You get the sense from my recent writings that I’ve been a bit preoccupied with the fact that we are moving from the same home after 36 years. Thirty-six is an auspicious number in Jewish numerology. Every letter in the Hebrew alphabet also has an equivalent number, and the word for life is Chai which has the numeric value of 18.

Thirty-six is double life and a blessing for new beginnings. In my mind I know this move will provide many new openings for me, but there are times when I look around and tears bubble up in my throat.

My brother Patch Adams flew in for a day this weekend just to be with us during this transition. Sitting in my library, he told me that this move would in reality release me from the inertia of comfort that kept me from exploring new territory. We talked about our plans to create a preventative community mental health program; about our dreams for building communities that have a love strategy that heals. I believe we will do this with the help of many relatives who share our vision.

Patch just left and I’m sitting alone in my library, this hidden, sacred space to which only my grandchildren are allowed entry unannounced. This is the place I come to hide, to write, and am surrounded by the smell of books. I’m in the process of deciding which books to keep and which ones to donate. A thousand books line the shelves; I tell myself to take only the ones inscribed to me. Then I look at those that have had an influence on me and discover that the empty boxes I brought with me are still empty.

I look around at all the games I play up here with my grandkids and know I’m taking them all: the basketball net, our variation of pin the tail on the donkey, the jacks, pick-up sticks, mechanical horse, the lucky stuffed satin lips, Puckhead hat and Mickey Mouse tie. At that moment it becomes clear to me what can go — most of the books I hardly open — what I need to take is not the stuff in here or the landscape but the soul of the place.

Before we move, we will have a final sweat lodge ceremony on these sacred grounds. Afterwards, we’ll have a giveaway, take down the lodge and put it in the fire. Our Native American relatives have always taken down their tipis and lodges; they say nothing really belongs to us, eventually everything gets left behind. They say leave the place you live at least as good as you found it; say thank you for all the blessings you have received.


I’m feeling better, I feel my tears bubble up, but they are not because of loss, anger, or fear. I have left my holy brother at the airport and I’m sitting here in my library and feel his heart in my chest. I know I’m leaving nothing behind; everything and everyone that’s important comes with us.

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On her recent state visit, Queen Elizabeth II visited Churchill Downs to watch the Kentucky Derby where she saw Calvin (Boo) Borel ride the colt Street Sense to victory.

Two days later, Boo Borel, a 40-year-old, 5’4”, 114-pound jockey from Cajun Louisiana, was introduced to the Queen at a white-tie State dinner at the White House. President W. hugged him, and he made small-talk with Supreme Court Justices and Ambassadors. It was said Calvin smiled a lot but didn’t talk much. Maybe he was intimidated by the star power, or perhaps he was tongue-tied by his grade-school education.

Here are some things Boo probably didn’t tell them: that he is the son of a sugarcane farmer, and he dropped out of school after the eighth grade. He wanted to pursue his passion for horses. As an eight year old he learned to ride by being tied to the saddle. At 13, his father acquiesced and he apprenticed himself to his older brother, Cecil, a trainer. His father’s last piece of advice for his success was “work hard, do things the right way, and be happy.” He was mentored by his brother and got an advanced degree in how to communicate with horses. He has an agent who lines up high-stakes horses for him to ride, but he still rides the inexpensive ones with the same intensity as the big stakes winners.

A couple of days after his fairytale evening at the White House, a friend at the track teased that now that he’d met the Queen, maybe wouldn’t be riding in small, “claiming” races anymore. Boo said to his friend, “You know that ain’t true; you don't forget the people who brung you here.”

It's clear that for Boo Borel, meeting the Queen will be a cherished memory, but Boo is back at the track doing what he knows and loves. This weekend, he rode Street Sense in the second star of the Triple Crown of racing, the Preakness, and was nosed out at the wire. Borel did not need a photo of finish to know he’d lost, and rode beside the race winner, and in good sportsmanship said “you got me”.

Boo Borel may not have a formal education, but he does have street sense. He and his father remind us of the critical elements in walking a successful path in life. Don’t get captivated by your ego, remember who and what “brung” you here; work hard, do the right thing, and be happy.


That’s the horse you want to ride to win the biggest stake of all…the race of your life.

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After reading last week’s Schlagbyte about my mother’s prescription for maintaining your mental health, my sister Eyo wrote to me and said my Mom was a wise woman.

What is wisdom? It’s hard to define, and mental health professionals can’t agree on a single answer. It’s easier to agree what it is not. Wisdom is certainly not an intrinsic function of age (the old are not always wise, nor the young lacking in wisdom); although acquiring it is more likely after gaining some life experience and emotional maturity; and it is certainly not thinking you have it, because if think you are wise, you probably aren’t (Gandhi said, “it is unwise to be sure one's own wisdom”).

Psychiatrists and psychologists do agree on some qualities of the wise (Sternberg, R.J. Wisdom: It’s Nature, Origin, and development, 1990). Wise people:
. Are other-centered as opposed to being self-centered
. Have a tendency toward humility
. Have a clear-eyed view of human nature
. Are emotionally resilient
. Have an ability to cope in the face of adversity
. Are open to other possibilities
. Exhibit compassion and forgiveness
. Have a knack for learning from their experiences.

I’m sure my mama was a wise woman, and equally sure I am not yet a wise man. I aspire to become one, but I’ve not yet mastered humility; I am still short, judgmental, and opinionated. I’m working on it. The great social psychologist Erik Erikson said this is the work of getting old. In his famous psychoanalytic treatise on the psychosocial stages of life development, he calls the final phase, the pursuit of ego integrity versus despair. The important work at this stage is to have struggled, reflected and learned from your life so you can come to self-acceptance and feel fulfilled. That’s what keeps you from fear and despair.


Wisdom is about learning from your experience — which means the journey is more important than the destination. Find a way to come to your days with joy, and remember your mama’s wisdom because it’s essential to the future of society.

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My blessed mother survived two husbands and Nazis (not necessarily in that order), and believed that no matter what to you (traumas, sicknesses or disasters), that you could always find something to celebrate. It was her theory that, when you were most in doubt, those were the times to party.

Enmeshed in these days of upheaval, awakening, and occasional despair, I remembered my mother's admonition, and took my grandchildren camping. Not into the woods, or around a fireplace, rather we pitched our tent in Scottsdale Arizona, next to a parking lot at The 4th Annual McDowell Mountain Music Festival.

The opening night featured the Neville Brothers, Bob Weir and Ratdog, two of my favorite live performing groups. The Neville Brothers are a New Orleans, rhythm and-blues/ Cajun/ Jazz/ and Mardi Gras parade band, all in one. Bob Weir, is a founding member of the Grateful Dead and now Ratdog, the band combines the Dead repertory, with Bob Dylan, and Beatle tunes. I knew the campground would be filled with Deadheads in tie-dyes, living in flag-draped encampments, and that the atmosphere would be friendly and welcoming. This was as close as my four grandkids (aged 10 to 15) were going to get, to the scene at an old Grateful Dead concert.

We rolled in driving a battered, decal splattered, 1978 VW van, at which people waved as we entered. The campsite was a bit more organized than in the old days. First, you got tagged so you could enter or leave the campground, and there was 24-hour security (there were even 2 Mounted Patrolmen in the back of the concert lawn. After we set up the tent, we established some ground rules, where to find me, and then the kids were off. We met periodically, I’d come upon them jumping on a bungee trampoline, playing Frisbee, eating whatever they wanted, making friends, and listening to the music. I took my little one back early, but the bigger ones stayed to the end, when Ratdog played the Beatles Come Together, and people swayed, sang, held hands, and those kids felt the vibes.



That night, there were no uncertainties or doubts, only the joy of watching another generation in a Grateful Dead parking lot. When in doubt, party

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