I recently was contacted by an Israeli woman who introduced herself as “another second-generation survivor.” Diane grew up in Phoenix, and her parents still live here. At her father’s request, she had come back to help move her parents into an assisted living facility. Her 82-year-old mother was increasingly losing her memory and depressed; she had seen psychiatrists and neurologists who gave her pills that only made her seem more out of it.

Diane’s father, almost completely blind but still a vigorous presence, is a firm believer in drugs and other conventional interventions. He really means the best for his wife but doesn’t know another way to handle her depression. It’s been a difficult time for them.

Diane said I could tell this story in her own words:

As I was packing my parents home I came across your book, The Dancing Healers. It immediately caught my eye in the midst of all the rest of that Holocaust literature that they’ve accumulated. When I got back to Israel and began to read it, I was touched by your personal biography. Many of the issues you raised, I have also had to deal with as a second-generation Holocaust survivor. I also identify with Native American culture and their spiritual path. I recently hosted a native healer from the Isleta Pueblo.

Sincerely,
Diane

I wrote back and told her I would gladly see them and then called her parents. We spoke briefly, and her father in British-accented English provided his assessment of the current situation, and then I spoke to her Mom. We had a perfectly normal conversation: she told me about her forgetfulness and perpetual lethargy, but she didn’t share Diane’s sense that she was depressed. I told her I would be happy to meet with her if she’d wanted. When we looked at my appointment book, the first opening happened to be on my late mother’s birthday. I felt a chill run through me, and then I smiled as I felt my mama’s presence hugging me.

P.S. Stay tuned for the rest of this story next week.

It used to be that kids played without a play date — they just organized themselves into games played just for fun, like ringelevio, Johnny-ride-the-pony, stickball, and yo-yo. Now, sports and recreation are organized into programmed events with a daily schedule, and I call a week in advance for a movie date with my grandkids.

It also used to be that kids could walk and ride a bike to school safely. Nowadays, it takes a government program for kids to go to school on their own. Children now live in a permanent lockdown, their every moment planned organized and monitored. How did it get this way?

Stephen Mintz, a distinguished history professor at the University of Houston, has written an extraordinary book, Huck’s Raft: A History of American Childhood. It is an unsentimental, fact-filled, well-organized view of childhood over the last 300 years. Mintz says three big changes account for the current lockdown phenomena. The first is an explosion of anxiety over child abductions, sexual abuse, and a global saturation of events that inspire fear. Danger lurks everywhere, and no community is spared.

The second is parental panic. Parents want their children to get into the right schools; competitive achievement is seen as part of a Darwinian struggle for economic success and social esteem. So Kumon math is in (if you can afford it), but hunting for frogs or playing ringelevio is out.

The third is guilt. Both parents are often working hard and long hours, and they figure they owe their kids. Since their model of life is to be busy all the time, there’s little appreciation for kids just hanging out.

So here you have it . . . fear, competition and guilt are the primary motivators of the current climate. We need stop pushing our kids to be playing our games and give them back the freedom to be children.

Dr. Elizabeth Loftus, a psychologist at the University of California, is known for her work on the malleability of human memory. She and her colleagues called into question the reliability of recovered memories in sexual abuse cases. This syndrome got rampant media attention in the 90s. People remembered all kinds of unbelievably bizarre events that included torture, satanic ritualistic murder, and a host of sexual perversions. It created an atmosphere that resembles the witch-hunt trials of old, with people accused (and even imprisoned) of crimes where the only “evidence” was memories from dreams and flashbacks. Memories, by the way, that were not recalled before people got into therapy.

Loftus and her colleagues revealed how easy it is to plant false memories into the minds of patients. They demonstrated that some memories are true, some are a mixture of fact and fantasy, and some are entirely false. The only way to distinguish true from false memories is by external corroboration (read more about false memory syndrome at www.fmsf.com.

Dr. Loftus has turned her attention from false memory syndrome to studying whether it’s possible to plant memories in people’s minds that will get them to change their behaviors. For example, is it possible to convince people not to like certain fattening foods? The results of her recently released study (Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, August, 2005) say that, indeed, it is possible to “implant in subjects, a false memory of an experience in which fattening foods made them sick.”

Subjects were persuaded that they became ill after eating hard-boiled eggs and dill pickles as children, and it actually changed their eating behavior. Loftus said, “We can convince people they really loved asparagus the first time they tried it as a kid.” She moved on to greater challenges, using ice cream as the sickening memory, and found that 40% of the participants actually came to believe that strawberry ice cream made them sick and were less inclined to eat it.

I use hypnotherapy, so I know how easy it is to plant ideas in people’s minds (which I find both amazing and sometimes frightening). I cannot imagine such an implanted suggestion lasting long on me. I love ice cream. I am one of those believers who thinks it deserves its own food group. My experience with ice cream is so good, and has lasted so long, that no implanted suggestion could overcome it. The likelihood of hating Jamocha Almond Fudge, Cherry’s Garcia, Phish Food, a Raspberry Gelato, or Peanut Buster Parfait — give me a break! I’m already walking to the freezer.

We are skipping over the waves in a 16’ Zodiac inflatable raft. I’m fishing, drinking beer and eating deli sandwiches with Philly, my daughter’s live-in boyfriend. We are trolling the surf for tuna, while watching the surfers ballet. There is not much fishing action, so Philly says he wants to take me to the Napali Coast, the rugged, inaccessible northshore of the island where the winter currents are notoriously treacherous. The Zodiac is powered by a single 40 horsepower outboard motor, we have no radio, so lose an engine here, and we’d drift to Guam before they found us.

We’re bouncing in the turbulent sea for almost half an hour, the beer and sandwich beginning to rumble, when Philly stops the engine at what he calls “ a sacred power spot”. This is where the Hanakapiai River, with its spectacular waterfalls, comes down from the jungle highlands through a verdant valley, emptying here into the ocean. Philly says “can you feel the energy in this place”? I feel the energy in my belly and hoping it doesn’t erupt. I am a terrible sailor, and even gentle rocking can get, my vestibular system in an uproar. This is the moment he says “I want to ask your blessings and advice, before I ask your daughter to marry me”.

Philly is a blond, long-haired, gentle soul, who is a master carpenter, fix-it man, rock climber, juggler, drummer in a rock band and outdoorsman. He is a committed environmentalist, who is currently converting a diesel truck into one that runs on vegetable oil. I love his hippie soul; my grandkids love him even more, since he took them rappeling down the head of Camelback Mountain. My wife and daughters marvel at Philly’s ability to deal with my Princess Baby’s passionate, dramatic, soulful spontaneity. They love that he doesn’t take her manifestations personally; he listens, smiles, commiserates and finds a way to balance her intensity. I think it’s a great match, and it touched me that he is asking for my blessing. I want to say something, but am breaking out into a sweat and manage to utter, I’m going overboard before I throw up.

He jumps in after me, and wisely gets out of the way as I begin to chum the waters. He says my Princess Baby has the same tendency to sea-sickness, but that she still encouraged him to buy the boat. Bobbing and wretching, he asks me to keep this news from my wife until he has asked my daughter. I tell him the likelihood of me keeping that from my wife for longer than 24 hours is about the same as not getting sick in these swells. He says he’ll do it while we’re in Kauai.

The next afternoon (also out at sea), Philly asks the Princess to marry him. He also tells her about my reaction the previous day, and that I endearingly assured him it had nothing to do with him personally; that I was delighted he would be marrying my last unmarried daughter.

Oh yeah, another son-in-law to join the chorus of hormonally crippled son-in-laws on our annual Boy’s Trip; I am so happy.

My wife and I are in Hawaii for the holidays, visiting our daughter and celebrating our 45th wedding anniversary. We are on the Garden Island, Kauai. On the sunny mornings, I sit on a bench overlooking legendary Hanalei Bay and gaze at the landmark dinosaur silhouette that inspired Peter Paul and Mary to write Puff the Magic Dragon. The big waves roll in, and I watch the surfers loll until they spring into action: crouch, leap, and twist in an incredible aerial ballet. At sunset, I sit with the old-timers on Black Pot Beach “talking story” and watch this closing stage setting in Bali Hai.

I love Kauai. There is a mellow spirit here that attracts young and old, from international movie stars, literati, and the wealthy, to the surf-bums, new-agers and old hippies. Lots of Native people here too. The island of Ni’ihau, just off the southern coast, is the ceremonial capitol for Native Hawaiians, the “Kanaka Maoli.” Their culture thrives — the language, dances, chants, celestial navigational skills, and traditional healing ceremonies are still taught.

Kauai is a place where I give up control, make no plans, lay back and watch things unfold. In part, it’s the spirit of this place, but, in no small measure, it’s also because my daughter lives here. She is an extraordinary yoga teacher, world traveler, and adventurer who takes over. She has arranged for massages, saunas, yoga, swimming, snorkeling, exploring, and day and night partying.

Letting go of control has never been easy for me — to trust that, without my fine hand stirring the pot, the outcome will be satisfactory. And even though I know how ridiculous this relentless pursuit of control is, when push comes to shove, I still prefer having things in my own hands.

It becomes clearer with the passage of time, that even those things I thought I was in control of, I ’m not. You’d think that an intelligent person who tends toward reflection, would’ve gotten this message long ago, but alas this been my repetitive life lesson.

We all have our own issues. As the firstborn son of Holocaust survivors, my early teachings included don’t depend on anybody other than yourself, and you make it happen.

This is my Kauai New Years resolution: let go of what I never had control of anyway, ask for help when I need it, and bask more in this Kauai spirit where I take off my old masks and breathe easier.

Happy New Year, Relatives. May you be blessed with peace and awakenings on your healing journeys.