elieaxelroth, Author at Elie Axelroth

Iceland: How Adversity Might Save the Planet

January 20, 2020 By elieaxelroth 7 Comments

You can’t visit Iceland without thinking—now here’s a people who’ve truly made the best of a bad situation.

The landscape is stark and unforgiving: Scalding hot geysers. Craggy lava rock. Steam spewing to the surface heaving gray and yellowish swirls of mud into the air. Glaciers and ice caves. Punishing hurricane-force wind. Inescapable—and unpredictable—bone-chilling cold. At the height of winter, there’s only four hours of opaque sunlight that hovers above the horizon.

Remember Eyjafjallajökull? That’s the unpronounceable volcano that erupted in 2010, shutting down European airspace and creating travel chaos. Yup, quintessential Iceland.

**The shark meat is cured for four to five months**

If that weren’t enough by way of adversity, I dare you to try hákarl or fermented shark meat. The meat is poisonous when fresh, so it must be cured and then hung to dry for four to five months. Because of the strong ammonia-rich smell, it’s eaten in small chunks with toothpicks and a vodka chaser. Reportedly, the chef Anthony Bourdain said it was “the single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing” he’d ever eaten. I wouldn’t disagree.

How we deal with adversity says a lot about who we are. For the Icelanders, it’s þetta reddast, a favorite expression loosely translated as “everything will turn out all right.” It’s an anthem of both optimism and certainty—that whatever happens, they’ll figure it out.

The Icelanders I met were lovely but reserved—not effusive like the Finns or flowery like the Colombianos. They are a people of few words. Perhaps this is an accommodation to their isolation. Imagine a country the size of New York, but with a population of 339,000 and only 9 people per square mile. It’s a nation of introverts. The closest neighbor, Greenland, is 180 miles away.

As an introvert myself, I find this enticing.

I don’t have the impression that Icelanders feel deprived. They make it a priority to use their limited resources wisely—making them consummate environmentalists. Iceland is a volcanic island and about 85% of their total energy is derived from renewable sources—geothermal energy and hydroelectric power. Many communities in Iceland are clustered around these steamy hot springs. I spent a lovely evening relaxing at the community swimming pool across the street from my hotel in Akureyri where it seems the entire town gathers to swim laps in the Olympic-size pool, splash down the water slides, soak in one of three hotpots—the hottest of which is 43°C or about 109°F.

It’s not surprising they eat lots of fish—cod, haddock, salmon, and monkfish. With what’s left from their dinner plates, they make into beautiful handbags and belts and wallets fashioned out of fish leather; collagen powder for skin products; pet food; calcium and other vitamins; shark cartilage; omega oils. The list goes on.

That same stark, unforgiving landscape that shapes an environment of adversity is also stunningly beautiful. Iceland is a country of thundering waterfalls and double rainbows, mossy emerald green lava fields, geysers and mud pools, glaciers and ice caves. And of course, the Aurora Borealis. No wonder tourists have fallen in love.

It makes me consider my own relationship to adversity. By and large, I live a privileged life, but I can easily get lost in trivial grievances. Robocalls and spam email. The scarcity of avocados. The ever-increasing cost of cable TV. Traffic and the lack of adequate parking in the downtown. These are common complaints, so I know I’m not alone, but they are complaints that mask the true nature of our existential climate crisis. What would it mean if we were able to take in the full reality: that future generations will be faced with unprecedented fires and floods, famine, drought, loss of habitat and more?

Of course, many of us are committed to doing our part to heal the planet. Who among us doesn’t recycle? We’re doing our best to limit consumerism and we send money to our favorite environmental charities. Electric cars are no longer a rarity. Even the presidential candidates are voicing their own concerns about climate change.

With our planet melting day by day, it’s impossible to know how much is enough. We feel hopeless and overwhelmed. And then we lose our way, pushing aside what we know to be true: that our planet won’t survive any more abuse. The reality is that we can’t afford to forget.

**Mýrdalsjökull Glacier at Katla Volcano**

What can one person do? Perhaps a diet that includes fermented shark and a long, icy cold, dark winter would help to keep us on the right path. Remind us how blessed—and endangered—we are.

Like the Icelanders, we can make friends with adversity. Because one way or another, that’s what we’re facing.

I invite you to read related travel blogs including Colombian Courtesy: The Declining Cost of a Tinto and Morocco: A Call to Prayer. And my novel, Thin Places, that is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.

The Rescue: A Short Story

August 26, 2019 By elieaxelroth Leave a Comment

The stranger who rescued him was a dark-skinned woman. She’d been wearing a green dress with flowers and a matching sweater, delicate pearl buttons running down the front. She smelled exotic like rose petals. All he wanted to do was to thank her.

Click here to read my short story, The Rescue, published in Adelaide Literary Review, Issue No. 27, August 2019.

I also invite you to read a recent blog post on The Possibility of Transformation. And my National Indie Excellence award-winning novel, Thin Places.

Colombian Courtesy: The Declining Cost of a Tinto

February 18, 2019 By elieaxelroth 12 Comments

A sign at a café in Medellín illustrates the Colombiano passion for courtesy. Un tinto—a small cup of black coffee—costs $2000 Colombian pesos. Or about 65 cents.

Ask for your tinto with a simple “por favor” and the price immediately drops.

Gush with courtesy: “Buenos días, un tinto por favor,” and your coffee is cheaper still.

The country’s sordid history of violence and drug cartels aside, this is a culture that values simple courtesy. In fact, it’s regarded as rude to launch into a conversation without the requisite smile and good morning. How are you? How’s your family? And your second cousin? Did she move back to Bogotá from the States? They want to know where you’re from and what you think of their safer, more tranquil, vibrant Colombia.

It’s an ease of conversation that leaves me tongue-tied.

Lucky for me, my traveling buddy Cynthia smoothed the way with her warm smile and congenial manner—making our trip that much more extraordinary. Etched in my memory bank is the bittersweet sadness of a diminutive shopkeeper from Ecuador forced to support his family from afar. The hotel manager who figured out how to get us a hot shower when the system broke down. The kind face of the weaver who sold me a handwoven tablecloth.

Having grown up in New York, I’m more at ease with the kind of streamlined, albeit impersonal transactions that take place every day in grocery stores and newsstands, at the bank, on the street corner when asking for directions. A perfunctory hello is followed by your request.

Having to pause and breathe and spend those few extra minutes getting to know someone can feel like an imposition.

Even in California, we’re in a hurry. When eating out at a restaurant, I’ve lately developed an uncontrollable impulse to hold onto my plate. Otherwise it’s likely to be snatched away before I’ve had a chance to sop up that last savory drizzle of avocado balsamic dressing. And woe to the slow eater who’s shamelessly ignored while everyone orders dessert. All over the world—Italy, Ecuador, Mexico, Spain, and Argentina—you can linger for hours without so much as a side glance from the waiter.

Years ago, traveling on a crowded bus through bush country in Africa—maybe Kenya or Tanzania—the bus would stop with no one in sight. No houses or bicycles, no cows or donkeys, or even people. Then seemingly out of nowhere, a young woman would appear; she’d climb on the bus with her packages and young children in tow. Invariably, another passenger would move aside to create a seat and perch the child on his lap. Then they’d chatter away like old friends.

They must know each other, we thought. But that wasn’t it at all. They were immensely open-hearted and friendly, and thought nothing of showing a common courtesy by picking up another woman’s child.

In the US, we’re suspicious of strangers who tell us too much about themselves. Or who make eye contact on the subway. Or who offer to hold our child’s hand when we’re overloaded with too many packages. I’m savvy enough to know that danger lurks, but I’ve also witnessed the callousness of strangers standing by while a young mother struggles with her stroller and baby and toddler and diaper bag trying to get onto a plane.

We rarely stop to consider the cost of our paucity of words and fear of generosity.

Since coming back from our two short weeks in Colombia, I’ve been practicing generosity in my words. I have to admit that as an introvert, it’s scary stuff. I want to be friendly—but not too friendly—for fear of creating the wrong impression. And then what?

So now I smile and say hello to the barista. I ask how she’s doing. And what else she has planned for the day. Because I’m quite sure there’s nothing to be lost, except a few moments of my time. And so much to be gained.

I invite you to read related travel posts about Morocco and Cuba. And my novel, Thin Places.

Thin Places: The Possibility of Transformation

December 31, 2018 By elieaxelroth 12 Comments

At the time of the winter solstice, the veil between heaven and earth narrows, opening us to the possibility of transformation. In some spiritual traditions, it’s called a thin place, an idea that captured my attention enough to use it as the title for my debut novel. Thin Places is the story of two people struggling with enormous loss —a young girl who’s been abandoned by her mother and a therapist who’s grieving the tragic death of her husband. Therapy is the thin place that transforms brokenness into healing.

I’ve been witness to many thin places in my life—moments of opportunity, of joy, of a vision beyond myself. Sacred temples perched on a mountain top in Bhutan. Michelangelo’s David. Listening to Mary Oliver recite her poem, The Summer Day. The belly laugh of my children. The sweet and pungent taste of a slice of cherry pie.

The last six months, while recovering from a back injury, has surely not felt like an opportunity for transformation. In fact, I’ve experienced myself as standing outside of my life. As if I were experiencing not so much the pause of a sacred moment but the sharp-edged spidery crack of broken porcelain.

Along the way, I’ve deluded myself into believing that at some point, I would simply step back into my life. Everything from the past six months would be forgotten—and forgiven. Like those moving walkways in an airport—you can get on and off at any time. Luggage and all. No worries, because they always lead to the same gate at the end of the terminal.

In this spidery crack that is my life, I’ve had plenty of opportunity to contemplate what’s next—if what’s next is to be something different from the past.

Lately I’ve been trying my hand at sketching. I pack up my pad and pencils and take them with me on my neighborhood walk. I look for opportunities along the way to stop and draw. A bridge. Crows pecking at the grass. A jungle gym. A park bench. Sitting in a café with my coffee, I look around until I see what draws me in. I’m learning about perspective and angles and shading and plumb lines, simple concepts for now. I try to draw every line, every angle, but I’m intrigued by the idea that some lines are necessary while others are extraneous.

I’ve discovered that it takes focused attention and concentration to see what’s really there. It is our brain that constructs—or reconstructs—what we perceive. But it is our eyes that really see. For instance, we divine a doorway from a line that disappears into the shadows. Shading suggests the depth of a planter box. Parallel lines of a sidewalk narrow into the distance. Our brains fill in the frame and the details.

It is an act of bravery and resistance to be willing to sit and stare long enough to take in what’s actually there. To draw and erase and redraw and stare some more. To see what’s real.

In these hours of concentrated focus, I feel a sense of contentment. My coffee is cold long before I’m ready to pack up my pencils. I’ve come to see that there’s no crack in my life. Unlike the airport walkway, we can’t get on and off when things get tough.

The best we can do is pray and rage and weep. And then gather up our senses and pay homage to what’s real. Because life continues, and along with the grief and loss and pain, there will also be moments of unexpected joy.

I invite you to read related posts Play it as it Lies and On Lost Sunglasses and the Meaning of Life. And my novel, Thin Places.

Play it as it Lies

December 17, 2018 By elieaxelroth 27 Comments

In between fetching pain pills and making me lunch, Gertrude watches me grimace every time I roll over. Or get up to go to the bathroom. Sneezing is the worst.

“No more golf for you,” she says.

I’m recovering ever-so-slowly from a bulging disk. The only comfortable position is lying on the floor on my stomach.

“We’ll see,” I say, reluctant to trade in my golf clubs for a swimsuit.

With nothing better to do, I search the Internet: Why is golf bad for your back? I discover that the twisting is hard enough on your spine, but add leaning over, and then occasionally slamming the club into the ground. Discs tear, little bony facets dig into the nerves, muscles inflame. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

It’s easy for Gertrude to be so glib about my golf days suddenly coming to a close. She doesn’t appreciate the hunt for that elusive hole-in-one. The occasional birdie. The ocean view from the tee box on five. The shared frustrations and inside jokes.

The life lessons.

There are lessons to be learned from participating in anything you’re dedicated to and passionate about. Serving up the perfect crème brûlée. Rebuilding an old Corvette. The barista who fashioned this self-portrait in the latte foam.

Here’s what I’ve learned from spending time out on the course:

Lesson #1: Don’t Narrate Your Bad Shots

At a golf lesson last summer, the instructor waxed eloquent about staying positive. I knew from watching him toss shots out that he didn’t have all that much to complain about.

“Don’t narrate your bad shots,” he told me.

Fair enough. What’s the point of griping about a putt you hit too hard? It’s pretty obvious the second your ball sails past the hole. But if you’re a golfer, you know how hard it is stay positive when an otherwise terrific drive lands in the water. Or you watch the six-foot clod of dirt fly further than your ball.

Because I can’t golf—for now—I’ve taken up sketching. I’ve always wanted to learn to draw, so I figure this is my opening. If you don’t overthink it, golf, like sketching, is pretty easy. You hit the ball—however many times it takes—until you get it into the little hole on the green. Isn’t drawing the same? You put paint or pencil or charcoal to paper. What’s the problem?

Like anything else, it’s the expectations we have, the dreams of perfection, the overanalyzing and tension that get in the way. We want a guarantee that we’ll achieve that elusive one-putt. Not just once, but multiple times each game. Like much of life, it’s a game of increasing greediness.

In a recent life drawing class, the model had been a tall, elegant black woman. At the end of class, I found myself leafing through the morning’s efforts. I could see that one drawing in particular, I’d done a fine job of capturing the curve of her spine, the shape of her hands resting on her thigh. I was pleased with my experiment of using watercolor to accent shadows. There was no sense bemoaning the other drawings—that lacked perspective, and held no resemblance to the model. Those drawings hadn’t turned out the way I’d hoped.

By chance, I remembered my golf teacher’s advice. Don’t narrate your bad shots, I thought. Besides, I’m just a beginner.

Aren’t we all beginners?

Lesson #2: Beginner’s Mind

Back in 1980, when I started graduate school in clinical psychology, I stumbled on the notion that I didn’t have to know anything. Wasn’t that the point of graduate school? That first anxious day, I remember looking around the classroom. Cramped in uncomfortable wooden desks were twenty of us pretending we weren’t surreptitiously sizing each other up. As it turned out, my beginner’s mind lasted well into the second semester and thank goodness. It meant I could be curious, that I was open to learning from my mistakes, that I didn’t have to pretend to be the next Anna Freud.

Unfortunately, by the second semester, my ego had wrangled me senseless and I’d begun to think I ought to know something. In fact, I’d convinced myself I ought to know quite a lot. It was a curse, siphoning off the joy of discovery, muting my creative impulses.

Of course, it’s hard to keep that beginner’s mind from morphing into something else. You begin to criticize, complain, carp. Throw your clubs. Break your colored pencils in half. For the time being, it’s just not that much fun.

If you don’t want to give up entirely, that’s when it’s important to locate the good.

Lesson #3: Locating the Good

It’s two weeks later and I’ve graduated from the floor to the couch. I’m taking short walks and beginning to believe there will be life after a bulging disc. I try working on a blog post, which turns out to be pointless given that my brain feels like overcooked squash. I can’t stay focused long enough to string more than a couple of words together.

Gertrude’s no help. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she says, “but what you’ve got so far? Well, it’s crap.”

Gertrude doesn’t really care about my feelings, but still, she’s right.

“What about that one good line?” I ask.

She knows which line I’m talking about. “Yeah,” she says. “That line really sings.”

If you’re willing to be brutally honest with yourself, it isn’t hard to find the one line that sings. It’s that relaxed golf swing that kisses the ball on the sweet spot. The splotch of color that draws in your attention.

Locating the good means relaxing and trusting the process. Trusting the one good line, the one moment of freedom and light that will move the poem or the drawing or your golf game forward. You have to set aside what isn’t working, knowing that with proper attention, something new and fresh will appear on the page.

In every shot. In every drawing. In every blog post or poem. Find the good, however small. And then trust that the rest will emerge.

Lesson #4: Trust Yourself

When I was learning to play golf, fearful that I was going to hit the ground, I’d tense up just before hitting the ball. Sure enough, even if I didn’t hit the ground, I’d hit a terrible shot. It was infuriating. One day, purely out of frustration, I just swung the club. “Whatever,” I thought. Then I watched the ball soar into the air. It was magic.

I’m a newbie at drawing, but I can see that if I’m tense or too worried about drawing the perfectly straight, dynamic line, that I’m going to metaphorically hit the ground. The first life drawing class I attended, I was pretty pleased with myself. I figured if anything even remotely looked like the model, I was doing pretty well. Three hours of focused attention flew by. The second class, my critical brain had already begun to hold court. I was looking around at what everyone else had done—and judging my feeble attempts. By the third class, it was clear that I’d completely deluded myself into believing I had anything akin to talent.

Trust yourself, I thought. Stop worrying about what anyone else is doing or thinking. Play your own game.

Lesson #5: Play Your Own Game

On my best days, I was a mediocre golfer. That’s not modesty. It’s the truth. I’d watch women ten years older, hell, twenty years older—hit a drive well past mine. I’d get frustrated, tense up. Determined to redeem myself, I’d swing that club as if an image of Individual #1 was embossed on those tiny dimples at the back of the ball. Then I’d hear the whishing sound of air, and I’d look down to see that the ball was still on the tee. In golf, a swing and a miss counts.

I’ll never be Annika Sorenstam. Or Picasso. Or Georgia O’Keefe. I read Toni Morrison with awe and a bit of dismay. I’m getting older and there aren’t going to be any Pulitzers or Nobel Prizes in my future.

But haven’t I succeeded if I can write a blog post that gets people talking? Or a sketch that’s pleasing to the eye and captures something of the figure’s likeness? What’s important is that I’ve brought everything I can to that one sentence or drawing or one shot. That I’ve played my own game.

No matter the lie.

Lesson #6: Play it as it Lies

Play it as it lies. It’s a familiar rule in golf. No matter how tall the grass. Or how deep the sand. Like a bulging disc, there are no mulligans.

It’s almost six months since I hurt my back and every morning I whine about the forty-five minutes of exercises I have to do to strengthen my core. But I do them anyway, and my oh-so-firm glutes are proof it’s paying off.

I’m working at a new standing desk, grateful to be standing and walking, swimming, hiking again. Grateful that I can string whole sentences together. Grateful to my wife and my friends and family, all of whom drove me around and went food shopping for me and visited and called to see how I was doing. My life is a great expansive privilege. But still, I miss playing golf. And there are plenty of days I bellyache about the physical challenges of the last six months. I have to remind myself that I’m very lucky indeed.

Maybe I’ll golf again. Maybe I won’t. But I’ll always be grateful to the game that taught me important lessons about optimism and trust and locating the good.

No matter how lucky—or lousy—the lie.

Sex and Lies and Apologies

October 1, 2018 By elieaxelroth 9 Comments

No one is expected to be squeaky-clean cradle to grave.

As a psychologist at a university counseling center, I was privy to many regrets and misbehaviors, lies, secrets, and even some illegal acts. On a handful of occasions, young men confessed to me that they’d had sex with a woman who hadn’t consented—what they realized the next day or the next month or the following year with a great deal of shame, was rape. They wanted to make it right by understanding how they could be capable of such behavior. One or two apologized to their victims. They were sorry. How could they make it right? That apology was life-changing for both of them. I’m certain that these men learned from their mistakes.

But they were, unfortunately, the rare exception.

Conservatively, somewhere between five and fifteen percent of college men admit to having had nonconsensual intercourse, the legal definition of rape.

Some men sober up and realize what they’ve done. Or the victim with enormous courage, calls him or texts him or otherwise confronts him with the facts of her experience. Some of these men are able to acknowledge that yes, they plowed ahead in the face of her unmistakable objections.

But self-reflection and apologies are strikingly rare. Approximately two-thirds of all college rapes are committed by repeat offenders. They admit to committing anywhere from 3.4 to 5.2 rapes per year.

To be clear, the men who have nonconsensual sex multiple times do so with foresight and planning. These are not the men who wake up the next morning with regret or insight or shame.

The stories that are coming out about Georgetown Prep are consistent with what we know about men who commit serial rapes. They choose a target—generally not the most popular girl at the party, ply her with alcohol or drugs, and then get her alone. They are using alcohol as a weapon, knowing full well that the victim will be blamed for her drinking. And perhaps ironically, that they will be excused—because they were drunk.

Still we are stunned by these statistics, enough so that we have trouble believing that otherwise smart, talented young men—our friends and neighbors, the children of our accountants and coaches and teachers—could be capable of such despicable behavior. Our disbelief, our denial lead us to give them a pass on male “mischief.” But it’s not mischief by any plausible definition of the word. It’s rape.

We pride ourselves on how far we’ve come. That we believe Dr. Ford and praise her for the courage to come forward. Her testimony from both sides of the aisle was deemed heartbreaking, credible, compelling. But there’s a disconnect between believing her and taking action. It’s a “he said/she said” we say, which is really shorthand for not taking the time to adequately investigate the allegations.

Perhaps that is changing, too.

I invite you to read related posts The Future of #MeToo and Lies Matter. Ignorance Does Too. And my novel, Thin Places.

A Call To Prayer: Morocco

March 5, 2018 By elieaxelroth 15 Comments

The muezzin lolls me out of a deep sleep with his plaintive call to prayer. It’s 5:30 in the morning, pitch black but for a swath of light through the curtains. Two-wheeled carts are rumbling along the cobblestone walkway below. A moped whizzes by.

Allahu Akbar. Allah is the greatest.

The repetition of verses, the imperative of the muezzin’s plea floats across the city in drawn out phrases. Chanting from the surrounding neighborhood mosques is out of sync, like a reverberating echo. It is mournful, but sweet, comforting, as if I am swaddled in a sheepskin rug.

Ashhadu anna la ila ill Allah. I testify there is no God but Allah.

Five times a day, Moslems are obligated to pray. It is one of the five pillars of Islam: Faith. Prayer. Charity. Fasting during the month of Ramadan. Pilgrimage to Mecca, called Hajj—at least once in your lifetime.

Ashhadu anna Muhammadan rasul Allah. I testify that Mohammed is God’s Prophet.

I’m on a three week tour with Overseas Adventure Travel. Later that morning, we’re weaving our way on bicycles through Marrakesh traffic—mopeds and two-wheeled carts, buses, taxis, an occasional horse-drawn carriage. Our guide, Omar, warns us, “Don’t hesitate. Just keep going or the cars won’t know what you’re doing.” A moped skims by close enough I feel the air compress between us. Temperamentally cautious, I hope I live to hear the afternoon call to prayer. I swear I’ll be a better person …

Hayya alas salah. Come to prayer.

Majorelle Gardens

Omar shepherds us across four lanes of chaos to the Majorelle Garden, a placid oasis just steps from the harrowing traffic and diesel fumes. We pause among the palm trees and succulents, the mosaics and intensely blue walls. He answers our curious, perhaps intrusive questions. Does he pray every day? He’s a young, hip guy so we’re surprised by his answer. “Of course,” he says. He’s proud of a religion that asks this much of him. Then he adds, “There is no reason not to pray five times a day. It is only ten minutes.” He fasts during Ramadan, a month of refraining from food or drink between dawn and dusk. Sometimes Ramadan falls in the summer. Imagine the discipline required.

Hayya alal falah. Come to security/salvation.

In Morocco, ninety-nine percent of the population are Moslems, almost exclusively Sunni. They are moderate Moslems. Many of them drink, however surreptitiously. And gamble. Both are forbidden in the Koran. They fear extremists. They share a special bond with Jews, given a shared history of both having been expelled from Spain in 1492—at the time of the Inquisition. Live and let live seems to be their attitude. Contrary to what I’ve read and heard in the news about Moslems, I find the people of Morocco to be generous and kind, proud of their values. Not perfect, but an inspiration.

La ilah ill Allah. There is no God but Allah.

When I traveled in Bhutan, a Buddhist country that supports the monks and the mountaintop temples, I was comforted by a culture that values quiet contemplation. It reminds me of the ubiquitous public sculptures in Italy. What’s the effect on a people, on their psyche, seeing Michelangelo’s David or Brunelleschi’s Duomo on their morning commute?

Koutoubia Mosque, Marrakesh

Back home, I wake up at odd times of the night, jet lagged, fighting the inevitable cold that comes from getting on a plane. I fantasize about the muezzin’s chant; I miss the rhythmic, mournful plea. I think, what about appropriating the emergency sirens in our town—erected to warn us in the event of an “incident” at our nuclear power plant? If the plant blows up, the only thing left to do would be to pray.

But mostly what draws me to the call to prayer is that it’s a public prompt to stop what we’re doing, to hit the reset button on all the crap that diverts us from our better selves.

I think of myself as a disciplined person. I eat my greens. I get exercise. I’m a writer. If nothing else, finishing a novel requires that I sit down, confront a blank page, write drivel, delete, and keep going. One word at a time.

There have been times in my life when I meditated every day, without fail, but not now. I don’t mean it as an excuse, not meditating because of the individual effort it would take.

But think about it: A public call to prayer. Five times a day. Endless opportunities to thank God. To be grateful. To plead for mercy and justice. For an end to the violence. For priorities that value life and freedom. And peace.

I invite you to read related travel posts about New Zealand and Cuba. And my novel, Thin Places.

The Future of #MeToo

November 16, 2017 By elieaxelroth 16 Comments

Women’s March San Luis Obispo January 2017

For months, I’ve been edging toward writing another blog post about musings on a recent golf lesson. It was going to be humorous with a message at the end about not being too self-critical. I wish I could feel good about writing that post.

But the ice caps are melting. Storms and fires have swept away whole communities. Every week there’s another mass shooting, another black man shot point blank by a police officer. And now there’s Harvey Weinstein. And Kevin Spacey. And Roy Moore–the latest, but surely not the last of the serial predators to be publicly named.

Finally, the women reporting these crimes (although certainly not all of them) are being taken seriously.

Is there a woman out there who hasn’t experienced being exposed to, or touched inappropriately, or compromised with quid pro quo offers of sex in exchange for a promotion? A woman who hasn’t been grabbed on the subway, or silenced with threats of harm, or drugged so she couldn’t say no?

I want to meet her.

Yes, I’m angry. Don’t try to sidetrack the issue by telling me women are perpetrators too. The overwhelming majority of offenders are men. And please, don’t deny our reality by dismissing us as man-haters. Any sane, moral person—man or woman—should be angry.

For many years, I worked as a psychologist in a counseling center at a major state university. I counseled scores of victims of sexual abuse. Incest. Acquaintance rape. Intimate partner violence. I advocated for policy changes, adequate staffing, and on-going awareness education—at distinct risk to my own reputation and career. The administration, clinging to their blinders, denied the extent of the problem. They made it difficult, as legally as possible, to dissuade women from coming forward and reporting the truth. Despite the wealth of significant, well-respected research, they claimed “that happens somewhere else. Our students don’t behave that way.” Any deviations from the so-called “norm” were dismissed as anomalies.

I should be relieved that women–once again–are taking to the air waves. That they are not being dismissed as crazy sluts. That men and women alike are believing them. Every day, another woman is stepping forward to tell her story. I’m inspired by their courage.

But here’s the thing: This avalanche of truth-telling is not likely to last. Not because we’re insensitive or heartless or lazy. Or because we’ve heard from all the victims out there. Quite the opposite. There are too many victims. And we’re not emotionally or psychically prepared to take in the full extent of the problem.

One in five girls is a victim of child sexual abuse.

One in five women has been raped in her lifetime.

One in three women has been sexually harassed at work.

It’s impossible to absorb.

So steel yourself. If we’re going to make the world safe for women and children, it’s going to take a whole lot of soul searching, and honesty and pure grit. And resources. We’re going to have to stay committed to believing all these women well past the next news cycle. And it’s not just about the famous ones. We’ll need to believe our children when they come home telling us about the swim coach. Or our co-worker when she reveals the boss grabbed her next to the water cooler. We’ll have to take to the streets, tell our stories, form a human chain of conviction.

And that’s not all. Each of us will have to resurrect our own pain—the time Uncle Stanley groped you under the Thanksgiving dinner table. That Saturday morning your cousin chased you around the house trying to pull down your panties. The guilt, the shame, the fear will feel limitless.

Men, good men, will have to come clean, too, and admit the ways they’ve been complicit. Bystanders who could have said something, but didn’t. And then there are the offenders. That’s a whole lot of pain to unearth because most abusers were abused themselves.

While all this is going on, let’s try to be kind to each other. Because what we’re trying to do will be painful and jarring. And sometimes we won’t feel like getting out of bed in the morning. Or going to Thanksgiving dinner because it’ll mean facing Uncle Stanley. Or turning on the TV. And what happened to believing the women who accused our President of similar abuse? It’s no small task, creating a world that is kind and true. And safe.

The country we’ve known will come apart at the seams. That’s when we’ll have a chance to rebuild in a way that treats us all as individuals deserving of respect, free from violence and abuse. A world where there are still floods and fires and earthquakes, but we’re all working together to heal.

When I hear all those women speak up, that’s what I’m praying for.

I invite you to read related posts Lies Matter. Ignorance Does Too and Words Matter. Actions Do Too. And my novel, Thin Places.

New Zealand: The Long White Cloud

April 8, 2017 By elieaxelroth 17 Comments

I’d no sooner gotten in the cab from the airport to downtown Wellington, New Zealand, when the driver launched into a mini-lecture about the voracious stoat—a short-tailed weasel that has wreaked havoc on native species.

Here in the US, we think New Zealand and Australia are kissing cousins, close enough to share flora and fauna. In reality, New Zealand—or Aotearoa as it is known by the Maori—is geographically quite isolated.

As it turns out, the cab driver’s lament was to be repeated throughout my visit—and for good reason. The only indigenous mammals on the North and South Islands are bats and several dozen marine mammals. Besides the Haast’s eagle, the only birds native to New Zealand are flightless. The Maori brought dogs and Polynesian rats to New Zealand about 1250 CE. European explorers and missionaries, beginning in the late 1700’s, introduced the rest—ferrets, pigs, deer, possums. And stoats.

All of whom make easy prey of a flightless bird like the kiwi.

Our guide, Daniel Scanlon, at Maungatautari Eco Sanctuary

One hazy day, we visited the Maungatautari (Sacred Mountain) Eco Sanctuary. Walking up the hill toward the entrance, the first thing we noticed was the striking demarcation between cleared pasture and the 47-km pest-proof fence. Our guide, Daniel, a young man of mixed Maori and Scottish descent, ushered us into the sanctuary through a double set of entrance gates. Once inside, the light dimmed. The air stilled. In contrast to the cleared pasture outside the fence, the sanctuary is thick with silver ferns, orchids, old growth trees. As if in a meditative state, my breathing changed, my mood lightened.

Sacred Mountain, indeed.

Constant surveillance is required to keep the sanctuary free from unwelcome interlopers. But in that environment, endangered birds are thriving. Fruits pollinate. Seed pods sprout without the competition from non-native rodents.

I’m inspired by these efforts–to reestablish the endangered kiwi. The coot-like takahe. North Island robins. The kea—an alpine parrot. As well as native flora. And yet, it’s something of a mystery to me–how we choose what to preserve and what to cast aside. I wonder, do we demonstrate the same commitment to our human diversity? To all the peoples of the Earth? To our collective languages and culture and spiritual practices?

Between 1860 and the early 1900’s, the Maori people lost all but perhaps 5% of their land to British settlers. The Native School Act in 1867 forbid speaking the Maori language in schools and playgrounds.

I’m told it takes one generation to lose a language and three to bring it back.

I think about the implications of suddenly losing not only my home, but the very words I use to communicate, to dream, to make meaning of my world.

Takahe at Te Anau Bird Sanctuary

New Zealand’s efforts toward restoring resources and land taken from the Maori people have been among the world’s most sincere and committed. And yet, discrimination continues in housing, healthcare, education, justice. When I asked about the on-going challenge of meaningful reparations, I was told, “How do you give back Auckland?” Yes, it’s a challenge, but the answer implies–disparagingly–that there are those who will never be satisfied.

For many of us concerned about bio-diversity on our planet, we are anxious to protect all creatures. Our oceans. The water we drink. The air we breathe. We should be equally committed to preserving the languages and customs and peoples of our Earth. These, too, represent the richness of our diversity.

It’s not a rhetorical question to ask how much value do we place on preserving the brown kiwi? Or the black rhino? A two thousand year old kauri tree? A language spoken by a few hundred elders in a remote village? A Maori welcoming ceremony? I believe a commitment to valuing the past stands witness to our humanity.

It’s safe to say that whatever we do, it’ll never be enough. But that shouldn’t stop us from trying.

I invite you to read other travel posts about Cuba and Chiloé Island. And my novel, Thin Places.

Why Truth Matters. The Unreliable Narrator in Fiction.

February 20, 2017 By elieaxelroth 8 Comments

Escaping Criticism by Pere Borrel del Caso. Public Domain.

Fiction thrives on spectacle and deceit. We’re intrigued by a protagonist who lies. The narcissist, whose egotism obscures alternative viewpoints, is greeted enthusiastically in the world of film and literature. We marvel at the sleight of hand, if pulled off adeptly.

Unreliable narrator is the term writers use to describe a narrator or protagonist who is—well—unreliable. First coined by literary critic, Wayne C. Booth, the unreliable narrator’s thoughts and actions are suspect. He is the con artist who spins a tale based on trickery and guile. The naïve child. The psychopath. The madwoman possessed. In art, it’s called trompe l’oeil–literally, “deceives the eye,” and is illustrated by this Pere Borrel del Caso painting.

In real life, we don’t expect the financier to purposefully leave us a trail of breadcrumbs leading to his Ponzi scheme. Russian hackers aren’t televising their activities. It was decades before we learned the identify of Watergate’s Deep Throat. But in fiction, the author must clue us in, however subtly. We’re likely to feel duped if we find out on the last page that the entire narrative was a dream. My mother, an avid mystery reader, used to complain about writers who withheld crucial details, making it impossible to solve the crime along with the detective.

Even in fiction, it felt like cheating.

One of my favorite examples of an unreliable narrator is Nabokov’s Lolita. Humbert Humbert is a middle-aged professor obsessed with the twelve-year-old Lolita. Along the way, it becomes profoundly clear that his professed love for her—despite Humbert’s well-formed rationalizations—is beyond creepy. So believable is his delusion, the novel was banned.

Perhaps Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl works so well because the reader is never sure whether the unreliable narrator is Nick. Or his wife, Amy. Or Amy’s diary.

On the other hand, a novel or movie based on a true story needs to get the historical details correct. Otherwise, we’re likely to feel scammed, manipulated.

I’m reminded of the 2014 movie, The Imitation Game, about code-breaker and mathematician Alan Turing. There was so much about the movie—crucial details—that were misplaced in time, outright distortions, misrepresentations. While casually fact-checking, I discovered the deceptions. Twisting the truth beyond what’s necessary for dramatic effect leaves us feeling betrayed.

There are rules. Even at the movies.

But real life isn’t the same as a story. In real life, omitting crucial details so as to manipulate the truth is not simply unreliable, it constitutes a lie. Perhaps it’s one of the reasons many of us are lately feeling so angry, wondering whose country we’re living in.

Ultimately in fiction–or real life—it’s consequential that we discern the unreliable narrator. Because lies matter. And so does the truth.

I invite you to subscribe to my blog. To read my novel, see Thin Places.

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