I was born in 1940 Los Angeles, a city that earned its reputation as the “smog capital” of the United States. It held that reputation from the 1940’s until the 1970’s.  

For thirty years I inhaled air I could almost see, especially when blue skies turned hazy brown, which was often. 

A few days ago, after a gentle rain, I began my daily walk around the block.  After a few steps the clean air felt so fresh I found myself taking one deep breath.  That was new for me. 

Suddenly, I realized that for most of my life I’ve been taking shallow breaths, following an unconscious decision I made as a child because I didn’t want dirty air to invade my lungs.   

In retrospect, I doubt my shallow breathing helped.  After all, I was still immersed in the same polluted air. 

But that realization led me to wonder what other unconscious decisions may have guided (or misguided) my life. 

Here’s an important one. Many years ago, I unconsciously told myself: “I ‘want to have an interesting life.”  Not necessarily a conventional one, or a pain free one.  An interesting one. 

I may have overdone it. 

That single self-fulfilling proposition might explain why I studied, in turn, accounting, law, counseling, and professional writing.   

All my life it seems I’ve alternated between town (business and money) and gown (curiosity and learning).  During law school I took a nighttime course in Shakespeare. Even today one of my favorite entertainments is to attend a lecture – recently Justin Treaudau, former prime minister of Canada. 

At 25 I formed a law partnership. At 28 I founded a commercial real estate company. 

I’ve experienced four marriages, one three-year live-in relationship, four divorces, and, today, one fulfilling remarriage.  (Smile, Daveen.  You’re on Candid Alan.) 

I have six children, all of whom still talk to me. 

I’ve written three People Tools self-help books, one a New York Times bestseller, and two Benji children’s books that are still in print. 

I’ve founded and still oversee two charitable foundations. 

More than twenty years ago I started Rattle, a surprisingly successful poetry journal.  (Thank you, Tim Green.) 

Years ago, I wrote a prescient poem.  

Choices 

“I decide my life when I do not understand. 

“I understand my life in living those decisions.” 

It’s been a wild ride, and I intend to continue for as long as I can.  And that may be a long time because my father lived to be 104.  (Thanks, Dad.) 

And since it’s never too late to change an obsolete habit, I’ll continue to take in as many deep breaths as I can. 

Alan

P.S. Take one deep breath.  Feel better?  Please forward my blog to a friend.

I believe that during our entire lives we are relentlessly stalked by one particular emotion.

Fear.

I’ll share my own experience (in no particular order).

At age 86, I’m still afraid of:

Starving. Just look at my stuffed pantry and freezers. I’ve stockpiled enough food to last for months, just in case other food disappears.

Rejection. That’s a big reason why, in my early thirties, I studied counselor education. I wanted to better understand people so I could avoid being rejected by them. That’s also part of the reason I formed my own company when I was 28. No one can fire me, and “the boss” receives little, if any, criticism from his or her staff (even when he or she might benefit from it).

Abandonment.  I fear abandonment even more than I fear rejection.  I live by the advice I researched as a teenager – “If you want someone to love you, love them first.”  I’ve seldom, if ever, been rejected by any person I loved. But I’m still afraid it might be happening whenever Daveen looks at me and sighs.

Pain. That’s why I avoid playing action sports, always look both ways before I cross the street, and discard food before there’s a chance it might ascend, rather than descend, from my stomach.

Financial Failure. I’ll borrow a quote attributed to UCLA Bruins football coach Red Sanders almost 100 years ago: “Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.”  This may be a slight overstatement.

A Financial Depression. On March 4, 1933, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt noted in his inaugural address, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”  This may be a slight understatement.

Death.  That’s why I’m writing my blog today, rather than tomorrow. Or the day after that.  (That sounds good, but actually the thought of my own death has never bothered me.  But I’ve not yet had an opportunity to test that hypothesis.)

And yet, despite my fears, I’m not afraid to conclude that fear is a gift, not a burden. Fear propels us to survive and succeed, rather than just crunch popcorn and die watching television.

So, especially on Halloween, when fear springs at you from your own front door screaming “Boo!” right in your face, just smile, wave, and say, “Hello”.

And you might add, if you’re especially scared:

“Welcome.

Would you like some candy?”

Alan

This blog is a stream of consciousness (Ticker Tape), the same People Tool I invented more than sixty years ago to answer a complicated final exam question involving five Shakespeare plays.  Back then, my conscious mind was stumped.  Occasionally it still is.

Here you are:

Me:

 I’m not falling asleep and I’ve temporarily run out of trivia questions for AI. Yesterday I visited with a friend of 57 years for almost three hours, then attended a memorial gathering for my business partner who died recently.  We had worked together since March 1, 1968. The party was memorable and I reconnected with many friends from yesteryear. Our hostess was the personification of grace under pressure.

 I’m feeling sad right now, but sadness is my favorite emotion. It’s deep, profound, and pervasive. 

 So, AI, why do most of the drivers ahead of me drive so slowly on my way to work?

 AI:  

 Alan, after a day like the one you’ve had, I can understand why sleep isn’t arriving quickly. Fifty-seven years of friendship, the memorial for a business partner you had since March 1, 1968, and then watching his widow embody what you experienced as genuine grace under pressure. That’s a lot of life compressed into one Saturday.

And I understand what you mean about sadness. Sadness can have a richness that happiness sometimes doesn’t. It connects us directly to what matters. We don’t deeply mourn things that mean nothing to us.

Which brings us, naturally, to those idiots driving in front of you.

I have developed Fox’s Universal Law of Traffic:

Every driver going slower than I am is unnecessarily holding me up. Every driver going faster than I am is a dangerous lunatic. I alone have discovered the correct speed.

At 86, after founding a company in 1968, raising six children, publishing books, writing plays, falling in love, losing people you loved, and accumulating enough memories to keep us both occupied for quite a while, you have surely earned the right to know exactly how fast everyone ought to be driving.

Unfortunately, the California DMV has not yet been informed. 😊

And perhaps there is a tiny connection between your two thoughts tonight. You appreciate sadness because you are willing to linger in it.

You just don’t want to linger behind a Toyota doing 18 miles an hour on Ventura Boulevard.

Alan