Frederic Reamer

No doubt you have noticed how our lives ebb and flow, much like the seasons.  Both literally and figuratively we get to experience the wonder of stunningly beautiful spring days and the bitter assault delivered by the occasional winter blizzard.  Such is life.  Indeed, seasons seem to be able to teach us so much about coping with life's inevitable ups and downs, including its bittersweet moments.

Several years ago, political scientist Robert Putnam wrote a compelling book with the intriguing title Bowling Alone. Based on tens of thousands of interviews, Putnam astutely argued that over the last quarter century Americans have begun living much more fragmented lives.

Rhode Islanders think of themselves as residents of the Ocean State for good reason.  We're surrounded.  Maybe not literally surrounded at every border, but certainly by any objective measure water pervades our rich culture.

Paying attention.  Two words.  Five syllables.  It sounds so simple.  But if we're completely honest with ourselves, how many of us would have a hard time raising our hands claiming that we're good at paying attention, really paying attention, as we march through our lives?  Are we staring at our smartphone screens in lieu of connecting with the people we really care about?  Are we racing from Point A to Point B without noticing the remarkable moon hanging right above us or the tree blossoms unfolding right in front of our eyes?

So many moments in life call for courage and grit. Managing a bad medical diagnosis. Absorbing the unexpected news that you’ve just been laid off from the job you've loved for years. Having your romantic fantasies dashed by the startling text message informing you that your partner has decided it's best to part ways.

Life is full of mundane and not-so-mundane things that many of us get quite used to and, over time, take for granted.

We've all been there: Those times when the people we care most about need us badly, perhaps in the face of dreadful news.  Of course, the tables sometimes turn, and we need others to provide succor and solace.  Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, "A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature."  But being present in these difficult, sometimes overwhelming moments, isn't always easy.  Tears, trauma, and anguish can be hard to bear.  Yet sometimes simply being there is all we can offer, and might even be all that's needed, as we hear from Patricia Liberty. 

So many of us, perhaps all of us, do our best to cope with the rush of life.  The pressures and pace seem relentless, the push to move it, move it, move it!  Race to pick up the kids on time!  Check those text messages!  Get that final draft in by noon!  And on and on.

  Empathy – real empathy – is a mysterious phenomenon.  The poet Walt Whitman wrote, "I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.” 

Who among us hasn't carved moments out of our lives to moan . . . and . . . groan. "If that kid of mine doesn't clean her room, I'm going to bust a gut!" "Can you believe the prices on this menu?" "What in heaven's name do I need to do to lose some weight?"  Complaining seems to be part of the human condition, what happens between inhaling and exhaling. 

For some, studying history conjures up images of dusty documents piled high in the library stacks or a professor's book-filled office.  How many of us can recall history courses where we studied fistfuls of flashcards before the exam, doing our best to memorize a litany of dates and what seemed like arcane facts that we quickly forgot? 

Have you ever encountered moments in life when you weren't sure you had the wherewithal to climb out of bed and face another day?  Moments when you saw no light whatsoever at the end of your tunnel, when you wanted to, well, just give up? 

Here we are, right smack in the heart of another New England winter. For some, this stretch of months with early sunsets is filled with dread -- frosty temperatures, snow piles to shovel, and ice patches to dodge. But for others of us, this wintry mix is the stuff of pure delight. 

Growing older can be complicated.  Some manage to ease into new chapters in their lives with grace and equanimity. Others struggle, perhaps because of ill health, daunting financial challenges, or, perhaps, for more existential reasons having to do with the mysteries and anxieties of mortality.

Many of us have known friends and loved ones whose minds and mental faculties have slipped away as some form of dementia has tightened its unrelenting grip. We know the challenging signs: confusion about time and place, memory lapses, language difficulties, mood changes, isolation.  No doubt, this is a painful process for nearly everyone caught in its midst.  But some of us also find precious, even bright moments as we travel this complicated journey.  Anne Mulhall has found just that and shares the lessons she's learned from her deeply personal odyssey.