Photo courtesy of askdeb.com

I couldn’t resist the headline, or opportunity to self-evaluate, which is why I clicked the link titled “What His Bad Habits Reveal.” Is there anything more exciting than spending a few minutes discovering the deeper meanings behind your shortcomings? I didn’t think so, either. (Cue sarcasm.) I’m not perfect after all, as much as I hate making mistakes or even admitting that mistakes are part of the human condition. But learning how to change your less-than-stellar traits is necessary for growth, right?

I expected the worst as I read the article on msn.com, and boy, did I get it. The story quotes Patrick Wanis, a human behavior expert who analyzes the habits and what they say about your poorly trained dog….er, significant other. Luckily, I don’t leave dishes in the sink (“thoughtless…not clean…not considerate”) or slurp my food (“just wants attention”). I do, however, bite my nails, an apparent indication of insecurity and inability of self-expression. Says Wanis, “It doesn’t really indicate hygiene issues; it talks more about psychological, mental, and emotional issues.”

Whoa, Wanis. I know I have my issues, but the occasional nibble on my fingers means I should be outfitted with a straitjacket? I don’t trim my toenails as often as I should–does that offset the psychological damage I’m incurring by those detrimental bites on my digits? Please advise.

The next one left me more perplexed. Wanis says procrastination is a sign of laziness. Procrastinators, like myself, apparently are people that aren’t dependable in times of need or “take on the really tough stuff.” I may wait until the last minute to accomplish many of my tasks, but they eventually get done–even the “really tough ones.” And I feel I’m more dependable than a box of Depends. Who are you to judge? You don’t even know me, Wanis!

OK, so maybe the tiny outburst I’m having on here means I’m still learning how to take constructive criticism. (Or maybe I do need that straightjacket.) The point is this: I’m a nail-biting procrastinator who cleans his dishes and doesn’t slurp his food. I’m all of that–the good mixed with the bad. And in my world, that’s OK.

You got a problem with that, Wanis?

THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST

It’s a disturbing scenario, one that families of missing persons must face. I’ve gotten obsessed with the TV show “Disappeared” on Discovery ID, which profiles such people and the tragedy that comes with attempting to concoct reasons for a loved one’s vanishing, however tragic the reality might be. (Most episodes rarely end on a happy note.) One recent case focused on Amber Gerweck, a 33-year-old mother of four who was reported missing earlier this year. Her car was later discovered in Georgia, nearly 600 miles from her Michigan apartment. She was seen on a store surveillance camera in Georgia nonchalantly purchasing items, exited the store, and was never seen from again–until she was discovered a month later at an Illinois police station, without any memory of how she got there or her identity.

Amber had suffered from a rare form of amnesia, one that erased her memory of most of her life’s major events past the age of 12. Her parents and children weren’t any familiar to her than strangers off the street.

What struck me as inspiring was Amber’s final words toward the end of the show. She’s slowly rebuilt her life in the months following her return to normalcy, but in a sense she’s a changed person. Her ordeal also showcases the strength of familial bonds.

“The one thing in the world that mattered the most to me is that people don’t lose hope,” Gerweck said during the episode. “It means the world to me to remember everyday how many people refused to give up that I would be found. You can’t give up–you have to keep hoping.”

The Eternal Optimist

I jumped into the air so many times that night that my calves were still burning days later. Immediately after the concert, my voice was courser than a jagged-edged rock, since I have the tendency to belt out every tune in ear-piercing fashion. But the euphoria I experienced was worth every moment of physical pain.

The night at Croke Park is on my life’s “top five” list. Yes, the music rocked, but there was something about sharing space and elation with like-minded people from across the globe. Very few experiences have made me feel this alive. I want more of that feeling.

I wish everyday of my life could be a top-five experience. Life doesn’t work out that way. For every high, there’s a low. However, I’ve made it a goal lately to insert some “life” into living on a daily basis—whether it’s going for a quick jog in the brisk weather or cranking up the music on my iPod and jamming to it while riding the subway. (My apologies to the guy sitting next to me the other day.) Stepping outside of my comfort zone is a tactic I use to break the mundane.

If one day seems to blend into the other, maybe it’s time to reevaluate how much “living” we’re actually doing.

The Eternal Optimist

Credit: Digitalart

Ever get so engrossed in a book that you lose track of your surroundings—or in my case, miss the subway stop where you’re supposed to exit? This type of mental stimulation apparently has numerous health benefits, according to a recent article in the magazine Ode. Certain psychologists and physicians are turning to bibliotherapy—the use of reading as a form of therapy—as the prescriptive medicine for a handful of illnesses.

According to Ode, this is how it works: While reading something particularly interesting, our brain’s circuits aren’t able to distinguish reality from the fact or fiction on the page. It’s as if our mind is living out the scene. Becoming part of the action, we stimulate the feelings and thoughts of the characters, which “allows readers to perceive and express their own emotions”—or quite simply, take our mind off of our own pain. One success story mentioned in the article is a 17 year old suffering from knee pain associated with reflex sympathetic dystrophy, a chronic disease affecting the nerves and blood vessels. To escape her pain, she reads—constantly—since other treatments, including painkillers, have failed.

Haven’t picked up a book in a while? Go get lost in one.

New York City's World Trade Center. Photo by Joe Woolhead

I was given the fortunate task of piecing together a feature story on the “10-year anniversary” of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. I hate the word anniversary when dealing with tragedy; the word conjures up images of celebratory events, but this event was anything but. Rather than debate terminology, my goal was to piece something together that would somehow honor the nearly 3,000 casualties from America’s darkest day.

There was no way I could write an effective story on 9/11 without first reviewing the images, news clips, and videos from that day. (I soon discovered the awful fact that only a little more than half of the bodies of victims at the World Trade Center were ever identified or recovered.) YouTube is a great resource when you want to find any and all videos of 9/11 in a pinch. But watching the breadth of videos–one after the other–can leave curious viewers like me in a depressed state–videos showing all angles in which the planes impacted the WTC towers; 911 phone calls to emergency dispatchers, including a screaming man in one of the buildings as it collapsed; WTC “jumpers”; newscasters trying to hold it together as the NYC skyline changed before their eyes–and in front of terrified global audience.

Overtime, I had to distance myself from the clips since I was getting emotionally ill and incredibly angered. I couldn’t help but ask a question I’ve asked time and time again: Why? Why do these awful things happen to people, whether it’s death or pain spurred by human hatred or natural occurrences? It might seem like an absurd question to some, since I know it’s something that will likely remain unanswered, no matter how hard I search for justification.

I did a cursory search online for others who demanded an explanation, and came across a website that answered reader questions from a “Jewish perspective.” I’m not even Jewish, but was intrigued by the response.

Here’s a summation of the response, found on chabad.org:

“If this ultimate question were answered, then we would be able to make peace with the suffering of innocents. And that is unthinkable. Worse than innocent people suffering is others watching their suffering unmoved. And that’s exactly what would happen if we were to understand why innocents suffer. We would no longer be bothered by their cry, we would no longer feel their pain, because we would understand why it is happening. We can tolerate suffering when we know why it is happening.

And so, if we could make sense of innocent people suffering, if we could rationalize tragedy, then we could live with it. We would be able to hear the cry of sweet children in pain and not be horrified. We would tolerate seeing broken hearts and shattered lives, for we would be able to neatly explain them away. Our question would be answered, and we could move on.

But as long as the pain of innocents remains a burning question, we are bothered by its existence. And as long as we can’t explain pain, we must alleviate it. So keep asking the question. But stop looking for answers. Start formulating a response. Take your righteous anger and turn it into a force for doing good.”

Maybe a lack of an answer is the answer I’ve been looking for.

THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST

In front of me was a 12-unit apartment complex, the unfortunate victim of a fire that disintegrated the entire roof, blew out windows, and ruined the structural capacity of the building. What was left looked like it could collapse in on itself at any second. The other victims—nearly 20 tenants—were huddled in a room adjacent to a pool that was occupied by carefree revelers. My first volunteer effort as a Red Cross Disaster Action Team member, I looked at the long faces but had no idea what to say to them or how to mitigate their pain. Would smiling at them be inappropriate? I opted instead to hide my inadequacy by peering out the window overlooking the pool and those experiencing a sunnier day.

Then my team leader delivered another blow to the group: Due to the structural instability of the building, nobody was allowed to reenter the structure and gather what was left of their belongings. Their clothes, valuables, photos of loved ones—all gone. Most likely, the building will be demolished. One burly man repeated what the team leader said—just to make sure he heard the news correctly—before batting his eyes in an effort to minimize the tears reddening his eyes.

Accompanied by three other volunteers, I got to work. While wearing my red and white Red Cross vest, I created case files for each family, assessing their temporary living situation and deciding how much money they will need to get by. The funds placed on a special debit card weren’t much, but it was enough to cover food and clothing expenses. They also received toiletry kits and a packet of information outlining ways to piece their life back together. As if such a thing can happen by words in a pamphlet, but it’s a good start.

Then I noticed something incredible: Their tears transitioned into smiles, laughter, and a general sense of normalcy. A gentle woman seven months pregnant should have been on the verge of a breakdown after all that she had been through. Prior to the fire, she was in a car accident and bitten by a dog—all in the same week. Yet she sat there, politely answering my questions, a smile plastered on her face the entire time. She locked her hand with her husband’s, a gesture indicating that their most prized possessions weren’t lost in this tragedy. I’m sure the others felt the same way, as there were no deaths attributed to this massive fire.

Another woman was wearing donated clothes and attempted to rid her four-year-old daughter of the fiery memories by coloring together. I handed the little one a donated Mickey Mouse doll, and she demanded a hug by placing her arms in the air. How could I deprive her of one?

Her mom started crying again after returning from the pool, but this time her tears weren’t induced by emotional pain. They were from looking at the spread of food other apartment tenants apparently gathered on their behalf. Knowing that their basic needs were now met, they left the room hopefully in a better state than they arrived. But would this feeling of stability last—one week, one month after the fire? Would the pain of losing nearly everything finally sink in and constantly eat away at their seemingly positive outlook?

One victim indirectly gave me an answer. He sat on a couch, recounting the point when he and his wife returned home to find their apartment in flames. Their dog was in a cage, but fortunately firefighters saved their four-legged friend. It didn’t seem that anything else that was left in the building now mattered. “It’s just stuff,” he said, before leaving the area with a semi-smile on his face.

THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST

Photo courtesy of Photobucket

If you’re anything like me (my apologies if that’s the case), you tense up at the sight of panhandlers. You’re walking down a city block and you see their extended hand begging for whatever you’re willing to supply them. I don’t make eye contact with them, but rather look to the ground and mumble a “no, sorry” when they utter their request for spare change, even if I may have a buck to share.

If I’m toting leftover food, I’ll typically hand it over, but money is a different story, probably because I’m skeptical of how it will be used. I’ve heard some outrageous claims, ranging from the unbelievable–”My wallet’s been stolen and I’ve got to pick up my kid at school, so could you spare a dollar for bus fare?”–to the humorously credible–”Can you spare me a dollar so I can get drunk?”

What’s a do-gooder like me supposed to do? One idea is to stick my spare change in parking meters.

That’s right: in Salt Lake City, city officials have designated certain parking meters to collect coins on behalf of the Pamela J. Atkinson Foundation, which in turn disperses the funds to homeless agencies in the city. Adding to these funds is a program allowing merchants to purchase a one-year sponsorship of each meter for $1,000. Police are also being tasked with distributing cards to panhandlers that outline an array of service organizations.

Getting a handle on America’s homeless population is a time-consuming effort, but at least Salt Lake has enacted small endeavors that literally make cents.

THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST

This week we celebrate Earth Day, so why not show a little love for Mama Earth? Granted, she may be a bit testy after consuming radiation from Japan, recovering from a ginormous oil spill in the Gulf last year, battling a fever that prevents her ice caps from staying frosty, drowning in rising sea levels, choking on toxic air, getting a heat stroke from a neighboring star that relentlessly beats down on her…

Right, this isn’t a gloom-and-doom blog. Sorry, my bad. Countering the number of recent events that have ticked off our planet and my fellow environmentalists this year is a comparable amount of actions demonstrating a commitment to a cleaner future. One blog is highlighting these steps, however small they may seem. Check it out. If you have something to share, feel free to add it to the list. Or peruse the existing list and get inspired.

THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST

That’s right: Marge, my gray-haired granny who must have been in her 80s at that point but with enough vivacity of a 20-something, was watching “Saturday Night Live” with my younger sister, Lisa, and me in the living room of her Southwest Philly rowhome when the night’s musical guest and his band (the Rolling Stones, for those who don’t know their classic rock) were introduced. I don’t remember their performance, probably because my eyes weren’t on the TV. They were fixated on grandma, standing with her hands to her sides, hips gyrating, and lips puckered as to imitate Mick’s massive mouth and mannerisms. In typical Jagger fashion, she’d thrust her arm in the air on occasion, almost as if she was having a spasm. Lisa and I laughed so hard, the neighbors probably thought we were being tickled to death.

I had no idea Grams knew who Mick was, let alone the way he shimmied on stage. What wasn’t surprising was this energy of hers I became so accustomed to–an energy that got her through an array of medical scares, including a bout with cancer right around the time I was born, and kept her as active as a energetic teenager. If my grandma struggled with something, you’d never know it; complaining wasn’t her style. Her cure to any of her ailments was a simple one: quality time with her family and a big meal. It’s difficult for me to describe the sense of  joy I witnessed on her face when in the presence of her three sons, in-laws, grandchildren, friends, etc., since I have nothing to compare it to. I’ve never met anyone else whose basic need for sheer happiness was fulfilled so simply. And it seemed as if nothing else gave her as much fulfillment–not any of the gifts we’d shower her with on special occasions or her modest home. Being in the presence of her family was the only gift she craved, time and time again.

Which is why I wished I would have visited her more often while working in Philly. On those occasions when I spent my lunch break inside her home, she’d always whip out a copy of the Southwest Philly Review and doted on her grandson’s latest story, beaming that a member of her clan was writing for the community she called home for a number of years. She compared me to some sort of celebrity–something I’m far from–which always made me blush.

Christmas was the last time I saw Grams–a shell of the lady I remember. Wheelchair-bound, her legs that once danced the Mick Jagger dance were hardly of use for her anymore. She needed help getting to and from everywhere. She slept all hours of the day. She had trouble hearing and remembering names. And she worried, constantly. She was scared–scared of what was coming, scared of being left alone. Yet, that light–that beautiful light–of her hers was still there. The worries melted as we ate dinner together, as we made her laugh again and again. Even if she couldn’t hear our conversations while sitting around the TV, she smiled, knowing she was in the company of people who would never abandon her. Grams got her Christmas wish.

A few months later, Mom told me Grams was admitted to the hospital for pneumonia, and the doctors were considering placing her in hospice care. The next morning at 7:30 a.m., the call came. Calls from parents that early in the morning are never pleasant. I wasn’t expecting that her heart would give so soon, and for that dreaded call to come as quickly as it did.

I entered the South Philly funeral parlor the day of Grams’ wake and immediately headed to the massive collage of photos constructed by my sister, Theresa, and other family members. Almost every picture taken during her 99 years on Earth showed that infectious smile. No matter what life threw at her, she smiled. And that’s how I’ll remember her. It’s bizarre to think that looking at photos of someone so happy could reduce you to tears.

Living for nearly a century, Grams was doing something right. And even now that she’s gone, she’s still reminding me to remember life’s simple things, to keep positive despite life’s lemons. I know I’ll see her again, which has helped dull the pain of losing her. This is only goodbye–for now.

During her final years, my encounters with Grams grew less and less when I left Philly. She’d always greet me with her amazing smile, which would gradually fade to a worried look, then to a frown. “I worry so much about you being so far away. Be careful, Freddie.”

You’re not that far away anymore, Grams. I feel you right by my side.

THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST

A few days a week, I take a shuttle bus from the subway to my work’s office park. The driver—a portly, prickly, man with glasses and a gray bouffant that’s always well kempt—sometimes grumbles a “hello” when boarding, but more frequently yells at the drivers who continually scorn him. Some of his greatest hits include “Jeepers, buddy! Nice turn signal!” and “This UPS truck is gonna annoy the piss outta me.” My friends and I coined a nickname for him: Capt. Peter Roadrage, since he has a Boston accent similar to Peter from the show “The Family Guy.” The Roadrage part is self-explanatory.

I’ve heard him chat with other passengers—I’m too busy reading the paper and trying to ignore him—about how he used to serve as a facilities manager for 19 years. I thought to myself, what the heck are you doing here, then? Judgmental, I told you. He must have wanted a cushier job. Judgmental, once again.

It wasn’t until I boarded the bus one morning that Peter took on a new personality. I was the only one on the shuttle, so he opened up about his twin sons, one of whom is getting married soon; the church he attends frequently; and his former job, which he wished he still had. You see, Peter was laid off two years ago—brought into his boss’ office one day, didn’t see it coming, a devastated victim of the recession. He spent months looking for a similar position, but no luck. After sending out 700 applications, he decided to look elsewhere. He practically hounded the shuttle service company to hire him—calling at least once a week before they gave him the gig.

These days, he’s lucky to have a job, but insists he’s destined for bigger things. “I’m more than this,” he tells me, before letting me off the vehicle, but quickly adds, “I’m making the most of it. At least I’m working again.” He’s confident he’ll one day return to the work he loves.

All this time, an eternal optimist in my presence and I, blinded by judgment, couldn’t see him. I now have a newfound respect for Capt. Pete—enough to figure out his real name. It’s Andrew.

The Eternal Optimist