The century tree and the blooming Bush

At the University of Michigan, a remarkable 80-year-old American agave plant –a so-called “century plant”—bloomed for the first and last time this summer. It sent up a 26-foot-tall shoot, and workers removed a glass panel from the conservatory’s roof so the aging anomaly would have room to unfurl its many flowers. Century plants were long-rumored to bloom only once every 100 years, but botanists now understand this is hyperbole; most bloom after only 10-30 years. But all perish after their last glorious hurrah. It is as if they have given every bit of themselves to produce something stunning.

News of the Ann Arbor agave reminded me of the soundtrack that played constantly while I worked on my first master’s degree: The work of a talented, quirky Louisianan named Victoria Williams. Williams’ high-pitched vibrato makes her an unlikely star, but her songwriting chops more than compensate for her unusual voice quality. You can find her name on several lists of the best living American songwriters, along with legends like Dylan, Mitchell and Springsteen. Her poignancy nests in stories of the commonplace lives of average folks who turn out to be remarkable in their sagacity.

When Williams croons, shouts and whispers on the track of “Century Tree”, it is as though we have been let in on a precious secret. She starts off singing about the century plant outside her house, but then deftly shifts gears: We never know when we will bloom. She urges us, “Hey, do you want to come out and play the game? It’s never too late.” Williams ends with the story of a man who rediscovers joy after the unexpected heartbreak of his wife leaving him: “Now he brings roses to his sweetheart/she lives most everywhere/ He sees someone suffering/he knows that despair/He offers them a rose/and some quiet prose/ ‘bout dancin’ in a shimmering ballroom/’Cause you never know when it will bloom.” It’s not just about our untapped potential and unspoken reveries; it is the acknowledgment that we just don’t know when we will send up our own spectacular signal.

It was in the midst of my rediscovery of Williams’ work that I learned that another early musical hero of mine, Kate Bush,  shocked fans and music critics by announcing a series of concerts at London’s Hammersmith Apollo. She hasn’t toured since 1979. Over 35 years have passed since she shot to fame in Britain as a 19-year-old with her single, “Wuthering Heights”—yes, a musical take on Emily Brontë’s classic. (Only in the U.K. could the bleak tale of Heathcliff and Cathy become a smash hit. It’s hard not to feel like they really are more erudite on the other side of the pond.)

Bush’s recording company had wanted her to release a more pop-friendly tune as her inaugural effort. But she dug in her heels and insisted on “Wuthering Heights”, which climbed to #1 in the U.K. Her musical savvy and artistic sensibilities have continued to serve her well: She is the only U.K. female recording artist to have had a top 5 album in five consecutive decades. And she did so with an atypical piercing soprano vocal quality, videos full of interesting interpretive modern dance moves, and complex lyrics that referenced James Joyce and Tennyson.

She was decidedly not your average pop star. I remember being overjoyed when she toppled Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” from the U.K. chart’s top spot. Art triumphed over artifice for at least a few weeks.

But there has always been that lingering question about her refusal to give concerts or go on tour. Her first and –up until now—last concert series, “The Tour of Life” was a six-week tour de force in the spring of 1979, full of complicated sets, lush dance and lighting sequences, and 17 costume changes. As the years slipped by, she was often referred to as “reclusive” or “withdrawn”. Some of the British press even dubbed her “Miss Havisham”—the withdrawn spinster of Charles Dickens’ “Great Expectations”. Others pronounced her a total perfectionist who was afraid to make a mistake.

The truth is a lot less scandalous and salacious: Life intervened and she had to piece together bits of time she could commit to her performance art. The death of her beloved mother, the birth of her son, and the death of a close friend and fellow musician all took their emotional toll. And the sheer amount of time and energy required to raise her son without requisite nannies meant she could not be as artistically productive. Reclusive? Not really; she was fully engaged in the present and the greater world, and yet she doggedly continued to craft her art.

Her fans, especially her stalwart British ones, did not expect that after more than three decades she would launch a tour. Joyous admirers sold out the 22 shows in just 15 minutes.  At the opening night last Tuesday, according to the New York Times, fans sat stone silent during the music, only to leap to their feet applauding at every brief opportunity.  Eleven of her albums are set to break the U.K. top 100 simultaneously.

We never know when we will bloom.



The Persistence of Memory?

The Volkswagen bus from my childhood was cute, full of charm, and wholly unreliable. We broke down in that top-heavy tin can constantly. Often we’d arrive at our destination without incident, but when we attempted to return home, we’d find the van maddeningly unresponsive.  My folks deduced—I’m still not exactly sure how— that it was a fuel line problem. Since this was pre-internet and before the Car Talk guys, it’s unclear how they determined that shaking the van vigorously from side to side would dislodge whatever was gumming up the fuel line or pump.

We shook that blasted van all over the county and beyond. Sometimes we were alone in our absurd misery; sometimes we had unfortunate relatives along for the ride.  Once we even broke down on the way to school. I was mortified when we had to file out and assume the “shimmy” position.  I recall the faces of the children on the bus as they peered out to gawk at our bizarre ritual. Or do I?

Memory is a tricky business.

French writer Marcel Proust—who published his grand seven part novel “Remembrance of Things Past” between 1913-1927—wrote prodigiously on the theme of involuntary memory. One of the most enduring references in his masterpiece is the “madeleine” scene in which a taste of a tiny shell-shaped madeleine cake triggers a powerful flashback. Throughout the novel, the narrator’s sensory experiences—sights, sounds, smells— provoke powerful memories and references to earlier episodes in his life.  He uses these recollections to make sense of the present. But new science indicates that the present may also alter those memories that Proust believed indelible.

For a century the concept of memory consolidation held sway. The overarching narrative about memory, according to Stephen Hall, writing in “MIT Technology Review”, was that “it was an unchanging neural trace of an earlier event, fixed in long-term storage.”  Upon retrieving a memory, the theory went, you essentially brought forth an enduring, immutable narrative of an earlier event. But, it turns out, memory is not unassailable.

Neuroscientist Daniela Schiller—based at Mount Sinai School of Medicine in New York—has been at the forefront of an extraordinary reassessment of the intricacies and operations of human memory. Schiller’s work—in conjunction with an ever-increasing body of evidence from like-minded researchers—appears to indicate that we can actually modify the emotional impact of memory by combining new information to it or remembering it in an altered context. The implications of this are startling. If memories are in fact much less permanent and more malleable than we think, it suggests there may be methods to address post-traumatic stress disorder or other fear-based anxiety disorders—and perhaps even addiction—that do not rely on pharmacological agents.

Schiller arrived at New York University from Israel to study under Joe LeDoux. Her arrival coincided with important research by Karim Nader, a postdoc student in LeDoux’s lab. Nader discovered that rats, who had previously undergone fear training through electroshocks, forgot their fear associations when they were injected with a drug that blocked protein synthesis in the amygdala—the part of the brain believed to store fear memories. The timing of the injections was critical; the blocker had to be implanted during memory retrieval and reformation. Nader’s experiment revealed that some aspects of our memories are actually “neurally rewritten” each time they are retrieved.

Schiller built on Nader’s work and not only proved that this same memory reconsolidation occurs in humans, but also showed that memories could be altered without drug interventions. In her experiments, subjects viewed a blue square on a computer screen and then were given a mild shock. Once there was an association between the shock and the blue square, the fear memory was established. The following day, Schiller repeated the sequence that created the fear memory but showed the blue square without administering a shock. As long as it was in a narrow window of time, the fear association was broken.  Hall explains the significance: “[I]ntervening during the brief window when the brain was rewriting its memory offered a chance to revise the initial memory itself while diminishing the emotion (fear) that came with it.” The therapeutic implications of this are enormous, but no less significant are the cultural and personal repercussions.

Although Proust tapped into the powerful emotive aspect of retrieved memory, he—like so many other writers and researchers across time and space—misunderstood that these memories are actually rewritten each time we retrieve them. We incorporate into our memories new information that shapes the way we think. Explains Schiller, “My conclusion is that memory is what you are now. Not in pictures, not in recordings. Your memory is who you are now.” In other words,   our retrieved memories do not function as a file, describing dispassionately who we were then. Rather, oft-recalled memories explain why we are who we are today, resembling our current ideas more each time they are recalled.

My memories of our old VW van, then, are not absolutely accurate snapshots of being stranded on the side of the road, but instead, are a combination of emotions, ideas and reflections on those events and similar ones. As I recall those absurd episodes of the familial van vibrations, I fold into my own recollections my parents’ and siblings’ memories and  the emotions I associate with each. In this way, our individual memories become collective memories, and instead of tying us to a particular moment in time, they connect us to history and community.

Lasting rites

I recently rediscovered “Finding Nemo”. We’ve had an unusually sad stretch of news lately: roiling conflict and bloodshed in Gaza, wholly unnecessary civil war in Ukraine, yet another killing of an unarmed African-American teen, and the heartrending death of one of my favorite comedic actors.   I don’t generally turn away from difficult political and psychological events, but I finally cried “Uncle!”and introduced my kids to a plucky clownfish and his hilarious blue tang sidekick. Days later, I am still chuckling at Ellen Degeneres’ voiceover and her attempt at “speaking whale.” I find myself amazed that a Pixar film has prompted me to contemplate rites of passage.

When young Nemo is snatched from the ocean and brought to live in the tropical fish tank of a Sydney-based dentist, he’s thrown in with fish from a variety of pet stores and one mysterious Moorish idol fish from the “Big Blue” named Gill. Gill, the elder of the group, understands that to  unify  these disparate fish, they must all go through an initiation rite. It involves swimming to the top of “Mt. Wannahockaloogie” and then passing through an intense bubble storm caused by the filter, which they have dubbed “The Ring of Fire”.  It is not dangerous, but it appears so. Nemo, delightfully proud of his accomplishment, is welcomed into the “bonds of tankhood”.  Nemo’s disposition changes dramatically when he is received into the supportive group.

We all want to feel a sense of belonging and fellowship. Positive rites of passage and initiation can provide our children and teens with a means to center themselves in a world fraught with the perils of uncertainty and disconnection.

A dear friend recently decided to send her adolescent son to the group of camps in central Vermont where we’d both worked 20 years ago. It is a remarkable organization and one’s whose mission I still completely embrace and support. But, as is true with any multi-week residential summer camp, it is not cheap.  Amid much anxiety, she signed him up before she and her husband had any idea how they would pay for it. She told me, “I realized this was more important in his development than wherever he’ll go to college.” She thought about his being on the cusp of adulthood and sensed that this was an absolutely critical summer for him; he needed meaningful rituals to both ease his transition into adulthood and help him embrace his wonderful qualities. She took a leap of faith and was able to do a work exchange to offset the cost of the camp. I saw them both at the end of his camp session; she’d made the right decision.

At this particular camp, each boy receives a special name at a ceremonial gathering of the entire camp. It is done at night in the firelight’s glow and many members of the camp community take turns speaking publicly about each boy’s special qualities. The rite is both deliberate and spontaneous. The staff and senior campers meet before the ceremony to discuss each boy and his unique personality traits. At the naming ceremony they then invite the younger boys in the group to add their reflections on what their friend contributes to the community. Although to an outsider it might seem hokey and contrived at times, it is not received this way by the adolescent boys. It is a sacred time imbued with meaning and tenderness. My male friends who attended this camp as boys (or worked there as adults) are still hailed by their camp name—decades later—by former campers and staff members. They never forget the time when the camp community held them up as absolutely special and critical to the group.

Arnold van Gennep—French ethnographer and folklorist—is often credited with articulating the importance of rites of passage ceremonies.  His seminal work, “Les rites de passage”, published in 1909 was highly influential among Western anthropologists. But, let’s face it: Cultures around the globe have understood the importance of ritual and rites of passage for thousands of years. We have our own humdrum examples—graduation, earning your driver’s license among them. And certainly religious traditions have their own weightier ones: Bar and Bat Mitzvah, Confirmation, etc. But there are so many youth in our communities who do not partake in any positive, meaningful rites of passage. We must do a better job of intentionally tethering them to something larger than themselves.  Creating powerful rites of passage won’t solve all society’s ills, but it would guide many young people towards a clearer path to finding themselves.

Twenty summers ago, a colleague gave me a walking stick that he’d made for me. We were wilderness trip leaders together, and at the end of the summer, as part of an appreciation ceremony, he gave me this carefully crafted stick—ornamented with beautiful thread, strips of leather, and feathers—and told me what he appreciated about me. I have moved it over 15 times from home to home; I wouldn’t dream of tossing it out. When I see that stick, especially when I am gripped by doubt, I remember his belief in me and what he told me I contribute to the world.

Several months after he lovingly and purposefully fashioned this gift for me, he died in a fire that had been deliberately set. Of course, that stick means even more to me now than it did on the night he spoke of why he appreciated me. It was a rite of passage at its best, becoming more meaningful as the years pass:  connecting me to him, to my younger self, to my community, and to the very best parts of me.

Meditating over the wood pile

I know I should meditate more. My life is busy, harried sometimes, and quieting my mind would be a great idea. In a town like this, I am reminded of my meditation shortcomings all the time. I can sign up for Mindful Parenting workshops, every imagined style of yoga, breath work, and Buddhist meditation. I make promise after promise: I will meditate 5 minutes a day at the beginning and end of each day, sitting on the floor with a candle. Okay, instead: I will meditate 2 minutes each morning and evening while resting on the couch. And then, finally: I will pour myself a cup of good strong coffee at dawn and think about how darn good it is. Success!

New England singer/songwriter Cheryl Wheeler has a song that captures how many of us feel when we make these promises and don’t follow through: “I should learn how to meditate and sew and bake and dance and paint and sail and make gazpacho/I should turn my attention to repairing all those forty year old socks there in that bureau.” After a huge litany of all the things she “should” do, including chanting “in impossible positions till my legs appear to not have any bones,” Wheeler finishes with an exasperated, “I’m unworthy!” I have felt like that, certainly, and still do in moments, but a friend at Brattlemasters (our town’s Toastmasters meeting) turned me on to the work of positive psychology researcher Mihály Csíkszentmihályi and his book “Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience”. I may still be unworthy, but now I don’t feel so bad about that.

Csíkszentmihályi—professor of psychology at Claremont Graduate University—asserts that “flow” is a mental state that occurs when a person is fully immersed in a task or activity. When you are so consumed by an activity, you may feel an energized focus, happiness, and calm as you become fully involved in the process of that activity. Flow is that mental “zone” you enter when you are completely absorbed in a particular task and feel contentment, even elation, from the process.

His interest in “flow” began when he pondered the state of complete absorption that artists sometimes experience: “getting lost” in their work.  Contemporary accounts suggest that Renaissance artist Michelangelo became so engrossed in his work on his masterpiece—the Sistine Chapel—that he often went for days without meeting his basic needs. Despite lying on his back in an uncomfortable position on scaffolding, he was tremendously productive and creative. Csíkszentmihályi suspects that Michelangelo experienced flow, and this may have contributed to the artist’s prodigious productivity.

Steven Kotler—in a February 2014 “Psychology Today” article, “Flow States and Creativity”—highlights research indicating that the positive effects of “flow” are felt even after the flow state is over. Theresa Amabile—professor at Harvard Business School—has documented that people experience greater creativity the day after they’ve been in a flow state. There may be biological reasons for this. During a flow state, the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex—that part of the brain that monitors impulse control and works as our inner critic—goes into radio silence. When this area is deactivated, we lose self-doubt and gain more courage. Kotler asserts this augments “our ability to imagine new possibilities and share those possibilities with the world.”

I am relieved that I can gain a feeling of calm and confidence by entering a flow state because it feels like there’s little time to meditate when three cords of wood in my backyard  demand stacking. As the logs rest yet another day in their haphazard repose, I know their little bark jackets molder as they start their slouch towards decay. And I imagine the grass beneath gasping for breath as the sun is choked out and crickets take up residence. Time to get to work.

Two sayings prod me in my work: The Zen proverb: “Before enlightenment: chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment: chop wood, carry water.” And the classic advice to wood stackers across this land: “Leave space enough for a mouse to get through but not the cat chasing it.”

I grouse about the mountain of logs. I bemoan how long it takes to make demonstrable progress. But really, I love that I must stack it. I cherish the time spent in the flow, finding just the right pieces for the end caps to hold the stacks in place and fitting the hodgepodge of sizes and shapes into a coherent, stable whole. The task at hand forces out other thoughts and I must dedicate my attention to not dropping logs on my foot, not smashing fingers between logs, and to trusting that I am making progress—despite the enormous pile still taunting me.

My daughter has no problem finding her flow space. All I need to do is flip over the logs at the bottom of the pile and she is immediately, totally immersed in exploration and discovery. Crickets, spiders, worms, ants, beetles, centipedes and unidentifiable bugs and blobs—she adores them all. As I hauled wood to the pallets the other day, her cries of indignation and disappointment bounced over the swing set. She called to her brother, “Hey! You didn’t even say how beautiful this larva is!”

If only we all could see loveliness in larvae. I certainly would be happier and more contented for it.

Stigma’s wrath

When I first heard of the unexpected death of popular Vermont Law School Professor Cheryl Hanna, the pieces just didn’t fit. She was 48, healthy, and she died at home. There was that remote chance that she had had a sudden brain aneurysm or heart attack, but my intuition told me she’d taken her own life. When her husband told reporters that she’d been struggling through a severe bout of depression recently, the truth came into focus. My heart has been heavy for days.

My spouse and several of my close friends attended Vermont Law School where Hanna taught—one of the many jobs she juggled: commentator and contributor on both WCAX and VPR, lawyer, writer, mentor, and mom.  I’d met Hanna, sat in on her class a few times, and even appeared in a short video that some friends produced for an assignment for her class. Hanna liked to keep things fun and interesting and was not above showing scenes from “My Cousin Vinnie” in order to demonstrate how to qualify an expert witness. As so many who knew her mourn her death, even more—including those who never met her—wonder why it had to come to this.

Her close friend, Ellen Sklar, told a reporter, “She was more full of life than anyone I’ve ever know.” And yet Hanna’s husband, Paul Henninge, explained that Hanna “went to a dark place so quickly. For Cheryl, she began to loop. And when you loop in a dark place, you lose your ability to see outside of this dark place.” I am in my own loop—perseverating over what might have helped her let in some light.

She was a very talented woman, a popular teacher and someone with the means to get help. She also had so very much to live for; she left behind her 11-year old daughter and 8-year old son. The thought that terrifies me is: If depression can swallow her whole—someone with so many gifts and resources—how is anyone safe from its ravages?  She hid it so well from her students, her colleagues and her public. Henninge described Hanna’s facility with concealment:  “When she had her public face, she put on the face she wanted the public to see.”

How many people in your life—friends, family, neighbors, colleagues—do this same thing? Perhaps you yourself are among the one-in-four Vermonters doing this exhausting dance with mental illness and trying to “pass” because the public can seem so very unforgiving.

We have got to start talking more honestly about mental illness. Now.

For those who have not suffered it, that kind of anguish is almost unfathomable. In quiet moments this week I have cried for Hanna, for her husband and her children. I can’t help but wonder if the stigma of mental illness was a barrier to true healing for Hanna. Her husband said she did seek treatment in the past few months, but it seems clear she felt limited as a well-known public figure in Vermont’s legal world and media.  We live in such a small state where everyone knows each other and the gossip mill is fast and furious. Where could she turn and feel safe in anonymity?

The other night, while mulling over the horrible news about Cheryl Hanna, I unexpectedly picked up an interview with award-winning actress Glenn Close done by Jian Ghomeshi on The Best of Q, a radio program on cbcradio. Close held me in rapt attention as she discussed how and why she speaks out against the societal stigma of mental illness. She shared with Ghomeshi her own family’s experience with mental illness and addiction, and explained that she saw an important role for herself in changing the conversation. She says of her anti-stigma campaign, Bring Change 2 Mind, “I thought as a public figure I can help focus on the issue.” Close continued, “Because everybody has been so reluctant, ashamed, fearful about talking about it openly, there has been no conversation…If we talk about it enough, it will become natural.” It is part of the human experience—and all too frequent to be called anomaly.

Close donated her time and talent to narrate a free downloadable documentary of mental illness called “A New State of Mind: Ending the Stigma of Mental Illness”, created by KVIE—Sacramento’s public television station. What struck me as I listened to her talk about her work was this: If open, groovy California can’t even talk about this stuff, then surely we are doomed here in the taciturn, reserved Northeast. But the Brattleboro Retreat’s “Stand up to Stigma” campaign is a strong start. We can all do much better in talking about mental illness.

What might have happened if Hanna had felt able to talk openly and honestly about her struggles? What if she hadn’t felt some obligation to be “perfect” for her colleagues, students, friends, and family? I’m certain her circle of support did everything they could to help—as much as she would give them admission to her hell. We all need to accept that highly-accomplished, loving, lovely and powerfully intelligent people can still be cripplingly depressed.  We should also accept that with proper treatment, they can continue to be highly accomplished, loving, lovely and powerfully intelligent. But without sufficient treatment, this disease kills as surely as diabetes or heart disease.

Enough. Please start these important conversations. Secrets and euphemisms don’t provide lasting hope for the future, just temporary ephemeral refuge. And they can be complicit in taking gifted people from us.



Strike a pose

I made a new friend while on vacation last week. Our kids went to the same day camp in central Vermont, and while they made maple butter, canoed and built fairy houses, we bantered about balancing life and kids while we waded in a glorious, frigid stream. After a career in television production, she now raises her three children and struggles to figure out what “Career B” is going to be. She doesn’t think her former career—with intense production pacing and deadlines—will fit in well with the more balanced life she wants with her children. She wants to write more, and she has a screenplay with a story that she believes needs to be told.  But she feels utterly paralyzed by her insecurities. “What if it is not really good at all?” The underlying subtext: What if I’ve been an imposter all along?

In my career as an educator and in my work with my coaching clients, it’s clear that an awful lot of folks—regardless of their experience or their line of work—feel as if they will be discovered as imposters, as folks not really qualified for the jobs they have. This insecurity spreads like kudzu, limiting even our aspirations. Our fears and insecurities keep us small, and we erroneously assume that others are successful because they have no fear.

A client once told me she felt awful about her own life after watching a successful author give a presentation. She explained: “She showed pictures of her writer’s garret—a cabin high up in the hills—and talked about her simply idyllic life. She was amazing. I wish I could have a life like that.” I smiled, reminding her, “She showed you what she wants you to see.” As is human nature, the author presented her world in the best possible light. She didn’t tell the stories about how she sometimes wakes up and feels consumed by self-doubt. And she didn’t mention that she wonders why she’s a writer and not something more sensible so she could better provide for her family. We all struggle to keep inner saboteurs at bay. Some folks just learn how to dance with them better than others.

In my quest to teach my clients self-forgiveness and confidence, I’ve recently added the remarkable work of Amy Cuddy, assistant professor of social psychology at Harvard Business School to my tool belt. I first learned of her research last spring and have since watched one of her TED Talks—Your Body Language Shapes Who You Are—numerous times. If you don’t have time to read Cuddy’s articles, watch this talk.

Cuddy calls her clip a “free, low-tech life hack”—a simple thing we can all employ to improve our lives. Cuddy takes the ubiquitous philosophy, “Fake it ‘til you make it!”, applies a researcher’s curiosity and eye for detail, and reinvents it as “Fake it ‘til you become it.”

In her lab, Cuddy discovered that even just two minutes in certain “power poses” were enough to increase testosterone levels and decrease cortisol (the so-called “stress” hormone). People felt more powerful and successful, but those around them also viewed them as more commanding and more accomplished. “Power posers” also did significantly better in job interviews than participants who were asked to strike “weak” poses—sitting small, closed in, with hands protecting one’s neck.


We spend a lot of time worrying about what our body language conveys to others, but Cuddy says we should be even more interested in what our body language conveys to ourselves. Non-verbal expressions of power and dominance and those that convey insecurity and powerlessness send unconscious messages to the world about how we see ourselves. But they also send cues to our own brains as to how we feel about our sense of control.

Whether you’re heading into a stressful job interview, are about to give a speech, or are entering a family situation in which you always feel powerless, Cuddy asserts that taking just two minutes to strike a “power pose” will help you feel more in control. Just put your hands on your hips, tilt your chin slightly upward, and make yourself as tall as you can get. You can also strike a “victory” pose—that universal posture runners make after crossing the finish line: Head cocked back, arms out wide in a “V”.

At the end of her TED talk, Cuddy reveals that she herself recovered from a bad head injury car—one that doctors thought would surely end her academic career. She believes that she was able to “fake it until she became it.” She suggests, “Change your posture for two minutes…It could significantly change the way your life unfolds.” Moreover, she exhorts her audience, “to share the science, because this is simple. I don’t have ego involved in this. Give it away. Share it with people, because the people who can use it the most are the ones with no resources and no technology and no status and no power…and it can significantly change the outcomes of [their lives].”

I am doing my part. In the past week, I’ve had a friend striking power poses in the stream, another in the blueberry patch and a third before a speech she had to give. Next time you spy me standing like Wonder Woman, you’ll know why.

The girls of Sleepy Hollow

I wasn’t afraid of spiders as a little girl, but my older sister loathed them. They terrified her. So “spider patrol” was my charge when we went away to camp in the summer. I was responsible for checking every musty nook and cobwebby cranny in the cabin for errant hairy beasts or cowering fragile daddy longlegs. My sister would scan the scary zones with her flashlight—like a floodlight on Rikers Island—and I would go investigate and neutralize the enemy. It was only after this nighttime rite that she felt secure enough to end her search and sleep.

We sold Thin Mints and Samoas to rack up points to reduce the cost of our week at camp.  (Okay, really, my dad would bring the order form to his office, and his fellow Ma Bell employees would happily sign up for a stash of these delightful calorie bombs.)  In the 1970s you couldn’t go online like you can today and “Meet the Cookies” at the official Girl Scout Website. Now there’s a “Girl Scout Cookie Finder App”, and enterprising scouts in San Francisco sell hundreds of boxes in just a few hours in front of medical marijuana dispensaries. But when we sold our cookies, there was genuine pent up demand bred from the deadly combination of scarcity and craving. The cycle of shortage and supply meant that we could help fund our sleep-away camp experience.

Back when we had a middle class—and working class wages that could actually support a family—my sister and I attended camp with a really diverse set of kids. Of course, I didn’t think of it as “diverse” at the time. But I did have an awareness that many of the girls at my upstate NY scout camp were from parts of Albany, Schenectady and Troy that I’d never visited.  Our modest neighborhood of shoebox houses and postage stamp lawns was entirely populated by Caucasians. Not so my camp neighbors and bunkmates. The patter and banter that accompanied the unpacking of duffle bags and the arranging of bedrolls revealed so much about where we’d all come from.  Moments of disconnection or miscommunication, although certainly sometimes awkward, almost always receded as we dove into some camp challenge together.

One summer evening a skunk wandered into our platform tent in search of the fudge someone had hidden in her trunk. She’d ignored the counselor’s repeated warnings about animals smelling sweets in our belongings. We couldn’t really be angry; we’d all made the same risky calculation. And now the bill was coming due. As we held our breath and tracked its path around our cots, we exhorted the most daring among us to sneak out and go wake a counselor. We all waited eagerly for the sage advice from our fearless (and as it turns out, feckless) leaders. “What did she say?” we cried. “Um. She said, ‘What do you want me to do about it?’ and ‘Don’t startle it or it will spray.’” We groaned and then resigned ourselves to settling in while the jubilant skunk hit the jackpot and grazed on sweets until fully satiated.  It was a long night. That skunk was in no hurry.

Skunks and spiders aside, numerous studies have shown that quality camp programs offer children an emotional and psychological boost. According to a 2007 study published in The Journal of Youth and Adolescence, children who attended even one week of day camp or sleep away camp experienced an increase in self-esteem, independence, sense of adventure, and leadership. They also improved their friendship skills and peer relationships. Christopher Thurber, a clinical psychologist at Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire and one of the study’s authors, explains that the benefits of camp are still felt by children and parents months after camp ends and increase as kids integrate new camp skills into their school environments.

Another study led by Stanford University psychologist Paul O’Keefe published in 2012 in the journal Motivation and Emotion concurs: Improvements in attitude and motivation remain long after the summer program ends. O’Keefe and his team tracked a group of 8th, 9th and 10th graders during and after a summer enrichment program. They discovered that youth who participated in summer enrichment programs demonstrated a greater “mastery orientation” which has been linked to increased levels of motivation and engagement. These teens exhibited less “performance orientation”, which has been tied to increased anxiety and diminished resilience when experiencing failure. They were less likely to agree with statements such as “One of my goals is to show others that I am good at…” And they were more likely to concur that “It’s important to me that I learn a lot of new ideas.”

Of course, not all children get to attend camp or summer programs. The cost prevents so many parents from sending their children to camp, which is why we are so lucky to have such a variety of affordable summer camp programs available in our area. We have farm camps, nature camps, science camps, music camps and drama camps. Nearly all have scholarships. The Brattleboro Rec Center also puts together an impressive selection of quality, reasonably priced programs for area families. These are not just safe, fun places for children to be in the summer while working families scramble for childcare. These programs provide healthy environments for risk taking, exploration and self-discovery.

My camp experiences as a child shaped my sense of self to such an extent that for years I worked at camps in between academic years. As a camp director in Plymouth, VT I was often called upon to deal with spiders, bats and mice. By then “spider patrol” was just who I was. Thanks, sis.


The $500,000 seat

While millions have been gripped by World Cup soccer mania—and rightly so—another team sport is losing one of its very best. New York Philharmonic concert master Glenn Dicterow retired several weeks ago after 6,033 performances and 34 years as concert master—the longest tenure in the New York Philharmonic’s 172 years. Although not nearly as well-known as the conductors he sat near, Dicterow certainly contributed to the success of such legends as Leonard Bernstein and Zubin Mehta. Concertgoers, both experienced and novice, see and hear the ritual of the concert master tuning up the orchestra, but most don’t comprehend the careful leadership involved in getting a huge unwieldy team—from piccolos to bassoons—to work as one. By all accounts, Dicterow was a supremely skillful and effective leader.

In an interview with the Wall Street Journal, the philharmonic’s principal cellist Carter Bray explains that Dicterow excelled in an aspect of the job that is critical for the orchestra: He could translate between the conductor and the section players.  Says Bray, “Glenn is so good at that because he’s such a superb instrumentalist that he can command the respect of the highly gifted and opinionated players in the section.” Dicterow himself likens his role to that of a team captain: “[It’s] not just making decisions, but getting everybody on the same page and getting along, so we can be constructive and productive.”

Alan Gilbert, the philharmonic’s current music director told the New York Times that Dicterow had played a significant role in shaping the orchestra’s sound; replacing him would be very difficult.  Gilbert described his predicament: “The concertmaster is the single most important person in terms of being able to guide the flow of the music, and affecting the sound of the entire orchestra.” He then stressed that Mr. Dicterow is “unusually brilliant” at understanding and translating the wishes of conductors.

Dicterow understands that an orchestra’s inner tensions or any frustration at a conductor gets in the way of creating luscious sound. He explains, “[L]et’s say we have a guest conductor who, basically, rubs people the wrong way — it’s my job to make peace. Everybody needs to get along to make gorgeous music. That’s the bottom line.” He views himself as an on-the-spot problem solver and a principal who leads by example. His upbeat energy and tone help inspire the dynamism of the whole orchestra.

Lisa Kim, a former student who now plays for the NY Philharmonic, agrees. “The positive energy that he has really affects the whole orchestra onstage,” she says. Kim—who is now associate principal second violin—told Jeff Lunden of NPR recently that Dicterow taught her much more than musical lessons over the years.  She reflected, “[I] didn’t really realize it at that time; I mean, you play well and that’s fine… But it’s more than that.”  Music director Gilbert concurs: “Glenn Dicterow is the quintessential concertmaster. The concertmaster more than any other individual musician in an orchestra can really affect not just the sound, but the whole attitude, the whole approach to music. And I don’t think you’ll ever hear anyone say a bad word about Glenn; he’s loved by all his colleagues.”

Many in the field consider Glenn Dicterow so talented that he has achieved the status of a legend. But Gilbert reminds us that although anyone coming into the concertmaster position at the NY Philharmonic will have big shoes to fill, talented concertmasters evolve with experience. “When he started, he wasn’t [a legend],” said Mr. Gilbert. “So we’re not looking for another Glenn Dicterow, because there’s not another Glenn Dicterow.”

Whether it’s a top tier orchestra, a nonprofit organization or an elite soccer team, all groups who wish to thrive need an effective concertmaster—someone in the trenches each day setting the tone, leading by example and doing the hard work of perfecting their mastery.

Clearly soccer fans and commentators will continue their cacophony as they scrutinize Brazil’s humiliating 7-1 semi-final defeat to Germany for years to come. But although the details are important, there’s no denying that Brazil lacked a concertmaster on the field that night. With star players Neymar and Thiago Silva both out of the game, Ken Early of Slate argues that “[r]ather than make a real plan, [Brazil] abandoned themselves to romantic notions of passion, desire, and native cunning.” Early concludes: “A fevered dream isn’t enough. You need a vision.”

Some Brazilian soccer fanatics prefer to blame aging rocker Mick Jagger for their crushing loss. According to Jason Burt of The Telegraph, they have dubbed him “pe frio” (“cold foot”); they think Jagger carries a dastardly jinx with him. Supposedly, any team Jagger roots for in the World Cup loses.  Jagger was in the stands with his 15-year-old son, Lucas, at the Brazil/Germany debacle cheering for his ex-girlfriend’s home team.

There’s something so tantalizing about the “Pe Frio” theory—has Jagger made a pact with the devil that allows him to strut and shimmy at the age of 70?—but I am more inclined to think that the Brazilian national soccer team should find and cultivate soccer’s version of a Glenn Dicterow. And although this critical player would fetch upwards of 8 million Euros (which makes Dicterow’s salary of half a million dollars look like a bargain), Brazilian soccer fans will see it as money well spent if it will head off another mortifying defeat and get their beloved footballers to play more beautiful music together.



Neither accusation nor confession

Whether teaching middle school, high school or college, whatever the setting, it is difficult to explain the real reasons for the massive bloodshed in “The Great War”. Textbooks and essays about World War I reference the June 1914 assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria—heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary—by Yugoslav nationalist Gavrilo Princip in Sarajevo. But when Princip shot both Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie, the reaction back in Austria was actually a far cry from outrage. The esteemed Czech-born historian Zbyněk Zeman asserts that nobody in Vienna seemed to care, and the next day crowds were seen listening to music and sipping wine as if nothing of any importance had happened.

In Sarajevo, by stark contrast, Austrian authorities encouraged mob violence against the Serbs and many Serbian residents were attacked and imprisoned. Estimates of how many Serbs died in custody range from 700-2200. Austria-Hungary authorities, certainly viewing this crisis as an opportunity to end Serbian influence in Bosnia, delivered the “July Ultimatum” that most historians agree was intentionally made unacceptable in order to provoke war. So, in essence, the assassination was used as an excuse for imperialism and, in the words of Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm II, “for settling accounts with Serbia.” No humanitarian narrative here—just a turf battle inflamed by the desire to settle old scores among the players on the European continent: a Sharks and Jets knife fight so large that it killed 9 million combatants.

How to teach about World War I, its bottomless misery, and its monstrous impact on Europe in a way most of us can understand?  I wish I’d had Jacqueline Winspear’s “Maisie Dobbs” series at my disposal when I taught about the war.  The books are classified as a “mystery series”, but although I do enjoy a good mystery, Winspear’s books are more like the best historical fiction. I reread them constantly.  Maisie Dobbs, a female “psychologist and investigator” is complex and compelling.  Her experiences during the war as a nurse, and afterwards as a physically and emotionally scarred civilian, enhance and expand my understanding of World War I and the psychological and political landscape of Europe between the world wars.

The first book, “Maisie Dobbs”, was published a little over a decade ago.  Maisie Dobbs, daughter of a London costermonger, is put out to a life in service after her mother dies and her father painfully concludes he cannot raise her properly alone. Maisie becomes a maid in a grand house and sneaks into the library late at night to read her employers’ books. Equal parts scrappy and precocious, Maisie has become one of my favorite fictional characters.

Dobbs has a gift for sensing things that elude others, but her abilities do not place her in the realm of science fiction or the supernatural. She is extraordinarily aware of subtleties, but her sensibility is the perfect antidote for a time when thousands of British soldiers and returning nurses were asked by their country to carry on and forget the suffering. They were to be numb to all the horror and inexplicable memories of the multitudes lost over meaningless patches of earth.

Winspear’s series addresses the many lasting scars of the war: the grief from countless, truly needless deaths and the anguish of soldiers returning home with such mutilated features that they literally have lost their faces, their very identity. They carry on, despite their hideous scars, believing that the Great War will surely be the end of such impulsive, cavalier ghastliness, only to discover that in their own lifetimes the poppy-covered battlefields of Europe would once again cradle the dead and dying.

And five generations later, are we any better? As we approach the 100th anniversary of the start of World War I Jacqueline Winspear  is publishing a new novel set during the war, “The Care and Management of Lies.” We shake our heads at our Veterans Affairs Hospital scandal. Tens of thousands of veterans languish on waiting lists, and VA administrators create fictitious records to hide the long wait times for our injured soldiers.  According to Washington Post reporter Katie Zezima, “A tide of disability claims from soldiers who were injured in Iraq and Afghanistan has inundated the VA.” Because of medical advances, soldiers now survive injures that would have killed them in previous wars: 52,000 U.S soldiers injured in “The War on Terror” have returned home. They are entitled to more than patriotic flag displays on the 4th of July. They should be given the greatest, most advanced care a grateful nation can provide.

German World War I veteran Erich Maria Remarque starts his acclaimed, brooding novel “All Quiet on the Western Front”—a book banned by the Nazis as unpatriotic—with a curious explanation: “This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, and least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war.” Winspear’s “Maisie Dobbs” continues this critical work for the Great Generation, the Gen Xers and the Millennials.  She translates that time for us, highlighting the perils of our own.

I will be reading Winspear’s latest this summer and re-reading her essay “Skylarks above No Man’s Land” about walking the war’s battlefields, cemeteries and memorials. Her own grandfather was severely wounded during the Battle of Somme in 1916—an extended campaign that resulted in 1,200,000 casualties.  Her books honor his true sacrifice. But they also serve as an invaluable guide helping us decipher a difficult historical period while forcing us to reflect on how we still let our veterans down.



Poor judgment

In the popular sassy sitcom of the late 1990s, Sex and the City, one character asks another, “Do I judge?” The other responds, referring to their group of friends, “We all judge. That’s our hobby. Some people do arts and crafts; we judge.” It’s a perfect TV quip—funny, affected, and short. We are in on the joke; we all know people like this. We have a moment of moral superiority and then move on to the next one-liner. But really, we all sit in judgment. Constantly. We are hardwired to judge, discern, and sort. But we often make quick decisions that are wholly erroneous or half-baked.

When Brokeback Mountain—the highly-acclaimed but controversial Ang Lee film adapted from Annie Proulx’s short story—was released in 2005, I was in Wyoming and saw the movie in a theater just a few hours from where the story was set. Amid much fanfare and trepidation—Would there be protests?—I bought my ticket and settled in to the packed theater. Shortly before the house lights dimmed, an elderly man—a dead ringer for Vermont’s beloved Fred Tuttle—took the seat immediately to my left. I glanced at him, and he nodded his head while touching his John Deere cap in a sign of greeting.

My brain raced: Is he in the wrong movie? Did he wander in by mistake? Is he here to mount a protest? Is he going to disrupt the film? I sat, nervous, pondering his motivations. Before long I was completely engrossed in the spectacular landscape and the heartrending story of two male sheep herders who unexpectedly fall in love in Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains in the 1960s.

As the credits rolled, I sat—like so many in the audience—deep in thought and dabbing tears with my already damp sleeve. Heath Ledger’s stunning turn as the troubled Ennis Del Mar was so spot-on, so haunting, that my heart was utterly saturated with compassion. Later, Australian poet and writer Luke Davies would refer to Ledger’s brilliance in portraying a character “so fundamentally shut down that he is like a bible of unrequited desires, stifled yearnings, lost potential”. Davies asserts that Ledger’s character is trapped in “a world so masculine it might destroy you for any aberration.” I had never been so moved by a character in a movie; I sat for long minutes aching for all the men and women haunted by discontent.

The house lights came up. I had completely forgotten about the Fred Tuttle doppelganger to my left. He, too, sat in silence. He turned to me and said, almost in a whisper, “That was real sad. Real sad.” Like the laconic character we’d watched suffering on the screen, this old and weathered man could say no more. He rose slowly, nodded his head to me again and shuffled away.

I was dumbstruck. I could feel every synapse in my frontal lobe short circuit as I struggled to integrate new information about this stranger. I had assumed that he could not possibly relate to this film or the struggles of the main characters. My simple, rigid story about him was deeply flawed, and I was now forced to rethink my accounting. We all make these unfounded judgments in milliseconds throughout each day.

Princeton professor of psychology Alex Todorov and student researcher Janine Willis tested conventional wisdom about snap judgments and found that we size up a person’s likeability and competence in a mere glance. Todorov explains, “We decide very quickly whether a person possesses many traits we feel are important…even though we have not exchanged a single word with them. It appears we are hard-wired to draw these inferences in a fast, unreflective way.”

Todorov and Willis used timed experiments and determined that we judge people within milliseconds of seeing them. When given more time, but with no further information about a person, we merely solidify our own snap judgments and become more confident in our first impressions about a person’s likeability and competence.

Amy Cuddy, professor of social psychology at Harvard University, explains, “Within less than a second, using facial features, people make what are called ‘spontaneous trait inferences.’” Our brains do not allow enough time for any weighing of evidence or searching for shades of meaning. But nevertheless our quick judgments are immediately followed by a drive to categorize. Our two main categories for people we first meet? Warmth and competence. These two categories account for 80% of our overall evaluations of people.

Upon meeting someone, we size up their warmth first: Will this person do me harm? We want other people to be warm, but interestingly, Cuddy points out, we want others to perceive us as more competent than warm. “We’d rather have people respect us than like us.” But Cuddy believes this is misguided: “Social connections will take you farther than respect.”

In thinking about that interaction with the elderly stranger in a cinema all those years ago, I realized that I was wholly prepared for a negative exchange because of how he looked. But my millisecond judgments were all wrong.  We must give people room to pleasantly surprise us.