I recently read a beautiful note written by my friend Trudy. When I receive something I appreciate from a friend, they can only know my delight when I tell them. So I immediately emailed Trudy to tell her I was touched.  She then shared a memory I found quite helpful.

“Alan, I’ve always listened to your advice and appreciate your perspective…

This is a page I scanned for you…”

It was from a 2015 edition of Rattle in which I interviewed the poet Jan Heller Levi.

Trudy wrote, “…loving what you said at the end [of the interview] & wondering if it has to do with how well you’re doing during a difficult time.”

As many of you know I recently experienced a personal loss.

The part of the interview Trudy so thoughtfully shared was a timely reminder of the important role that grief serves in our lives.

Here is the excerpt:

“FOX:  One of your poems you’re writing about Lao Tzu:

what do we see

what can we see without seeing

what have we been given

‘      what has been taken away

what are the questions underneath our questions

how do we make our griefs our tools.”

How do we make our griefs our tools?

LEVI:  Well, I guess we have to.  The conventional way of thinking about our griefs is that they hold us back, that they’re a weight that we carry that holds us back from doing our work in the world—but there is no life without grief.  And it’s an animating force.  It’s what we need to use, because we need to use all of ourselves.  That’s a big part of ourselves.”

So how am I connecting through my grief? This morning my dad, his caregiver, my daughter, her husband and I enjoyed a Sunday brunch together at The Smoke House in Toluca Lake. Their Sunday brunch has been a family favorite for years, but I enjoyed myself today more than I ever have before.

Why?

Because we all shared a rewarding conversation. We were all open and vulnerable.  Everyone participated and we learned more about each other than we had before.

Why?

Because, being suddenly single, I was willing to begin by taking a risk. I ignored my potential embarrassment and shared that I had joined a dating service.  I was relieved when my daughter and her husband, both in their early thirties, said that everyone does that nowadays.

We had a wonderful time getting to know each other better, and it was fun.  My dad asked my daughter and her husband about their experiences in separate graduate school programs.  He shared memories of his own childhood which I had never heard before.

When I disclose my important feelings, when I ask a question and really listen to the answer, when I spend meaningful time with friends and family, I satisfy an emotional hunger that food can never fill.  In fact, our conversation was so nourishing I finished only one plate of food from the buffet.  That was a first!

In a few months we have our next Smoke House Sunday Brunch on the calendar – to celebrate my dad’s 104^th birthday.  I look forward to another conversation, as meaningful as it was today.

Alan

Today, in the age of Attention Deficit Disorder, hundreds of texts each day, and short sound bites, I suggest that the regular use of two words will change your life.  They could have changed mine.  Those two words are, “I’m sorry.”

I was in a dental office several years ago as the dentist tried to screw an implant into the gum of my lower jaw. I’m sure the Dentist did the best job possible, but I have a low pain threshold.  I easily feel hurt, both physically and emotionally.

Every time I winced, the dentist said, “I’m sorry.”  Make no mistake, his was a full-throated and attentive, “I’m sorry.”  It was not its orphan stepchild, the quick, detached, “Sorry.”  He said “I’m sorry” so well that I was sure he really cared about my pain.  But when both the pain and the “I’m sorrys” continued for more than twenty minutes I felt the lidocaine of “I’m sorry” wear off.  My mouth hurt every time he touched me and I became mistrustful and, finally, upset.

I remember this scene vividly because few dentists, or dental hygienists, seem to care about my pain as much as I would like them to.  Possibly their minds and emotions have been dulled to caring about their patients.  And that is what “I’m sorry” is all about.  It tells me that you care.

For years my friend Roger has said to his wife every evening, without fail, before they fall asleep, “I love you.”  That’s nice. It’s something we all should do.

But recently he accidentally dropped a hammer on her foot. She screamed in pain, Roger said without thinking, “You should have stayed out of my way.”

Ouch!  Maybe he was embarrassed, maybe scared that she was hurt, but Roger responded coldly.  His wife told me later that Roger’s single “You should have stayed out of my way” wiped out an entire month of nightly “I love yous.” She no longer believed in the “I love you” because her husband had failed to give her a single, appropriate, “I’m sorry.”

I’ve learned to say, “I’m sorry,” a lot.  Maybe not enough, but a lot.  I say it as soon as I realize I have hurt someone.  I’m not embarrassed, I don’t feel I will lose face.  If I am criticized with, “You darn well should be sorry. You were careless,” I say, “You’re right.  I was careless.  I’m sorry.”

I recently cut in front of another car.  Then the driver raced his car ahead of mine, forced me to stop, and jumped out of his driver’s seat to confront me.  I opened my window.  “Sir, I’m sorry.  I was wrong.  I’m really sorry.”  He glared at me, but silently returned to his car.

“I’m sorry” is one of the most effective and needed lubricants in the tool box for human relationships

One of the lines in the pop song Me & Bobby McGee is, “But I’d trade all my tomorrows for a single yesterday.”

I might well have traded all my tomorrows and remained in every relationship I have ever left for a single, timely, “I’m sorry.”  Two words I say often, but have probably not said enough.

Alan

Last Sunday, after seven weeks of being single, I enjoyed two dates. Thank you Elite Singles. I have found my stereotype of dating is (do not pardon the pun – please groan) out-of-date. Years ago you met people through work, activities, or family and friends. If you were serious you could use a matchmaker or dating service, though this use to seem a little suspect to me.

Today everyone meets online, I know many happily married couples who met on Match.com or wherever. So I’ve discarded my dated dating notions and my adventure has begun.

I met Carole online. We enjoyed three or four telephone conversations and a number of emails. Last Sunday morning I drove seventy miles north to meet her in person. This wasn’t a blind date. It was more like an introduction with benefits – our photos and other contacts.

Our meeting went well, and our conversation was so engrossing we didn’t order food until after we had talked for more than an hour. I believe our relationship will continue. Toward the end of lunch Carole asked me who had been the love of my life. Next time I’ll ask Carole who was hers.

Then I drove more than 150 miles south to meet Maria at a lakeside restaurant. Maria and I had never talked, nor exchanged emails. Through the online service she had invited me to meet her on Sunday. She seemed attractive in her photo, and her online profile was enticing, notably the “93%” compatibility rating. (Hint – post an up-to-date photo which is light enough to really see, and fill out your profile (pun intended) as fully as you possibly can.)

Maria was attractive in person. Inside the restaurant we chose a table, and she selected where each of us should sit. She ordered sparkling water. I ordered a Pepsi. Since it was early evening I had assumed we were going to have dinner, so I thought perhaps she had already ruled me out, choosing a quick drink rather than a meal.

Maria is European, and her accent was semi-thick. The room was noisy, and I have trouble understanding accents. I studied her face intently, and she became easier to understand as she talked. And talked. And talked.

On my drive home, completing a 330 mile journey for the day, I thought maybe I would write a hilarious account of this date and, perhaps, others to come. But in my Pogo Stick saga I poked fun at myself. Here I would have to poke fun at others, and that would be disrespectful to people who are out there putting themselves on the line.

After Marie talked for a while, without interruption, she became more personal.

“You know, Alan,” she said, “older people like us can fall in love.” She described a relationship she’d had with a man who was 87 when she was 67. I was moved when Maria told me, “He awakened in me something I thought had disappeared. I loved him. It was exciting. Then he suddenly died.”

That is a risk at any age.

As we parted she admired my car and mentioned that the man who had awakened her love had offered her the same model and color, I felt connected with Maria, another human being who, like me, was looking for someone to share her life with.

Her excitement poured over her dam of reticence, into my lakebed of need.

I drove home into a beautiful, imperfect, sunset, just like the heart of each of us.

Alan