T is for Tolerance
If you haven’t noticed by now, the worst things on earth are fueled by intolerance, with war sitting at the tippy top of that list. You have not only to allow for the imperfections and differences of others but also to accept them without judgment. We’re talking both macro and micro here, both at home with friends and family and in the world at large. Tolerate flaws in your spouse and parents, so long as they don’t cause you harm. Be tolerant of who others actually are instead of dwelling on who you’d like them to be. Tolerate opinions, lifestyles, gender identifications, modalities, and skin tones that differ from yours. Judgment is easy; tolerance is hard. Work at it.
U is for Underwear
Cotton. Many pairs. No holes. Always clean. This is one of those instances where “quality over quantity” does not exactly hold true. Underwear wears out quickly, no matter the cost, and time between laundry days is precious, so find the best cotton you can in a style you like at the most reasonable price and buy twenty. Whether you’re at home or on the road, an extra pair of underwear will always serve you well. Expensive lingerie and silk boxers are their own universe. If you’re into that and want to spend your money and time hand-washing them, by all means, go for it.
V is for Vulnerability
When you were born, you were about as vulnerable as any living creature can be. You couldn’t feed yourself. You couldn’t care for yourself. Your neck was too weak to hold up your head, and your legs were of no use whatsoever in getting you from here to there. If your parents had left you alone in the forest back then, you’d be a goner, and they’d be in jail. Your job as a child was to transcend that vulnerability, to learn how to navigate in and out of the forest on your own. But hold that thought, Hansel and Gretel, because get this: your job as an adult is to reverse that progress. Now that you’re big and strong and out in the world, you must learn not only to tap into that vulnerability and weakness within yourself but also to share it with others. True connection is impossible if you don’t let down your guard. So shed a tear. Hug a stranger. Belt out that karaoke version of Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good” without worrying if you’re in tune. It’s okay. No one in the karaoke bar is ever really in tune. We’re all just humming along, doing the best we can, stumbling our way through this dark and scary forest together.
W is for Work
If there’s one thing adults can get really confused about, it’s self-definition and work. One of the first things we often ask one another is “What do you do?” It’s a way of breaking the ice, yes, but it also makes us categorize one another in ways that turn out to be absurd. If you’re Julianne Moore working as a waitress while waiting for her big break, or Franz Kafka shuffling papers in an insurance company, calling yourself a waitress or an insurance broker has little bearing on who you are. Everyone needs to pay the bills, yes, but your job—one of the most important of your life—is to figure out what valuable service you can offer the universe that makes you lose track of time. That’s it. The whole shebang. Some people call this flow. You can call it whatever you’d like. Don’t worry if you don’t find it right out of the gate. You may change careers and paths several times. You may become a hybrid of sorts: a doctor who sculpts; a schoolteacher who codes; a writer (ahem) who shoots photographs. Don’t be afraid of this. In fact, be open to it. Also? Please don’t get so caught up by work that you forget to take periodic breaks. It doesn’t have to be expensive. Yes, exploring far off countries or relaxing on a beach are wonderful, but so is simply stepping outside your front door to discover a new street or visit a local tourist attraction you may have scoffed at. The point is to give your brain the time and space it needs to rejuvenate, wherever that time and space can be found.
X is for Xylophone
If you can teach yourself to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on a toy xylophone, you can teach yourself to play just about any instrument. Not all of us are talented in the music department, but everyone who plays an instrument will tell you what a gift it is to be able to play one, whether poorly or well. Plus it’s never too late to learn. By the same token, anyone can pick up a paintbrush or write a story or build a model or shoot a short film or draw a doodle or do an interpretive dance to Led Zeppelin. Art is not reserved for professional artists. Make it part of your life.
Y is for Yesterday
Yesterday is in the past. Tomorrow is in the future. They don’t matter. So stop stressing over them. Stress is terrible, not only on your body and psyche, but also on everyone in your orbit. You can’t change the past, and you can’t control the future. You can merely learn from the former and make hopeful plans for the latter, none of which may come to fruition. The only thing that matters—the only thing that is real—is this moment, right now. Live it.
Z is for Zzzzzzzz
A through Y are not possible without eight hours of Zs a night, kids. All the scientists say so. They also say not to use your computer or smartphone before bed: the light affects your ability to sleep. Turn on a lamp and pick up an old-fashioned book, with pages. Turn to your partner. Turn to yourself. Just be. So many of us underestimate the power of being. It’s not doing nothing. It’s everything.
Acknowledgments
Deborah wishes to thank . . . Jacob Kogan, whose imminent departure triggered his mother’s labors herein; Justin McLeod, for writing the code that enabled the gametes of this book to meet; Randy Polumbo, for texting the ovarian doodle that metamorphosed into triplets; Michael Chabon, for making the shidduch with Christine Carswell; Christine Carswell, for her enthusiastic consent and virtual hugs, and to the rest of the Chronicle Books Midwives, especially Sara, Casie, Jen, Yolanda, and Steve; Sasha Kogan, for caring for her baby brother above and beyond the call of familial duty; Leo Kogan, for gamely schlepping along on his mother’s hunting and gathering; Lisa Leshne, for sweeping the authors and this book off their feet; Randy Polumbo (again, always) for gleefully feeding the beast with photographic sustenance from Joshua Tree and beyond and for nurturing his coauthor with Emmylou Harris, sage, and wisdom; and finally to society and its institutions at large, for teaching us everything we need to know about the miracle of our existence, except how to be.
Randy also wishes to thank Michael Chabon, Lisa Leshne, Christine Carswell, and the Chronicle gang for all the aforementioned reasons, but also . . . Deborah Copaken, for starting the fire, tending it so ferociously and beautifully, and for making it easy and fun. Also thanks to Deb for being so positive, encouraging, and unabashedly creative in the kitchen, on the guitar, behind the lens, and with her mighty pen! Sarah and Richard Zacks, for owning both a house full of books and a bookstore, as well as for instilling the value of book learning; Sidney MacKenzie and John Fulop, for adopting this kid into their young adult New York fold; Mrs. Susan Kaplan, for being the badassest high school AP English teacher in Providence, Rhode Island and for unleashing the alphabet into an improvisational and expressionistic froth! and finally to Nico LeMoal-Polumbo, for making this topic so inspiring and fascinating, and for teaching everyone in her orbit that L is for Love has no boundaries.
Dave Cross
Deborah Copaken is the New York Times bestselling author of The Red Book and Shutterbabe, as well as a screenwriter, award-winning and internationally exhibited photographer, and former Emmy award–winning news producer at ABC and NBC. Her writing and photography have also appeared in the New Yorker, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and The Nation, among many other publications worldwide. She lives at the tippy-top of Manhattan and is a proud mother of three.
Randy Polumbo is a renowned sculptor, photographer, and illustrator. His art has been privately collected and publicly exhibited, both in the United States and abroad. He lives at the southernmost tip of Manhattan and is the proud father of a nearly adult daughter.
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