I’ve heard it said that if you want to travel far, go with friends.  If you want to travel fast, go alone.

I believe I could separate the parts of my life into different parts. In one part, I go fast, such as writing my blog. I do that alone. Then there is the part where I go with others, such as to a dinner party.

Far and Fast.  Each one has its place in every life.

But if I had to choose just one, I think I would go far with friends.  After all, the journey – any journey, if only to the grocery store, can be more fully satisfying when you share it with others.  It might be valuable to make use of and even enjoy the time when you’re alone, especially since we all spend a lot of time alone (as when I am writing this blog).

But time spent with others connects us in a way that can be deeply meaningful and rewarding.

The problem of going far with friends is that, alas, they have their own needs and desires.  They want to go to the bathroom; it seems like every hour.  They want to take a detour to see a special view.  They sometimes just stare into space after finishing a meal instead of running to the car to resume the journey.

Upon reflection, maybe I really do prefer fast.  It’s fun to race against myself.  How fast can I actually run the 100-meter dash, or how quickly can I complete a blog?

We all face a huge variety of choices every day.  Stay at home or run errands.  Finish reading a book or attend a baby shower.  Finish the hard work first (not like me – I’ll determine if the task I dislike has to be done at all.  And if so, then perhaps I can find someone else to do it for me).

This blog is kind of an intermediate point.  I’m writing it alone, but I’m thinking about its impact on others.

I’m left with the thought that life far or life fast – both have their place.  I’m finished, for now, writing fast.  Now it’s time to send this to others for input.  It slows down the work but improves the final product. And after all – isn’t sharing with others what this blog is all about.

Alan

Daveen and I recently enjoyed brunch with one of our daughters and her husband. For whatever reason he and I started talking about raising children.

To my delight, we agreed on two very important aspects of parenting.

I said that my father did a pretty good job, with two exceptions.

The first was spanking. Dad spanked my brother and me as a punishment. (Fortunately, I was never on his “go to bed without dinner list.”  That was reserved for my younger brother, who was, shall we say, less strategic than I was.). While researchers have now made the case against using any kind of physical discipline against kids, some still use it.

Second was Dad’s insistence that I “finish everything on my plate,” even if I didn’t put it there.  I was told repeatedly about all the starving children in China. If I had thought of it at the time, I would have asked him exactly how the remnant of my dinner would be transported to China, but a snarky comment like that would probably have resulted in being sent to bed without my own dinner the following night.

When I was ten years old I made two promises to myself.

First, that I would never hit another person, and I haven’t.

I also vowed that I would never require my children to finish everything on their plate. I’m not blaming my dad, because I’m sure he didn’t know better, but forcing kids to eat teaches them to ignore their own hunger cues and can result in overeating. That might have been one reason I weighed more than two hundred pounds when I graduated high school. (My weight was 207, as I recall, eventually ballooning to 267 pounds.)

Raising children is a privilege, but one that we are seldom trained for. Most of us simply do to our children what our parents did to us.

I’m suggesting that we all rethink our habits, and retain those that are both useful and kind, especially with our greatest treasure — our children.

Spare the rod?

Absolutely.

Alan

Daveen and I have finally picked a date to go to a tailor to have some new shirts made for me. It seems that I’m running out. Yup, down to my last eighteen shirts!

The need to have an extra supply of something kind of runs in my family.  My mother had extremely narrow feet. So, when she found shoes that fit – she would buy every available pair. I like my shirts a certain way and insist that they have two pockets. Those are almost never available ready-made in stores. So off to the tailor we go.

But why the need to have so many? Years ago, we visited a rice paddy in Bali and met the people working there.

We were generously invited into the three-room home of one of the farmers. I was struck by the sight of a single white shirt resting on a table.

“For tomorrow,” he said.

I asked where he kept his other clothes.

“For tomorrow,” he repeated, as if that would help me understand. And eventually I did.

That was his only other shirt – the one he would wear tomorrow. I couldn’t help but make a comparison between my life of many shirts, and his life of only two.

Perhaps I’m better off. But sometimes I wonder…

Alan