory special.  It was simply doing it together.

Now, research is showing that experiences make people happier than things.  The reason for this?  Well, according to researchers, a major factor is that the happiness provided by experiences lasts longer simply because we can reminisce about them.

When we think about how to use our financial resources, it’s often tempting to think, “I’d love to take a weekend away, but instead I really should spend the money I’d use on a new computer (or TV or couch or . . .you name it).  That’ll last a lot longer than a weekend in the city.”  Au contraire! Your memories of a weekend in the city can last a lifetime.  What’s the lifespan of a computer these days?