Anti-Social Media

There’s a lot of talk about the harmful effects of social media these days. Even some people who have been instrumental in developing and promoting the sites have been speaking out. Loudly and often. As I earlier mentioned, I’ve also witnessed, up close, the insidious, addictive power of Facebook and other so-called social media sites. It’s caused me to take a fresh look at the phenomenon.

I’ve concluded we’ve got the term wrong. There’s nothing social about social media sites. In fact, they tend to be anti-social. So let’s frame the issue right and start calling it what it is: anti-social.

All the mental health statistics in our country indicate my conclusions are sound. They’re all going in the wrong direction. If you don’t believe me, it’s not hard to find the data; look for yourself. Or talk to a counselor at any school. Or a nurse at a college. I guarantee you’ll be shocked by the amount of anxiety, depression and other psychological symptoms our young people are experiencing (as well as adults). In short, the degree of alienation and anxiety felt within the populace is unprecedented.

Check out our suicide rates, too. And ask yourself why there’s a positive correlation between Facebook use and depression.

And then check out any Starbucks or restaurant the next time you’re out. Observe how many people have their faces glued to their smart phone and how little face-to-face conversation is taking place.

I also can’t help think how we used to not have mass shootings like we do now. It seems to me that it’s connected to a national psychic pain, a condition that seems to be aggravated by our disconnectedness which, in turn, is exacerbated by our technology (as well as other factors, such as our obsession with money and things and our disregard for the weakest and suffering among us).

I could go on with one example after another that supports my thesis — that these supposedly social devices and programs are actually having an anti-social impact. But my purpose isn’t to convince. Rather, it’s to share my decision and perhaps spur parents to question whether their kids are being helped or hurt by all the new technology that dominate many lives.

That’s not to say technology is inherently bad. It isn’t. But it is to say it’s important not to lose sight of our real goal: happiness and fulfillment. If we assume the unfettered use of technology will make our lives (or the lives of our kids) better, then we may be making a grave mistake.

I confess I’m glued to my iPhone and computer too much. I’ve recently taken one step to help rectify that, by deactivating my Facebook account. Today, I deactivated my LinkedIn account, too.

It’s not that I’m going to swear off digital technology. I’m not. I’m not trading in my iPhone for a flip phone and I’m not swearing off Twitter (at least not yet). But I’m going to focus more on the things that lead to happiness and a sense of fulfillment and purpose and less on the distractions.

Dude, Nobody’s Normal

Recently, I watched a Netflix show called Atypical. The main character is a teenage autistic boy. There was a scene where he was commiserating with his sister. Some kids at school had been making fun of him. In frustration, he said, “I wish I was normal.”

His sister’s boyfriend, who was present too, immediately piped up. “Dude, nobody’s normal,” he said.

I thought how much better off we’d be if we learned that lesson early in life.

It seems we’re constantly comparing ourselves. To others. To our sense of the ideal person. To someone we’re told we should be. To the kind of person our culture values.

We think there is a normal. That other people have it together. That we’re the only imperfect ones. The only ones who feel broken. The only ones wrestling with certain demons or struggling to hold it together.

But, in reality, the boyfriend was right: Nobody’s normal. When it comes to people, there is no such thing as normal.

We are whom we are. Genetics are part of it. Parenting is a part. Other outside influences, over which we had little or no control, are a part of it. Luck plays a role, too.

When we feel tension between whom we are and the person we think the world is expecting us to be — or the type of person the world rewards or values the most — we might think we’re not normal. Or think life would be so much easier if we could be different — more in line with what people expect or our culture values.

But we are whom we are. Perfection has nothing to do with it. And neither does someone’s expectations (or our own).

Rather, we must live the life that is unique to us —  our life. It might seem harder than the life others have to live and, indeed, it might be harder. But there is nothing to be gained by such comparisons.

We can’t live someone else’s life. We can’t be someone else. We only can live our life.

Normal has nothing to do with it.

 

 

For Being So Little, You Give So Much

You’re small, Vera. I know you think you’re big. And you are, relative to what you were. But even though you think you’re big (as you’re quick to tell me), you’re really not.

Yet there is a lot packed into that small body of yours. You have the uncanny power to bring such joy to people. To make us laugh. To give us hope. Life seems to be so alive in that little body of yours. And intense. Usually in a good way. But not always.

When you visited Friday, you became upset when you parents and uncle left to go to a restaurant. That was a first; you’d never been upset in this situation before. You wanted to go along. After all, that’s what big girls do — they participate in all the adult activities. But, as I said, you’re really not as big as you think you are.

I assured you that your parents would return, but apparently I wasn’t persuasive. It’s hard to persuade a two and a half year old of such things. They know what they see and experience. And you knew they left without you. And you didn’t like it. Not one bit.

After reason failed, I immediately went into distraction mode, realizing what I just wrote is true: the present experience is what matters. I didn’t try to convince you of anything; rather, I sat down at my desk and started watching a Peppa Pig™ video on my computer.

Immediately, from across the room, where you were looking out the window of my office, half expecting your parents to return for you I suppose, you turned your attention away from your disappointment. I knew you really like Peppa Pig (who doesn’t?) so I wasn’t surprised. But I didn’t push you. I simply watched the video by myself, trying not to let you see that I was checking in on you with quick glances.

It wasn’t long before you appeared by my side and wanted up on my lap. All was well.

We then had dinner and everything was fine. Later, after your parents had returned (just as I promised), you put on your shoes and then came over and landed a big kiss right on my lips, accompanied by a Vera hug.

The power of hugs and kisses never cease to amaze me.

Your hug reminded me of another hug. Upon returning home this fall following the out-of-state auto accident that could easily have claimed my life, I was greeted by a big hug from your dad. I didn’t want to let go. I had tears in my eyes. The good kind. The power of hugs.

You will get big someday. Perhaps just as tall as your dad. You seem to be certain of that. But perhaps not. In any case, I hope you carry some of your current practices with you into adulthood. I hope you never forget the power of your hugs and kisses.

Handling Disappointment

Everyone experiences disappointment. Lots of it.

I started by jotting down some of mine. But it seemed too much like a list of grievances. Like whining. A pity party. So I’ll keep them to myself.

But that doesn’t make them go away. Or stop them from affecting me. To the contrary, disappointments cannot be so easily neutered; in fact, they tend to have quite a bit of power over us.

They skew our thinking. Affect our attitude and mood. Impact our outlook and plans. Define our relationships.

But should they?

Perhaps not. At least not if happiness is the objective. And why would it not be?

I suppose it helps to consider the source of our disappointments. Most if not all of them — at least in my case — stem from the failure of reality to match or exceed my expectations.

So perhaps that’s the root of the problem: my expectations. If I were to have none — expectations, that is — then perhaps I’d never have to experience the sting of disappointment.

But is that even possible? Is it possible to expect nothing of a situation? Or other people? Of ourselves?

I doubt it. Yet I do think it’s possible to manage my expectations better. And, in some cases, to resist the urge to have them in the first place.

Expectations of myself is one thing. Expectations of others is quite a different matter.

I control my own actions (in the main). I do not control others. I am at their mercy.

It’s probably unfair to impose expectations on other people. What gives me that right? As best I can tell, nothing.

And it’s not as if it’s a benign thing either. Expectations and disappointments tend to contaminate relationships. They tend to be the source of conflict. And negative emotions, not the least of which are anger and resentment. Frankly, I think we’d get along better — and be happier — if we had fewer expectations of each other.

But we have to be careful. Ridding ourselves of expectations is not the same as expecting less or expecting nothing, both of which can be toxic in their own right.

Take you for example, Vera. My aim is to expect nothing of you or our relationship. I don’t expect you to go to a particular school or college. Or to pursue a particular career. Or to marry or, even if you do, to marry a particular kind of person or to have kids. Or to visit me. Or even to care about me.

That’s my aim because I’ve come to believe that, in general, expectations get in the way of healthy relationships. And I desire for ours to be healthy. So my attention will be on being the best role model I can be and helping you learn some of the things you’ll need to navigate life successfully (to make wise decisions).

So what, if anything, will replace them — the expectations, that is? Desire. And unconditional love.

I desire nothing but the best for you, whatever that happens to be (which, likely, is beyond my discernment capabilities). And I desire to love you and to be loved. And to be there for you if and when you need me — as you choose.

It means I may have to bite my tongue on occasion. Or to suffer in silence. But it also means I will not contaminate our relationship with expectations I seek to impose on you, even if the motives are pure (or at least as pure as humanly possible, which may not be as pure as we like to think).

But it doesn’t begin or stop with you. My aim is to harness any urge I might otherwise have to impose expectations on any other person. And, perhaps most important of all, on myself.

Self-imposed expectations can be the deadliest of all. They can be the source of much unhappiness and despair. Feelings of failure can pull us into an abyss from which we may not return.

In my later years, I try to expect nothing of life or others. If I am the recipient of good fortune and good relationships (as I am), I want to feel gratitude and nothing more.

Most of all, I don’t want to feel entitled. When things don’t go well, or when things unfold in a way that seems unjust or unfair, I don’t want to feel victimized or self-pity. Or resentful. It’s easier to avoid those self-destructive reactions if I had no expectations in the first place.

But, again, the void created by jettisoning expectations is not filled with nothingness, cynicism or apathy; rather, it is filled with desire, hope and gratitude.

I desire and hope for a better world. I desire and hope to be an agent for good in the world and in the relationships I have with others. I desire and hope for good things to come in the lives of the people whom I love. I desire and hope for happiness. And a sense of gratitude.

Expectations are a hard thing to let go. They seem to want to cling to us like that cellophane that’s so hard to get off your fingers. Yet I’ve come to believe they do us no favors. And are the source of much strife and discontent.

My aim is to expect nothing of the world or its inhabitants. But to desire and hope for much. And, most of all, to be grateful for whatever comes my way.

Turkeys Remind Us

Turkeys sacrifice. Themselves. That’s what they do. For us. Just look around the table today if you don’t believe me.

But it’s not only turkeys. There’s a lot of sacrifice out there. It’s just that most of it goes unnoticed.

You might wonder why people sacrifice. After all, we’re not turkeys. They don’t have a choice. Usually, we do.

I suppose there are several reasons people sacrifice.

Sometimes, it’s for a belief. Some people believe it’s important to live an ethical life. To have integrity. To not do something they believe is wrong. Yet they can’t control what comes their way. And sometimes what comes their way is a demand by more powerful people to do something that conflicts with their beliefs. And sometimes the demand is paired with a threat. Go along or suffer the consequences. Some people decide to stand firm on their principles and not to compromise. Sometimes, this means they have to sacrifice. Sometimes, it even means their death.

Sacrifice also can be rooted in love. Most of us parents would do anything for our spouse, children and grandchildren. We’d even sacrifice our lives if necessary. Parental love is that way. It knows no bounds.

Kids (myself included) tend to overlook or minimize this sacrifice. We tend to focus on what our parents did wrong. Or how they messed us up. Or their flaws. We fail to see the sacrifice. Or we don’t think it makes up for the wrong. Perhaps it doesn’t. But it’s still part of the equation. It can’t be written out of the book of history. Sometimes we acknowledge the sacrifice at their funeral. Sometimes we never do.

Today is a day we set aside to give thanks. To express gratitude. To count our blessings.

For starters, I’d like to thank the turkey. The ultimate sacrifice is unlike any other. It’s a big deal, even if you don’t have a say in the matter.

If you do have a choice, it’s an even bigger deal.

To my parents and grandparents (most of whom are gone), thank you. I get it. I’m a parent, too. I know what you’ve given. And what you were willing to give. Wow. Just wow.

To my wife and best friend (they’re the same person), gratitude doesn’t begin to capture what I feel. If you needed a heart, I’d give you mine. And be glad I could.

To my sons and you, Vera, my only grandchild, and your mother, the wife of our son, each of you is a blessing beyond measure. I’ve made mistakes. And probably will make more. But never doubt I would be willing to be the turkey if necessary.

To all our ancestors and contemporaries who worked so hard and gave of so much to make the world a better place, thank you. Your sacrifices may have gone unnoticed, but that doesn’t diminish them in the slightest.

If there is a spirit out there who cares, and loves us, thank you to you as well. Thank you for allowing us to experience the joy and blessing of sacrifice.

To care enough to find joy and blessing in sacrifice is indeed a gift. The source of this gift is a mystery. Yet it’s existence isn’t. It’s real. And precious.

The turkey will never experience it. But we can.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Mustering Courage

You’re shy, Vera. You often stand back, observing, thinking, uncertain when or how to engage. That’s O.K. That’s how you were created, and don’t let anyone tell you there is anything wrong with it. They will try. Some extroverts and those who charge in think their approach is the right one. But it’s not a matter of right and wrong. It’s a matter of individuality and differences. And accepting who you are. And being yourself.

This weekend you’ve been staying with us while your parents are out of town. We took you to Chick-fil-A® for lunch yesterday. I thought you would like it. Little did I know we’d end up spending nearly an hour and a half there.

It was packed of course. But we lucked out and got a table. We were surrounded by chaos. Lots of families and energetic kids. It was noisy. But you seemed O.K. You watched. Observed.

I thought you’d like their chicken nuggets, but it was the fruit in the kids’ meal that was devoured first. You checked out the game that came with your meal, but it was intended for older kids so it didn’t have much appeal.

It took a long time to eat because you were observing so much. And were distracted. It wasn’t only the kids and activity in the dining room. From our table you also could see the children’s play area behind the glass. You could see some kids climbing. And sliding down a tube sliding board.

You observed: Not with any apparent anxiety or fear; rather, with curiosity. I wondered what you were thinking.

When it came time to leave, I headed for the door. But you and your grandmother weren’t following. I soon learned that you were insisting that we check out the play area. So, naturally, being grandparents (i.e., persons who are loath to say no), we did.

It was a scary place. That was my assessment, not yours. You didn’t seem scared. It was loud — louder than the dining room. And more chaotic, made all the worse by four young boys who clearly had an over supply of energy.

To our right was a structure one was to climb up. From there kids could access the tube sliding board. You stood by the bottom of the entry point — where the kids were climbing up. To the side, of course. You watched.

And watched. And watched. You and your grandmother checked out a few other things, but you soon returned to your watch point where the kids were heading up to the sliding board.

You wanted to stay. Yet you simply couldn’t muster the courage to join the fray and climb up. Minutes passed by. Lots of them. I think we must have waited 20 minutes or more. But that was O.K. You wanted to be there. You wanted to wait. It was too good to leave.

Finally, the rambunctious boys left and the activity area had only a few other kids. I could see it in your eyes. This was your opportunity!

I suggested to you that it may not get any better than this. Didn’t you want to go up?

And then it happened. You started up to the top of the structure. But you soon encountered a problem: a young girl was blocking your way. You could have gone around, but you froze. There was movement. You progressed. You were in a tube section out of sight from us. But it wasn’t entirely opaque. I could see you once again encountered resistance: a kid who, for inexplicable reasons, had stopped. You retreated.

Your retreat didn’t last long though. You once again headed for the tube. You were out of sight for a while. We waited. And then you appeared. Down the slide. Grinning from ear to ear and laughing. “More?” you asked. “Sure,” I said.

You bolted to the entry point. Only this time was different. There was purpose to your stride. You seemed oblivious to the other kids. You even passed one. In no time, you were down the slide again, laughing harder than the time before.

You went again, with even more purpose. For the next while, you routinely bypassed other kids on your way to the slide. You weren’t observing. You were engaging. You weren’t anxious about the other kids. You were just one of the crowd, enjoying life to the fullest.

One of the reasons I wanted to take you to the restaurant is to help you get comfortable with strange situations. And to learn, in your own way and in your own time, that most of the fears and threats we feel aren’t real.

But I don’t want to push you. And I certainly don’t want to try to change you. I just want to help you release your inner courage — to nudge you gently when the rewards are probable. And not to miss out on a lot of the fun stuff in life.

I remember when I was in college, I dreaded the prospect of having to speak in class. Once a took a seminar with 12 other students. We had to speak. I hated it.

I also hated my speech class. Having to stand up in front of the class and give a speech was about the worst thing I could imagine.

Years later I gave many speeches to large crowds. And testified in the state legislature before Senate and House Committees. And gave TV interviews. Not only didn’t I mind it, I often enjoyed it.

But the path from college to standing in front of people wasn’t always an easy or pleasant one. I’m sure I didn’t always do a good job. And, in the early years, I would get really nervous. But I learned an important lesson along the way: fear comes from within. The outside world is not as threatening as it may seem.

It was fun watching you engage the outside world yesterday, albeit in a small, relatively insignificant way. On the way home, you fell asleep. Later, after we had returned home, you took me into the house in the basement that you and your grandmother had made out of chairs and blankets. Piggy and Bear live there. We visited them. You made us cake (your idea). And served me coffee.

It was a closed, protective environment. It was nothing like the restaurant. Our food and drink were imaginary. Tranquility prevailed. It was just you, me, Piggy and Bear.

Life is lived in both places, of course: in the public arena and in our private, protective enclaves. Chaos and tranquility. We need both. That’s the way we were made. That’s the way the world was made.

It takes courage to experience fully both places.

The Better Question Is, What Do I Have That I Didn’t?

I’m tired of having to explain my decision to move to Indiana to all the people around Carmel with whom I come into contact. Given my situation, many of those people are in the health care field, but there have been others.

Hoosiers are open and inquisitive people. I’m always amazed by how much you learn about them in a brief conversation. They’re eager to share. And they want you to share, too.

So invariably they learn we’ve lived here for only a short time. I don’t volunteer it, but they ask: “Where did you move from?” Colorado, I say (a mistake). “Why would you leave Colorado to move here?!,” they ask, with a tone that suggests they think I made a terrible mistake.

That’s when I tell them about you, Vera. And your parents. And how happy I am to be here, even though I love Colorado.

I then promise myself to tell people, the next time I’m asked, that we moved from Camden or Detroit. But I can’t do it, even though it would be only a little white fib.

Two events occurred this week that brought all of this to the fore once again. My physical therapist was working on my arm, doing what Hoosiers do best: sharing and probing. And sure enough, she asked, Where did you move from?” I stupidly confessed: “Colorado.”

She then caught me off guard, asking a question I hadn’t gotten from other inquisitors. “What do you miss most about Colorado?”

Perhaps it’s because I’m ill and had my guard down. Perhaps it was the pain meds. Whatever the reason, I didn’t take time to think about my response. Instead, I simply uttered the first thought that came to mind, which also seemed to be the most truthful: “Everything.”

My response was entirely consistent with my prior views, of course. Simply put, taking all other considerations out of the equation (which can’t nor should it be done), there is no place like Colorado.

I went on to tell my therapist that, even though I liked Colorado, I was glad we lived here, near you and your parents. And in Carmel, which is probably the best place we ever lived from the perspective of many of the things that matter to us (amenities, walkability, conveniences, no HOA, progressive, etc.).

Roll the clock forward to last evening. Your grandmother thought she was going to pick you up a day care without me. She said I should stay home. After all, I had pneumonia and perhaps other undiagnosed ailments. I needed to stay put.

Right, I thought. The pain wouldn’t be that much different in the car than sitting at home. I went.

It was at your day care that it occurred to me that the better question would have been, “What do you have here that you didn’t have in Colorado?”

Here is just a glimpse of what I have.

We walked into your room. You were playing with your classmates. You were holding a container and they were filling it. You hadn’t seen us arrive (I have stealth-like qualities).

I then spoke your name. You turned and, consistent with past practice, you immediately did your best imitation of Usain Bolt. I’m always surprised by your acceleration and speed — and recklessness.

You never pull up. Instead, you run full throttle into my arms.

And then we went home and played.

The Day Death Chose Not to Stop

I remember hearing the sound of a violent crash. The next thing I knew, I awoke, only to see a spidered windshield and deformed car door pressing against me. Concussion-induced amnesia stole from me (perhaps protected me from) other memories adjacent to the collision.

I do recall emergency personnel being on site, but don’t recall being extricated from the car or loaded into the ambulance. Vera, I remember calling your grandmother from the ambulance because I was concerned she’d go to the airport to meet me as planned. But I don’t recall sending an email and photo to her and your dad and uncle, although later I was presented with proof that I had. It was an odd thing to have done.

I recall arriving at the trauma center, the hall lined on both sides with medical personnel anticipating my arrival. Once on the table, I recall someone struggling to remove my wedding ring, to no avail. I recall suggesting lubricant. It worked.

I recall someone cutting off all my clothes. And I remember a doctor examining my spine for injury. I especially recall the intense pain as I was rolled on my side as they checked for internal hemorrhaging.

I’m sure there had to be more, but that’s all I remember, until being moved for CT scans. A short time later, I recall the excruciating pain as technicians endeavored to move me into position for x-rays.

Twelve hours later, after IV drips, pain meds, more tests, sutures, a failed attempt to set a bone, and a splint being plastered on me, I was discharged, barely able to walk but one lucky guy.

Reflecting on this day later, the thing that stood out for me, through it all — the trauma, pain and vast unknowns — is that I hadn’t experienced a single moment of fear.

It wasn’t a matter of courage. It was more like an act of grace. And peace.

Beginning with the moment I regained consciousness to the present, I have been experiencing an overwhelming sense of gratitude, and the feeling that death had passed by on that road, but for reasons I’ll never know, decided not to stop.

The paramedic remarked that I probably would not have survived if I hadn’t been wearing my seatbelt. When looking at the crushed metal from my captive, scrunched position inside the car, and later when viewing a photo of the exterior of the car, I knew that it took more than the seatbelt to save me that morning and, at the very least, the injuries could have been much, much worse.

I’m healing now, as are the occupants of the other vehicle, who remain in my constant thoughts and prayers.

Yesterday afternoon, we picked you up from your school, Vera. I couldn’t lift you up to put you in the car seat, and I think you’re wondering why I have so many boos-boos and a strange thing on my arm. But it doesn’t seem to matter to you. And it doesn’t matter to me, either.

Today, I will be wheeled into an operating room for back-to-back surgeries. Bone stuff — nothing life threatening. And then I will get to know my oral surgeon and dentist even better. There are worse ways to spend time.

Along this short, intense journey, I’ve encountered people of compassion, ranging from health care professionals, taxi and shuttle drivers, airlines personnel, strangers who offered assistance at the airport, friends from Colorado extending their arms 1,000 miles, family and others.

I also encountered some people who weren’t helpful or, worse yet, were actively unhelpful. But I’m just going to pretend I didn’t.

Some people say they’re sorry. I don’t say it (because I appreciate their concern), but what I’m thinking is, “For what?” 

There have been times in my life that I’ve felt sorry for myself. But this hasn’t been one of them.

I used to close letters and emails (and sometimes still do) to certain people with the words, “Peace and grace to you.”

This past week, the words returned home to me.

 

Perhaps the Amish Can Teach Us a Thing or Two

I grew up in Pennsylvania, not far from Amish territory. We always regarded Amish territory as Lancaster County, although since my childhood the Amish turf has expanded. There are now quite a few Amish living in close proximity to my childhood home.

The Amish were always a novelty of sorts: buggies and horses; no cars, electricity, or phones; plain dress; bad haircuts; detachment from the broader society. It was never a life that appealed to me, yet I was aware that most kids who grew up Amish remained with the community throughout their lives, even after being given an opportunity to leave.

This morning, when reading a blog post about digital minimalism by Cal Newport (Study Hacks blog), I came across this statement about the Amish and their decision to reject much of the technology I take for granted:

The Amish, it turns out, do something that’s both shockingly radical and simple in our age of impulsive and complicated consumerism: they start with the things they value most, then work backwards to ask whether a given technology performs more harm than good with respect to these values.

Such incredible intentionality, I thought.

It’s hard to imagine a community that consciously evaluates technology in such a way. The English (the Amish’s term for me and you) rarely if ever undertake such a self-examination. Instead, we automatically embrace new technology if we can afford it and if it brings us pleasure. Or at least if we assume it’s going to bring us pleasure (whether or not it actually does is a different question).

But are we better off for it? That’s another matter. And it’s a question we don’t wrestle with much if at all.

I do know that the Amish don’t seem to be worse off for not having embraced many of the technologies that are part of our lives — at least if the measure is happiness. And if the measure isn’t happiness, then what is it? What should it be?

I suppose the Amish would argue we (the English) tend to undervalue community and relationships. Has it occurred to us they may be right?

And if they’re right, how would we live our lives differently if we better aligned our decisions with what we truly value?

Personally, I think we tend to undervalue relationships and time. Consequently, we have a plethora of fractured families and communities, and we tend to lives our lives like there is an inexhaustible supply of time when, in reality, time is a very limited, precious resource that could be gone in a heartbeat (literally).

There are some things I think we overvalue, too. Money and stuff head the list. I never cease to be amazed by the amount of storage space Americans rent in which to keep their excess stuff. And by the amount of debt Americans carry so they can buy more stuff.

But my goal, Vera, isn’t to convince you that my list of under and over-valued things is better than anyone else’s. Rather, it’s merely to raise the questions, might the Amish be on to something? And might we be well served by extending their question (does it do more harm than good) beyond decisions about technology?

I think they are and it does.

Life constantly tempts us to compromise our values for something else.

Often, the something else is something someone wants us to embrace (and value) because they can make money off of our decision to buy it. Or pursue it. Or acquiesce to it.

Often, the something else is merely ego gratification and short-termism — the failure to learn from history and to separate the wheat from the chaff.

It may be the right thing to do. But it also might be something that undermines our values and detracts us from the things — and people — that truly matter. The things that bring happiness into our lives. Or a deep sense of purpose or contentment. Or simply peace and grace.

Does it do more harm that good?

It’s not a bad question to ask ourselves each and every day of our lives.

Too Afraid To Be Away From the Office

Americans don’t take roughly half of their allotted vacation time because of fear. Vera, if you ever find yourself in the position of being afraid to take your allowed vacation time, know that it’s time to take stock of your life.

Sixty plus years of life has convinced me that fear is the most persistent and powerful force in the universe. And that one key to a happy life is to overcome it.

It’s no easy task. In fact, some people may say it’s an impossible task. But they’re only partially right. It is impossible to conquer fear entirely, but it is quite possible not to allow it to dominant your life.

But it may take some planning. And willingness to take some risks (or what will be perceived by many people as risks).

If you’re going to be beholden to anything eternal to you, such as an employer, a particular client, an image or certain position in life, then it’s likely you’ll fear losing that thing. And it’s possible that that fear will lead you to do things you’d otherwise not do, and to feel things you’d rather not feel. It’s because the thing owns you.

The antidote to fear, in my experience, is freedom: the freedom to walk away, the freedom to live your life in harmony with your values and heartfelt desires.

Yet freedom can be illusive. Things seek to steal it, to deprive you of its glory. Fear tells us freedom is risky. Unreliable.

To the contrary, the risk lies in allowing fear to convince us that the other is the source of freedom and happiness. And that it doesn’t reside within.

We think we need more than we do. Fear convinces us of that.

Many people are afraid to spend time away from the office. They fear losing their job. Or their privileged position.

I hope you know freedom, Vera. My hope for you on this Labor Day is that you’ll never be afraid to leave the office and, if you find yourself in that position, that there will be a path out to freedom.