My favorite movie of all time is Philadelphia, starring Tom Hanks.  It hit the theaters in 1993, the story of a young attorney who contracts AIDS  and brings suit against his law firm when they fire him because of his illness.   At one point in the movie he is in his apartment with his lawyer, played by Denzel Washington.  He is dying, dramatized by his attachment to a pole on which his medicines hang.   A piece of music is playing in the background, and suddenly Hanks’ character stops talking and becomes absorbed in the beauty of the music.   It is the aria, “La Momma Morta” from Umberto Giordano’s opera Andre Chenier.  Operatic soprano Maria Callas is singing.  His medicine pole becomes an operatic prop, almost a stage mike,  as he describes to his attorney the powerful scene being depicted by the aria.

The words contain phrases which directly relate to Hanks’ character’s situation:

“Live still, I am life.”

“It was during this sorrow that love came to me….”

It is poignant to the point of tears and even the stellar attorney played by Washington is moved to silence and emotion.   I believe it is the most powerful movie moment Tom Hanks has ever performed.   I have seen the movie several times, and each time I come to this piece of the film I find my chest tighten and my eyes moisten.   It is a magnificent moment of cinematography.

I’m not a great lover of opera, more from being ignorant of its genre than anything else.   But this moment in Philadelphia makes me a believer.   There is a similar moment in the movie, Pretty Woman, starring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere.  Roberts plays the part of a call girl who is hired by Gere, and a Pygmalian story erupts.  At one point Gere’s character takes Roberts to the opera where Verdi’s  La Traviata is playing.   Roberts is overcome by the beauty of the production to the point of tears.  It is a phenomenon not to be overlooked.

In an age in which popular music has so dramatically changed to become rap and hard rock, it is important to remember that loud and discordant … even that without tune … is not the only vehicle of musical expression.   I have no doubt that there are those for whom the words and emotion of a well-performed rap tune can touch the heart and bring forth unexpected feelings.

But it is awesome to have seen theaters filled with unsuspecting audiences of all stripes and colors who were moved to deep emotion by these two examples of classic, tonal expression.  I will never forget my emotion the first time I saw Philadelphia and the sense of being drained by this powerful moment of an aria sung as I have never heard it sung before.

Photo Credit: halohost

I have a serious back problem.   Local doctors and those at the clinic I attend in Boston are pretty consistent in terms of their analysis of the problem.   It was while I was being seen at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston that one of the doctors suggested I see a physiatrist. [phi-ZAHY-uh-trist]

At first I thought the physician was telling me that it was a psychological problem and that I needed to see a psychiatrist.  But he went on to explain that a physiatrist is a rehabilitation physician, a degree-bearing physician who specializes in a comprehensive evaluation of a physical issue but does not practice surgery.

The job of a rehabilitation physician is to treat any disability resulting from disease or injury, from sore shoulders to spinal cord injuries. The focus is on the development of a comprehensive program for putting the pieces of a person’s life back together after injury or disease – without surgery. (see link)

He suggested that I talk with my orthopedic surgeon about it, so I did.  My orthopedic surgeon was very supportive of the idea and made a referral to an office I had visited several years ago, never having heard the word physiatrist in connection with that visit.  The doctor I’m seeing there is fully schooled in the information of my case and is fully engaged in the primary and secondary issues relating to my discomfort.  That includes of course, my lifestyle, my weight, and other physical illnesses and conditions affecting me.

His first prescription was to go back to Josh, my fantastic physical therapist.   After that we’ll look at other modalities which can improve my condition and relieve the pain which causes problems in my daily life.   That could possibly include alternative medical practices such as acupuncture, chiropractics,  or therapeutic massage, but not necessarily.   It clearly will involve exercise and weight loss.  Only after every alternative has been explored will we even consider the possibility of surgery.

The word physiatrist emerged in the late 1940′s.  It is a specialty that is collaborative with orthopedics, not contrary to it.  Some orthopedic practices have physiatrists on staff.

Illustration Credit:  MMG2000

The first time I heard the term “thrown under the bus” I was confused and shocked.  It wasn’t that many years ago, either.   I now know that it was a figure of speech that had been around for some time; it just hadn’t made it into my circle of dialogue.   It is a very jarring, but amazingly clear figure of speech, and a welcome addition to my lexicon.

Its meaning in common parlance is that a person who has been a trusted and welcome member of a circle of friends or colleagues has been ostracized over an issue of one kind or another. Instead of jumping to (his) defense, the colleagues have abandoned him and doomed him to failure.  It is, as the phrase implies, as if they had thrown him under the approaching bus.

Having experienced the phenomenon at least once in my life (without knowing the term for it) I can testify that there is a range of pain which ensues.  Some of it comes from the injury incurred by the confrontation and judgment which follows.  But even more pain comes from the recognition of abandonment.   The injuries of the “trial” will pass; the consequences of the abandonment will last for a long, long time.

What is one to do?   Well, the answer for me comes from a friend who relates the story of his capture and imprisonment by the North Vietnamese during that horrendous war.   My friend is  a retired military officer by the name of Porter Halyburton,   His imprisonment was brutal and lasted for several years, during which time he was determined to have died.  His wife and a circle of supporters didn’t believe it, and were able to celebrate their conviction when Porter walked off a plane at the end of the conflict.

He tells the story of his life in the enemy prisons and the pain and humiliation he suffered at the hands of his captors.   No one would fault him for having hatred of those who inflicted great pain on him and his fellow prisoners.

On the day of his release, however, Porter says he walked  through the gates, turned, and pronounced forgiveness on his captors.   He tells me that if he had not taken this action he would have continued to be a prisoner to his anger for the rest of his life.  Instead, he has led an amazing life in which his words have emboldened thousands.  Some who know him to be a devout, faithful man, attribute it to his faith.  But he says that it was not a spiritual action on his part, but one which came from the knowledge of self-preservation and the understanding of human nature.   Hatred and spite are not qualities which lead to a peaceful and productive life.

To have been thrown under the bus by friends and colleagues can in no way compare to the horror of what happened to Porter Halyburton.  But it is an experience which can generate the negative thoughts that bring about the same unproductive feelings.

Forgiving one’s friends and colleagues who have thrown a person under the bus is a simple, yet difficult feat.   It occurs to me that it is a concept worth promoting in this age of behavior which is increasingly nasty and capable of producing great pain.

Illustrations Credit: Facebook

Is there anything more frustrating than tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep or get back to sleep?  Insomnia is the given name for the condition, whether it be transient/occasional or chronic.  Either way, it’s a bear.

Clearly, there are known factors which can produce sleeplessness.  Caffeine is the most prominent among them, and for many (maybe most) people the ingesting of coffee, chocolate, some sports drinks, or other caffeine-laden products is all it takes.  And the “awakeness”* produced by caffeine is not fun, either.  It’s not a comfortable, pleasant way of being awake in which one feels good, has lots of positive energy, and is productive.  To the contrary, it is like a drug-induced awakeness, with a heaviness associated with it.

The natural tendency is to try such frequently-ineffective things as counting sheep, visualizing water lapping on a beach, or some other pleasurable semi-dreamlike mental exercise.  Evidently for some people it works; for many it’s a bust.

One doctor told me that the best thing to do when you can’t sleep is to get out of bed, leave the bedroom and go to a comfortable chair where you can read, or try writing something, either by pen and paper or on the computer.  It’s a way of “cleansing” the brain and reducing the tension you are building up about not being able to get to sleep.

The same doctor said not to go back to bed during the day to try to “catch up” on the sleep I missed when insomnia hit.  That tends to reduce the fatigue required the next night to have a good night’s sleep.   So it’s important to try to stay awake the day after an insomnia event.

I have to say that some of my more creative times have been when I couldn’t sleep.  But I pay for it the next day when I’m groggy and even fall asleep unintentionally in the middle of the day.

Incidental or occasional insomnia is a fairly normal, inconsequential situation.   Maybe it’s something a person has ingested, an unusually difficult problem which won’t go away, or a physical discomfort that won’t allow a person to relax sufficiently.

But chronic insomnia can be destructive to peoples’  health, affecting their day-to-day productivity and life in general.   Obviously, a physician should be consulted.  A prescription for a sleeping aid may be warranted.   They do work for most people, although there are a variety of experiences people have with sleeping pills, including a feeling of being drugged.   They can become habit-forming for some people.

I find that my own experiences of insomnia, which are infrequent, are related more to an over-active mind.   I get focused on a topic and can’t let it go.  The topic plays over and over in my mind like a film on a continuous circuit.  Try as I might to change the subject, I always gravitate back to the same scenario.   The frustration of that just increases the inability to get back to sleep.  That’s when I take the doctor’s advice, get out of bed, go downstairs, read a book or turn on the computer and do some writing … just like this blog posting.  It’s surprising how I can then go back to bed and get some sleep, even though my night’s sleep time has been shortened considerably.

Photo Credit: medicinenet.com

* “Awakeness” is my own word.  You won’t find it in a dictionary, but I think it works.

I won’t pretend to be original on this information.  I captured it on the web  this morning, Wikipedia having done the research.  But it’s worth repeating, in case you haven’t looked it up.

Written at the end of the 18th century by Scottish poet”Rabbie” Burns, the song-poem Auld Lang Syne is roughly translated as “for old time’s sake.”  We know it in the song form introduced by Guy Lombardo on New Year’s Eve in his famous televised celebration from New York City’s Roosevelt Hotel in 1929.   Since then it has become the standard toasting song, despite the fact that most people don’t know the lyrics and are content to fake it.

The song has a passionate quality to it, reminding us not to forget the past days in our excitement of surging forward into the  new year.  Without  glorifying the past, the song reminds us, it is well to preserve that which has brought us to this moment.

There have been New Year’s Eves when my wife and I have burned the calendar of the previous year in the fireplace, happy to be rid of it for one reason or another.  2011 might well have suffered that fate except for the fact that our fireplace is a gas-powered one these days, hidden away behind a glass front!    Having spent a good portion of 2011 in the hospital or in a sick bed at home, this hasn’t been one of our happiest years.

But it would be wrong to characterize the year as a total loss.  We have made new friends, welcomed friends’ babies into new life, celebrated weddings and grace-filled  funerals, seen new places, read great books,  seen outstanding films, and spent numerous hours at Fenway Park.   Our blessings have far out-weighed our banes, although it is hard to forget the many, many days of sickness, pain and discomfort.

So our 2011 wall calendar will be spared the fire and, instead, find its way to a not-so-gracious funeral in our recycling box.

As to 2012, there are hopes for joy, peace and prosperity.  We recognize that this is an election year, so our hopes are somewhat focused on November, but we could well do without the months of wasted hours (and dollars) of political advertising we will be forced to endure.  But it is also a year of watching the Red Sox rebuild their reputation with a new coach, new players, and a new energy.  My wife’s new blog for families and loved ones of Alzheimer patients  will be up and running within the next month.   Our older daughter’s newly-refocused  culinary venture will spring into life this week.  Our younger daughter’s amazing work with her University will proceed  at the same rate her successes in running half-marathons continue.  Our son’s dream for an environmental project regarding air quality should have a new thrust this year.  And my hopes for new publications are on track for 2012.   Needless to say, we hope that health care will not dominate our lives this year.

So the clink of champagne glasses last night  with older daughter and friends celebrating their 47th wedding anniversary was, indeed, a recognition of  “times past” as well as a hope for “times to come.”   I hope yours is a Happy New Year, as well.

Photo Credit: toasting

As time has passed and years have tumbled one upon another, decade upon decade, memories have been merged and details become blurred.

A snowy Christmas Eve in an almost-empty city, a young couple nearly clueless about the tribulations of life to come, yet the thrill of new life bundled in the anxiety of responsibility.

It’s best we didn’t know what life would bring;  we’ve only to lay a foundation and depend upon its strength to sustain us.  To know would be to spoil the serendipities.

The world will deliver its own new life in tragedies beyond our comprehension. Yet, in the midst of the horror of storm and fire and wind and even the tumbling of skyscrapers at the hand of terror, lives intersect and life is defined.

Beauty is discovered in the strum of guitars, the swipe of a brush, the laughter at words.  The camera’s eye, far more precise than our own, reveals the intricacies of the veins of a leaf, the shadow of a tree, the fingerprint of a snowflake.

And now, nearer the midpoint of life than one would desire, new visions of life emerge, still defined by that snowy night on the eve of yet another celebration of new life.  Innocence of new birth is replaced by wisdom of age.

The joy of the parents is renewed by this annual speck on the calendar.

Happy  Birthday, daughter/friend/colleague/visionary/artist and dreamer.  Happy birthday.

In case there are typographical errors in this posting, let me be clear that it is 5:30 a.m. and we’re about to jump in the car and head for New York City for the day.  It’s about a three hour drive each way.  The magnet is working, however.  What’s a Christmas season without the chance to walk down Fifth Avenue and visit Rockefeller Center?  

It’s no mystery to anyone when we announce that we’re heading for “the Big Apple” to drink in the beauty of the city dressed in all its holiday fineness.  Clearly, we are driving to New York City, the metropolitan giant that tends to increase my heart beat and pump my blood a little bit faster.  I’m a romantic about New York, and willing to forgive all its faults.   You won’t even hear me complaining about trying to find a decent parking spot the weekend before Christmas.  Yes, the Big Apple is New York.

But it hasn’t always been that way.  In the 1920′s, we are told, the term was used loosely to mean New York, but it also applied to Los Angeles and any other big city.  But by the 1960′s it had clearly come to mean New York City, inspiring music, drama, and the written media to utilize it as a metaphor for New York repeatedly.

It’s almost plebeian to say that there is something magical about The Big Apple.  But it’s true.   The rhythm is fast, the scent is unique, the sights are expansive and familiar, the people are amazing.   We have visited no city in this country or around the world that is exactly like New York.

I am always aware of the focus of the people of New York.  When they bustle past you  on the street it is because they are going someplace … someplace specific.  There is a purpose to their bustling, causing me to want to attempt to figure out exactly what destination is calling them.

The contrast, however, is what I call the “park bench” lifestyle.   People of New York City know h0w to fill up a park bench in Central Park or Washington Square with a reflective, meditative presence unlike anything I’ve ever seen in other places.   Even their quiet time surrounded by pigeons and people walking their dogs is filled with purpose … a purpose that is seen on the face of a person selecting a piece of fruit from a corner market, a newspaper from the corner kiosk, or a scarf from the window of a world-famous department store.  The intensity is not off-putting.  To the contrary, there is wisdom in that visage.

Today we will hear the sound of children’s voices, the laughter of people loaded down with brightly-colored shopping bags, and the undercurrent of taxis, police whistles and Salvation Army bells.  There really is the scent of chestnuts roasting on a street corner.  More than one musician will have a sound to share … in return, of course, for a contribution dropped in a hat or a guitar case.

By tonight the three hour drive home will be one of fatigue.  But it will have been worth it.  The Big Apple’s allure will have given us more than a basket full of memories and pictures to relish in the days to come.   We will have taken a bite from the Big Apple, the taste of which won’t disappear without a fight.

Photo Credit: Ecofriend.com

I read recently that cremation is fast becoming the method of preference in America for caring for the remains of deceased loved ones.   There are all kinds of speculations as to why this is happening, including environmental concerns, a rejection of elaborate ceremony, the expense of traditional burial, and the softening of religious inhibitions against the practice.

It has always made sense to me.  As I have watched cemeteries filling up and expanding far beyond the geographical expectations of communities, the idea of a more compact method of dignified burial became more and more reasonable.   I am one of those, also, who isn’t comfortable with the idea of natural deterioration of the body, included bugs eating my body.  I know, I’ll be dead and I won’t be aware of it.  But the thought of it for me and for my loved ones is distasteful.   Somehow, incineration by cremation seems more hygienic.

It’s not as if cremation is a new idea.  It has been practiced by the people of various countries and traditions for centuries, although its approval in the Western world has been more recent.   Religious preferences and prohibitions vary, but the practice is receiving more approval as time and changing mores adapt to an expansive world population, intermarriage, and modernisms which affect theological reasoning.  Even the Roman Catholic Church has relaxed its prohibition against cremation while retaining various rituals and ceremonies which must apply.  As with many options, cremation in Judaism varies with the degree of orthodoxy and secularism of the family.  Islam, however, is firm in its prohibition against cremation.  Some denominations and sects within contemporary Protestantism have restrictions barring or limiting cremation, but increasingly it is practiced.

The cost of traditional burial is increasingly a concern for Americans.  It is not unusual for a family to incur a cost in the range of several thousand dollars, depending upon the degree of glamor chosen by the family.  Natural burial, handled by volunteer or low-cost agencies has sprung up across the country, in which the deceased’s body is removed from the site of death in a station wagon, prepared minimally (according to state requirement) and buried in a natural place where caskets and headstones are not allowed.   The site remains as natural as a field or meadow.

But cremation provides for the family’s choice of interment.  Some families choose to retain the ashes of the deceased in an urn, sometimes in a visible place within the family home.   Others have chosen to spread the ashes at sea, from a mountain top, or over a place beloved by the deceased.   Cremation does not preclude the use of family burial plots in cemeteries or mausoleums.  In fact, it expands the capability of multiple generations being able to use such personally historic settings.   Many places of worship have developed memorial gardens in which cremated remains can be scattered in a setting which is maintained and provides a spiritual solace for the loved ones.

The mobility of contemporary life has diminished the significance of the “family plot” with families spread throughout the nation and the world, with fewer and fewer personal connections to the hometown.  Cremation and the distribution of ashes on a beloved site even further diffuses that hometown burial relationship.  I haven’t quite concluded my thoughts on the place where I would envision my cremated remains being placed.  It’s probably a good  time to draw that thought process to a clearer conclusion, relieving my family of the need for debate on the issue.   There will be enough else to worry about when the time comes without the distribution of my ashes interfering.

Photo Credit: Olson Family

There was a time when Pittsburgh was known as a foul, dirty city covered with coal dust.  Buildings were crusted with decay, industry was flat (nearing extinction) and the mindset of the people who lived there was just as dark.   Industry had left the city and there was an absence of hope.

I find it hard to picture that when I go to Pittsburgh these days to visit our daughter and son-in-law and their four-legged critter.  It has become a beautiful city, proud of its heritage, its sports, its restaurants, its hospitals and universities and its re-invigorated industry.  Pittsburgh is not without its urban problems, but overall it is an amazing story of new life in a setting which had been identified as terminally ill.

Traffic is nearly intolerable, the drive to or from the airport is interminable,  and there are still areas of the city which need huge amounts of assistance.   But there is a fantastic zoo, arboretums and gardens to die for, magnificent stadiums and sports venues, and everyone you meet wears a shirt or jacket that says “Pittsburgh” in one way or another.   It is refreshing.

Today we fly into Pittsburgh and for the next couple of days we’ll spend time in the area enjoying the fruits of creative thinking, progressive city planning, and a city that knows what it means for government to shake hands with higher education, medicine and industry to form partnerships.  It can happen.  There have to be sacrifices and concessions along the way, and it will be expensive.  But cities that take their nudge from Pittsburgh can find what it means to be renewed and re-imagined.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Photo Credit: city of pittsburgh

Forty-eight years ago today President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas.  The world changed that day.

In the past month two publications have become available, a novel called 11/22/63  by Stephen King and a biography by Chris Matthews called Jack Kennedy: Elusive Hero.  I have reserved the King novel for reading over the holiday, but I’m about half-way through Matthews’ biography.

Chris Matthews writes about Kennedy in a way that would lead you to believe that he was sitting in the living room with him talking about his life.   It’s a totally believable piece of work which strips away the fantasy while relishing the romantic.   Like the day I learned that George Washington really didn’t chop down a cherry tree, this book helps me realize that Jack Kennedy was not 6’4″ tall and “able to leap a tall building in a single bound.”   If I’m learning anything from the book it is that Jack Kennedy was a very normal human being who was born with genes that would lead him to greatness.   Even though he achieved that greatness, he appears never to have lost the genius of being common.   His wealth, prestige, and fortune in life only served to ground him more and more into the midst of the American people in a way that has yet to be duplicated.

I’ve been known to be critical at times of my fellow liberal Democrat, Chris Matthews.  But in this book he has accomplished something that I would call brilliant and unique.

Stephen King takes a different tack.  As I said, I haven’t read it, but I did hear his interview this past week where he described his motivation in writing a novel which answers the question, “What if?”   As I understand it he re-writes history so that Kennedy doesn’t die, but goes on to serve his country through two terms.  It is the fantasy that many, if not most, Americans have nurtured hundreds upon hundreds of times. I’m looking forward to tasting King’s always delicious work.

Today, however, I will restrain myself a little and remember where I was, and what it meant when well-placed bullets took the life of a dynamic and beloved President of the United States.  I will chew on the fact that the terrorism which took his life and  the lives of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bobby Kennedy as well, has spread like a cancer and threatens to limit life as we know it as human beings.

Tonight, assuming that the sky permits, I’ll look at the moon and remember that he saw footsteps on the moon as a challenge which was attainable.  I will think about the friends I have known who served in the Peace Corps, and the promising young man whose airplane crashed into the waters off Martha’s Vineyard, just over an hour from here.

It is, indeed a somber day.

Photo Credit: Life magazine