Most people experience gratitude in their lives, either around gifts, friends, kind acts, or sometimes just a good meal, but how much time do you spend, each day, being grateful for these things? Do you make it a practice? If not, a very simple suggestion; each night write down 3 things that happened that day that you are grateful for. It might be someone you met that day, a simple conversation, a hug, or a polite act on the part of another. It may even be that you are grateful that you had the chance to do something for someone else. Practicing gratitude at this simple level trains your mind to find gratitude in the simple things. Once your attention is on things to be grateful for, you automatically stop looking for things to be pissed off about. Over time, this becomes a way of being, not a practice." - Lee Lipsenthal, MD.
On Thursday afternoon,as I found myself in a gallery filled with paintings by the Venetian Masters, my throat began to tighten. I was standing in front of a painting by the venetian painter Tintoretto, Susanna and the Elders and thinking about my Mom.
I was 12 years old and in 7th grade the first time my parents took us to Europe. This was to be our first plane trip, and as if going to Europe wasn't exciting enough, Dad had arranged to have us taken to the airport by helicopter. It was a big deal. Back in those days people dressed up to fly and we were no different. I remember standing on the tarmac dressed in a yellow and blue 70's pants suit, waiting to board the Pan Am flight that would take us, for the very first time, to Rome, a city I would fall in love with almost instantly.
Mom was a tour guide at heart. She planned every minute of our trip, an itinerary that she had painstakingly typed out on her Smith Corolla in the evening hours long after we had gone to bed. Unbeknownst to him, she and Arther Frommer were best pals and if there was anyway to really do Europe on $10 a day, she was determined to find out. Mom kept a little notebook of our travels where she logged every penny spent at each pensione, cafe, museum and church we visited and believe me, there were plenty. There was very little down time. No hour unaccounted for. We "did" Europe with a vengeance. We walked everywhere. Miles each day; from church to gallery, from restaurant to pensione. We grumbled. We complained. Hey, we were kids, for goodness sakes. Mom was relentless.
In the evenings she would quiz us, a tradition that would last throughout our childhood. "What is the name of the river that flows through Venice?" She would say. A nickel was yours if you got the right answer.
On New Year's Day, Mom fell at the assisted living center. My brother and sister had just seen her that morning, taking her out for their weekly coffee and bagel visit. No one saw her fall, but when the call came from the hospital a few hours later, our worst fears were confirmed. Mom had fractured her hip and would need surgery.
Dr. Lee Lipsenthal passed away from cancer in late September. I was lucky enough to meet Lee and his wife Kathy when our kids played baseball together a number of years back. We hadn't kept in touch, but I hadn't forgotten how much I enjoyed talking to them as we sat beside dozens of baseball fields that summer in the hot dusty sunshine. When I learned that he had passed away, and that he had written a book about the lessons he had learned as he faced his own death, I knew I had to read it.
Lee had spent a lot of years teaching physicians how to achieve balance in their lives, espousing that balance meant that "today would be a good day to die, that you had lived fully, lovingly and without remorse." A powerful message to be sure, and one that I have worked at with varying levels of success. After all, I'm a menopausal, overly emotional Italian from New Jersey. "What if" is my middle name. Practice gratitude, Lee says so eloquently in the book. Be grateful every day. Enjoy Every Sandwich by practicing mindfulness, intention and gratitude.
My eyes began to fill with tears as I stood in front of this magnificent painting, one that I was sure I had studied as an art history student back in college. It was Mom that had taught me to love this stuff. Mom that had awakened my passion for Italy. Mom that had made sure we understood where we came from. Mom, who at that exact moment lay in a hospital bed some 3,000 miles away. It was easy to worry. To be anxious, fearful and afraid. To think about all the bad things that might happen.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I remembered to be grateful. For Mom. For those trips to Europe. For my love of Italy and renaissance art.
Thanks, Lee.
