Self

The way she moves, the way she laughs, what she knows....

What makes an older woman sexy? I fell asleep the other night wondering this, having contemplated the subtle erosion of the various bodily bits which supposedly evoke sexual urges.

But before I launch into my exegesis, I must make a minor (and defensive) detour and query the same about older men. What do we find sexy about Jeremy Irons or Clint Eastwood? Isn’t is their self-assurance? Their ease? Why is it considered that they look great when their hair turns silver and lines define their face, yet this doesn’t apply to women? I know, this is a huge topic, and a bit of an old saw and frankly I’m really...

Why is Larry Gilman So Happy? video

Maybe it's Because He Knows How to Play... Watch the Video interview.

Yes, Larry really knows how to play, but more importantly, Larry really knows how to emote, and how to help you energize your ability to do so as well. This is at the core of his workshop, ‘Masters of Self-Expression.’ Does the name sound a bit outlandish, abstract? Yet Larry, together with the program’s founder, Dan Fauci, and their talented faculty, brings it down to earth. The workshop’s goal is to help us discover the path to a deeper, more meaningful expression of our true selves. Their methods range from highly entertaining to terrifying and are almost always exhilarating.

The Story of My Face

Suzanne Tague, 2nd prize winner of the Realize Writers Contest

"And what can we do for you today?" the dermatologist bellows, as though my being naked under a paper gown makes me hard of hearing. His slicked-back, yellow hair has muddy roots poking through, like weeds in a swamp. I point at two rough spots on my forehead. “Benign keratoses,” he says. Looking bored, he launches into a speech about keratoses, ending: “So there’s nothing to worry about."

"Last year you said those spots were pre-cancerous."

He checks his chart. "You're right." He removes them because my face is sun-damaged. But just minutes earlier, all was benign.

My face...

Boredom is a Virtue

Or merely subjective

“Sleepy Dave” Stevens was hands down the most boring teacher at Williston Academy, a boys boarding school, the fall of my senior year, 1965. “Silly Putty” (aka “Herr Putnam”), our German teacher, was a close second, but “Sleepy Dave’s” 8:30 English class was where we boys learned how to feign attentiveness as we strained to fight the leaden weight of our eyelids, our heads bowed as though in prayer—eight monks in a sweating classroom whose tedious heartbeat was a single clanking radiator, all time slowed down to a merciless pace, we tried to pry open our eyes with our fingers.

It was not uncommon for a boy to hit his head on his...

Redone by Zen

Or How I Learned to Talk Tree

There is a place we can go, when we allow our minds to go silent, a place full of delight and joy. I have glimpsed it before, mostly walking in nature. But in this case, residing for four days in the foothills of the Sierras, it comes to me in spades. Because here, beneath cobalt blue skies and between bosomy hills draped in dry yellow grasses and peppered with pines and manzanitas, is where my Zen retreat is taking place.

I soon learn this state of joy can happen anywhere, even facing a blank white wall. For there is an essential joy residing in our natures as well as in nature herself. That joy is waiting patiently beneath...

A Salon for the 21st Century

Happy Hour Enlightenment in Berkeley California

A mathematician, an artist, a lawyer and an MBA walk into a bar…

You might think this is the start of a joke about null sets, oil paint, sharks and private equity, but it’s something completely different. It’s a salon, a real Salon, like the Algonquin Round Table in Manhattan, or Gertrude Stein’s Paris salon. These people meet every Friday night at the brightly-lit, well-appointed Solano Grill and Bar in a bustling Berkeley neighborhood, and they say it’s the highlight of their week. And everyone has something to contribute -- from the theoretical to the personal, from the serious to the laughable, from the...

Bucking the Bucket List

Pat Hitchens inquires amongst her peers about the value of the Bucket...

In an online chat venue, I encountered a post to the effect that Every rational person should have a Bucket list. But after chatting up the subject with a number of Realizers, I’d modify that to something like, Every rational person should have an opinion about a Bucket list. The Internet opinionator probably equated making lists with doing stuff. Even my husband Bob, who, to date, has steered clear of the whole bucket meme, admitted it’s a fair point. “Since the clock is ticking,” he said, a to-do list in-a-bucket wasn’t a bad idea – assuming one really wants to do the enumerated...

All Talk, No Play

The Discreet Pleasures of the Male Female Friendship

I never looked to my father for advice about women when I was growing up. And I certainly didn’t after I left for college and my siblings described how our mother chased him around with a paring knife when she learned about his little fling with his secretary and he packed up and left. As an enthusiastic English major and lacking any advice to the contrary, I still held out hope for transcendence—what D. H. Lawrence called the “star equilibrium,” the perfect balance in the relationship between a man and a woman.

And I suppose I’ve found it in a marriage that is now over 40 years old and is as comfortable as a...

My First Kiss

Teen DayDreams of Perfect Kiss dashed!!

Nose flattened against the storm door, I peered down the street, eyes working hard in the twilight. At this hour, just how far off could you spot an approaching car? Three blocks, maybe. Just enough time to dash to the living room couch, plant a book on my lap and a crease on my forehead before the doorbell rang. It was 1960, my freshman year in high school. Two days earlier, I’d been asked to the first dance of the year – on the first (ever!!) date of my life. It was almost too good to be true. The asker was a tall, dark, handsome - and 17-year-old – senior. What made...

The Pile

Pat Hitchens is nearly killed by clutter

Mother got me started.

“Put things in piles,” she advised, surveying my teenage bedroom. “It’ll look better.”

So I did. And it did look better. Until I had to find something.
---- especially in a pile of paper: history notes, math homework, assignment sheets, issues of Teen Magazine – nestled together in one inscrutable mound.

Decades later, I’m still struggling to find things. And I suspect it’s not my problem alone. We live in cluttered times --...

How Many Times Can You Lose Your Mother?

The phantasmagorical nature of Alzheimer's and, hence, identity

How many times can you lose your mother? This phrase repeats itself in my head. It is not a metaphorical question. My mother has had Alzheimer's for almost 15 years.

My own journey alongside her illness has led me through strange territory. Mostly unguided, mostly alone. The one phrase I encountered in my occasional inquiry into the nature of the disease still resonates - that for those closest to the individual, there is a phenomenon which is akin to a succession of little deaths and, for each one, an attendant period of mourning.

The Story of My Face Writer's Contest 2nd place Winner	Boredom is a Virtue Or merely subjective	Redone by Zen Talking Tree in Gold Country	A Salon for the 21st Century Happy Hour Enlightenment
Bucking the Bucket List Or not	All Talk, No Play	My First Kiss Not What She Had in Mind	The Pile
How Many Times Can You Lose Your Mother? Way Too Many