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Carine explores the pursuit of big business and the big O

Ladies!

Do you know that you are sick if you don’t have vaginal orgasms? If your libido is kind of low, you have an illness? If you are not instantly lubricated when your partner suggests lovemaking, you are diseased? And did you know that not climaxing when you engage in sexual activity means something is wrong with you?

Listen up. Your debilitating ailment has a name: Female Sexual Dysfunction, or FSD. Don’t you feel better knowing what’s wrong with you? Now you can go to reputable sites like Mayo Clinic or Web MD or AAPF (a peer-reviewed medical journal of the American Academy of Family Physicians) and read all about it. That’s the good news. The bad news is that, unfortunately, not even one of those smarty-pants scientists out there has been able to come up with the Holy Grail otherwise known as female Viagra. Ain’t life a bitch sometimes? Does God hate women or what?

I had never heard of the term FSD until I stumbled upon an eye-opening 2009 documentary called Orgasm Inc. It tracks filmmaker Liz Canner’s own stumble upon the pharmaceutical industry’s dogged pursuit of ways to make perfectly healthy women feel abnormal in order to sell them the medication that will make them “right” again. It follows that in order to sell a new prescription drug and new medical procedures, Big Pharma first had to come up with a problem, which needed curing. Hence the term FSD was born. And even though they continue to con women into trying new drugs, and an entirely new industry has sprung up around the issue (along with a veritable cornucopia of methods to sell the message—including trade shows, TV ads, self-help books and more) it turns out that (surprise!) there is nothing wrong with women. Data from multiple respected doctors and sources indicate that 50-60% of women don’t climax through vaginal intercourse, and that most women achieve orgasm only through clitoral stimulation. I guess there’s just no getting around that persistent urban legend that men and women are built differently!

It’s not like I never dreamed Big Pharma would go so far as to invent a disease in order to make money from women who are told every day in myriad ways that they are not perfect and MUST be perfect. It’s just that this excellent documentary exposes the full-of-shitness factor so handily that, warning! it may induce nausea; but in the process, it might remind you that no, you don’t need labiaplasty—plastic surgery for reducing the labia minora in otherwise fine women who are made to feel everyone is supposed to look identical (to those of you who really do need that surgery, by all means…). I once had a gynecologist who was big into labiaplasty tell me that she considered taking a booth at the LA Erotica trade show because, “We’re doing these ‘designer vaginas’ now…” I swear she used that phrasing, which is when I started looking for a new ObGyn; meanwhile, the term “designer vagina” has become the accepted and flirty way to describe the surgery during a sales pitch. Can somebody just shoot me now?

And you know how it’s become all the rage to wax off every last pubic hair you ever had in an effort to, I dunno, look like an 8-year-old? A porn star? Well, maybe you should ask yourself why your partner digs that look so much, or why you suddenly need to be bare, bare, bare! I suspect someone in the waxing industry got high one night, came up with the idea, and then figured out how to turn it into a trend. I recently saw a woman in her thirties wearing a cropped top with jeans riding so low on her hips that I wanted to say, “Okay, I get it! You have no pubic hair!” I found that in-your-face sexuality as vulgar as all the ass-cracks you see blaring out from guys’ super baggy jeans. Listen up, ladies and gentlemen, showing the entire world what’s just below your belt and in between your legs is too much information. Repeat after me: I am not sick. I am beautiful just the way I am. Now, excuse me, I have to go to Brazil to yell at them for inventing the Brazilian Wax, those snatch-hugging hip-hugger jeans with the world’s tiniest zippers, and for beating out Beverly Hills in the incidence of cosmetic surgery (mostly done to pad their booties not breasts!). Come on girls, how caliente can you get without going up in flames?

Melissa works at creating a personal survival guide for the tumult of the times

These are tough times. This is the one thing we all can agree on. At this juncture, I am forced to acknowledge that personally things are also rough and ragged. This could be a chicken and egg question, “Is it the state of the world that is making me sad or am I just sad which is affecting how I see the world?” Does it really matter? It’s perilous out there and its perilous in here. So what to do? The very wise ones say that it’s not what is happening that is important rather how we respond and relate to what is happening.

With this in mind I’ve begun to make some changes – they may seem superfluous and shallow but I’ve noticed immediate improvement in my outlook. I have blocked the posts of people on Facebook who persistently lambast. It depressed me. Truth be told I’m limiting my FB time and when I am there I find I am looking for inspiring stories and cute animal photographs of interspecies bonding and acceptance. These things lift me up and contribute to an overall feeling of well being.

A few days ago I flew from the West to East Coast to attend a retreat with the Buddhist Nun and Teacher, Pema Chodron titled, Living Beautifully with Uncertainty and Change. I left the West Coast just shortly after the Oakland Police Department unleashed tear gas, rubber bullets and batons on a group of peaceful protesters critically injuring Scott Olsen a young member of Veterans for Peace. Shortly before that event, the deposed dictator of Libya, Moamar Ghaddafi, was found and then sodomized with a knife by one of his captors all captured on video. The news media then played, played and re-played the video of a bloodied and dying Ghaddafi. I found this all entirely disturbing and savage. No matter Ghaddafi’s documented atrocities towards the people of Libya, an inhumane act toward an inhumane person is still inhumane. The media approach to this “story” was likewise inhumane and indecent. My retreat was well-timed and aptly titled.

As I flew across the country the sun went down behind me and I began to see little gatherings of light below me — unknown towns and villages. I looked down on them and whispered out the window, “There is some goodness down there, there must be.” And there is. Everywhere. In this time I am prospecting for goodness.

I am fortunate to know a number of people who contribute to goodness in the world in big, big ways nationally and globally. This work inspires me. Right now though I’m seeking the little gestures around me and also the ones I can create so as not to feel so overwhelmed by the tumult of these times.

A Few Examples

My friend Gina Truex is an extraordinary artist. Gina shares her time and skill with two groups of women who are for the most part homeless but manage each week to make their way to a drop-in day center. There, Gina works with the women creating both community and objects they can call their own.

Through the Berkeley Reads Adult Literacy Program I am tutoring a woman with limited literacy who has raised two children, and now has two grandchildren She wants to be able to read and write beyond the elementary school level. She wants to be able to read magazines and movie titles.

In Winslow, Arizona, three visionaries Allan Affeldt, Tina Mion and Daniel Lutzick saved the last great Fred Harvey Hotel, La Posada, designed by Mary Colter, from the wrecking ball. They have made the restoration of the hotel their life project. The hotel has created 50 jobs in a depressed area. Everybody who works at the hotel has health insurance, retirement and access to funds to help them buy homes.

At the beginning of the school year I gladly answered the call to provide children in Foster Care with school supplies and their own backpacks, Project Ready to Learn. Choosing two backpacks and filling them with cool school supplies made me unreasonably happy.

I just read an article about the monotony soldiers on deployment endure during the hours they are not avoiding bombs and snipers. Storm Williams from North Carolina created a website called Books for Soldiers. I’m a volunteer. I log in to the site see what books are requested, go to the used bookstore, find the book and ship it out. It’s simple, its something I can do and probably makes me feel better than the soldier who receives the book.

I’m well aware that “Living Beautifully” in these times is not all about external acts of goodness. So too I take on the internal in an act of spiritual warrior-ship which basically means not adding to fear and aggression in these times. Adopting the posture of being friendly to myself and merciful to others requires vigilance. I find the former to be the hardest task. So I acknowledge myself when spontaneous love, compassion and understanding bubble up. Yesterday on the train I was thinking about someone I love profoundly who hurt me deeply and all of the sudden I understood why. It didn’t make it right but the understanding prevented my hurt from hardening into anger and I was aware that in this case love prevails — an act of goodness toward my self. It’s a beginning. Step by baby step.

Meet or retreat from Carine’s cast of characters in her toned down rant about “the change”

You don’t know how happy you are that I didn’t post the blog I originally wrote titled “I Hate F#*@!-ing Menopause”. I remembered just in time that I’m supposed to embrace this era of transformation, of aging with grace, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah. To be 100 percent honest, I don’t love growing old but I’ve made my peace with it. I’m even doing it au naturel—never tried Botox, stopped dyeing my hair, chucked my distaste for exercise. But, menopause? Yes, that’s me in the corner over there, waving the large white flag.

My original blog was full of anger and super dirty swear words. Aren’t you glad I reconsidered? Although, to tell you the truth, I had a great time ripping Madam Menopause to shreds. I thought I was really funny, but people who love me said to keep it to myself or forever suffer pangs of regret since the Internet is the elephant that never forgets. Or, they made careful suggestions about how to tweak it. So I shelved the report on my wide-eyed midnights spent wondering whom to yell at; and of my epiphanous threat to Mr. Flash: the intention to create a brand new antiperspirant for the ENTIRE body. HA! HA! HA! No more sweating EVER AGAIN!

I spared you the excruciating blow-by-blow of how, over the last two and a half months, my credit card balance grew a desperate $2,000 as I attempted to reach hormone balance the natural way. Of how my GP explained that the reason behind my persistent chest cold and cough lay at the feet of Mr. Stress, thanks to the nighttime, daytime, all-the-time, evil ministrations of the ever-diligent Mr. Flash. (I wonder if Stress is the same culprit behind the brand new head cold I woke up with just two days after getting rid of the last one?) I resisted the urge to bore you with the details of my distressing and infinite visits to Ms. Nutritionist, Mr. Acupuncture, Miss Blood Test and Master Genetics Test while throwing back the Multiple Mrs. Supplements at breakfast, lunch, dinner and bedtime. And I held back the anxious return of my depressed and sleep-deprived ass right back into the smirking arms of Ms. Bio-identical Hormone Replacement Therapy, cancer risks be damned.

I didn’t tell you about how one morning, after getting out of bed in my usual good mood, my husband lovingly suggested that he could take that wooden mallet he keeps by the side of the bed and give me a good whack on the head just to help me out on the sleeplessness front. (I have to say he made me laugh, and that was no small feat.)

I saved you from my bitch, bitch, bitching about Ms. Menopause Party Planner’s spurious bits of advice: discard all tops that can’t be easily and discreetly ripped off the burning-hot then cold and clammy body; and check this one out: no more than one alcoholic beverage per week! Talk about hitting below the belt.

You’ll be happy to learn that, in just one lucky week, I expect to stop barking at the moon and warning people that the only way they’ll get my bottle of vodka is to pry it from my cold dead hand. That’s how long it will take for Ms. Bio-identical to kick in. In the meantime, I take comfort in my mature and selfless decision to post this amazingly positive blog instead of the vile one I intended to submit!

The popsicle stick-thin figure in rumpled pajamas who is my 16-year-old son stands in the darkened corridor in a fighter’s stance, small white hands clenched into fists. His face, lit by a shaft of light from the laundry room, is contorted with rage at being roused from his slumber—probably by me shutting the dryer door.

Casey’s eyes dart from the lit laundry room to the clothes in my arms; then to the crack of light under his brother’s bedroom door.

This could go any direction, including ones I cannot imagine, so I float a storyline: “I’m going downstairs with these clean clothes; time to go back to bed.”

“Mom? Who are you talking to?” comes from behind my oldest son’s door.

I dart a warning glance at Casey, whose free-floating anxiety wicks towards the sound of his brother’s voice. He erupts, “Shut-up! I’m trying to sleep!”

“You shut-up. You’re the one who’s yelling,” comes big brother’s voice.

“Honey, you’re half asleep; go back to bed.” A light touch Casey’s shoulder. Mistake. A tiny fist flies—I duck; a torrent of abuse follows.

“Just shut-up!” yells older brother wrenching open his bedroom door. Then, “Mah-ahm, you don’t ever punish him; he thinks he can get away with this.”

Casey tries to scramble past me, “Fucker! I’ll kill you!” I seize a second jab in mid-air, gently guiding the wrist to Casey’s side as I hold him firmly by the elastic of his P.J. pants.

“It’s late,” I soothe, drawing closed my older son’s bedroom door. “Let’s get you a cup of warm milk.”

But there will be no soothing tonight. The door to Casey’s room slams, and for emphasis, opens and slams harder. I count with eyes closed. Finally, his bed creaks.

I pivot, open the bedroom door of my eldest son who is sprawling on his bed wearing drawstring shorts and Borat T-shirt. His laptop is open to what I hope is homework. He glances at me from under brows stitched together with almost two decades of frustration; a look too jaded for his 18 years.

My heart constricts—again. “This is autism,” I whisper. “Please. Punishing isn’t the answer.” No response. Then, “I know what I’m talking about.”

And, finally, I really do.

Autism can be a labyrinth of unspeakable horrors, where one comes face-to-face with the worst possible traits of humanity—indifference, cruelty, greed, discrimination, hopelessness and resignation. Autism is where marriages and parenting partnerships come to die on the rocks of exhaustion, despair and blind self-interest. Autism wears down families, severs familial bonds with sharp and bitter recriminations, blame and guilt. Institutions designed to help don’t. Safety nets fail, their frail ropes of good intentions frayed by bureaucratic apathy and over-extended, un-kept promises. Men often leave, unable to fix or to sustain that which sprung unexpectedly from their own loins. Mothers give all or give nothing; either way they are reviled by those outside the dark bubble which the family calls home but feels like anything but.

Autism makes no sense; there are no navigational tools or comfortable rest stops along the path families must traverse on their way towards the inevitable—when they must blindly entrust their disabled loved ones to the care of others when they themselves are spent, the marrow of their bones turned to dust, and all their loving ministrations poured out onto the dry sand of life’s injustice. In the final analysis, the only real measure of the energy expended is the significant shortening of the mother’s lifespan and the distance the other family members put between themselves and the pain that just won’t go away.

So it was for Kristen LaBrie, 38, a single, unemployed mother of a non-verbal, severely autistic and cognitively delayed son, Jeremy, who suffered from a relapse of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma when he was seven. The mother and her son, who had survived an earlier bout of cancer therapy, made it together through four of the five phases of the second go-round of chemo before Kristen stopped administering the medicine because she felt it was making Jeremy sicker.

In Kansas City last month, Kristen was paraded through the halls of justice in handcuffs (“let that be a warning to all you bad mommies out there”), after being sentenced eight to ten years for attempted murder of her son Jeremy. The prosecution painted Kristen as an embittered woman who let her son die to get back at the world, and especially Jeremy’s father who left the destitute mother and son to fend for themselves when Jeremy was three.

In court documents, Kristen’s crime was failure to give her son life-saving medicine that an oncologist claims could have given Jeremy as much as a 90 percent chance to survive at least another five years. The thinking is that if Kristen had been a good mommy, she would have followed a complex two-year protocol that included hospital stays, regular visits to a hospital clinic to receive chemotherapy and at-home administration of several cancer medications. Never mind that the medical protocol did not include systematic support for Kristen, her son’s only caregiver for most of his life, and herself suffering from clinical depression.

Jurors justified their harsh verdict—guilty of attempted murder, guilty of child endangerment; guilty of assault and battery; guilty, guilty—by citing the devotion of motherhood in lofty tones. Editorial writers and pundits weighed in with headlines such as “Life Unfair, but Mother Dead Wrong”. Anyone with a toe in the vast sea of commerce that world of autism has become proffered themselves to the media as autism experts, hoping to use the tragedy of Kristen and Jeremy to sell their books, programs or gain market share points with a population that increases annually by more than 40,000 souls in the United States alone.

Our son Casey is one of the lucky ones, born into a comparatively stable family that is able to get him the services and enrichment he needs to thrive and grow. Sure, our Thanksgivings feel more like Picasso’s Guernica than Norman Rockwell’s Freedom from Need, but, as I put away the laundry that started the confrontation in the darkened hallway, I wonder how many children with autism will be born as Jeremy was, to unsteady circumstances and single mothers struggling to survive?

Tonight, as the mercury hovers above 50 degrees; outside the open windows the peeper frogs celebrate spring in vernal pools, their high-pitched squeals sing in new beginnings.

Tomorrow, Casey will process his midnight meltdown; he will be full of remorse, doling out hugs and asking forgiveness. He will see the world with new eyes and help those who support him have some measure of satisfaction that they had something to do with his turnaround.

But for other mothers and fathers, there are no reconciliations—only more suffering lies ahead. Who among us would willingly exchange places with them?

Autism by itself is a burden almost impossible to bear. Autism, poverty and a lingering, prolonged cancer treatment that causes both emotional and physical pain make for an exercise in despair so profound that our legal system cannot address this tragedy. Kristen should go free; her life so far has been punishment enough.

Cathy finds inspiration for lightening up in dark times

The world seems to be in an upheaval these days. There’s so much bad news, it makes me want to burst into tears. But, I’ve decided to take a different path, to turn away from the sad and focus on the good.

From soul stirring to silly, brilliant to ballsy, here are ten things to get your face grinning.

#1) Smile! It’s Good for You

“Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.”

Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh suggests that we look at ourselves in the mirror each day and smile. “What better way to start the day than with a smile?” he writes. “Our smile affirms our awareness and determination to live in peace and joy.“

Smiling lowers blood pressure and relieves stress, it’s contagious, and everyone looks better when they smile. Even if you don’t feel like it, try smiling and get some sunshine from deep within.

#2) Hop on the Bus Gus!

In Los Angeles, where wheels rule, the Do Good Bus gives participants an opportunity to get involved in their community. With no religious affiliation, each trip is different and assignments are kept a secret until on board.

Activities range from building new homes to creating guerrilla gardens, helping high school seniors with college applications to giving out hugs to strangers. One of the endeavors they support, “The Burrito Project”, deserves its own smile.

http://dogoodbus.com/

#3) Rice and Beans Wrapped Up in Love

Feeding the homeless and hungry, The Burrito Project started in 2006 with two bicycle riders and 90 burritos. Now they have over 20 riders and feed 300 to 400 people weekly in the LA area. But wait, there’s more….

Anyone can start a Burrito Project, a DIY blog tells you how. There are many Projects throughout the U.S., one in Ciudad, Mexico and even a Falafel Project based in Damascus, Syria.

http://dogoodbus.com/ride_burrito.html

#4) Humor for the Slithery Soul

If you haven’t heard, a 20-inch Egyptian Cobra went missing in the Bronx Zoo a couple of weeks ago. The snake became one of New York’s most famous celebrities, inspiring comedians of all stripes. Twitter’s @BronxZoosCobra kept me in stitches!

Here are a few entries from the escaped reptile as she made her way around the Big Apple (there’s an Adam and Eve joke in there somewhere) to her eventual capture almost one week later.

Got a bagel at H & H Bagels on upper west side. When I ordered I said, “I’ll have the snakes on a PLAIN.” He did not laugh. Tough crowd.

A lot of you are asking for details of my capture. Basically I was caught between the moon and New York City. #snakeinthezoo

http://twitter.com/BronxZoosCobra

#5) Teens Bloom Through Songs from the Heart

60 Minutes reporter Lesley Stahl spent a year following this amazing story.

“There’s a street in Harlem that comes alive every Saturday with the sound of gospel music. You won’t find any church there — just a brownstone full of teenagers and the woman who draws them in. Her name is Vy Higginsen, a New York radio personality and theater producer. Five years ago she created something called Gospel for Teens.… And if you’re thinking that Higginsen thought up this program as a way to save the teens, you’d be wrong. She did it to save the music.”

Like Gospel music, Vy Higginsen lifts people up. See the stories and hear the voices of these kids, some of whom are having hard times in their young lives. Get out your hankies, there may be some tears of joy served up with this smile.

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2011/03/31/60minutes/main20049243.shtml

#6) The Happiness Project

I’ve been on the email list for The Happiness Project for almost three years and have watched its founder Gretchen Rubin go from hesitant experimenter to best-selling author. Her book is an account of the year she spent test-driving studies and theories about how to be happier. You can get her findings on the site and even start your own Happiness Project.

http://www.happiness-project.com/

#7) GOOD is Good

A website and quarterly print magazine covering a variety of topics, GOOD describes itself as “ a collaboration of individuals, businesses, and nonprofits pushing the world forward.” They also send daily doses of good stuff via email.

Here’s a tidbit:
“The special effects wizards over at Weta (they’re the folks who made the costumes and creatures for the Lord of the Rings movies) recently designed a mermaid tail so Nadya Vessey, a double amputee, can swim. And they did it just to be nice.”

http://www.good.is/

#8) This is Your Brain On…

All those theories about dead brain cells from partying in your youth can now go up in smoke. There have been some very exciting discoveries lately in the field of brain science concerning the plasticity, adaptive nature and self-correcting features of the human brain. Brain cells actually do regenerate! New neurons are created in the brain every day, even in people in their 70s.

If this type of stuff fascinates you, as it does me, you can hear the experts for free during the New Brain Science Teleseminar Series on Wednesdays at 5:00 PM Eastern / 2:00 Pacific until May 4th. (For access at other times there’s a fee.)

http://www.nicabm.com/thebrain2011/

#9) Interpretive Pooch Makes Beautiful Music

This video says it all. Sing in the shower, sing in the car, sing like no one is listening and sing your heart to happy!

#10) Kittens, Kittens, Kittens!

Need I say more?

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I hope these 10 reasons have helped you smile your way to a better day.

Share your own smile stimulant. What makes you smile?

Is Carine looking for love in all the wrong places? Or could angels be guiding the way?

A study I read revealed that patients who feel their doctors care about them tend to recuperate and heal faster than those who feel like they’ve just taken a quick hop on-and-off a conveyor belt. Trying to find love from your healthcare provider is an iffy and trying proposition; and I’m here to report on my recent routine annual physical examination with a general practitioner, courtesy of my brand new HMO plan. Did you say $40 co-payment for all office visits and lab tests? I was already in love (even though I resent not being able to go to my regular GP and gynecologist because they’re not in the damn network).

My visit with the doctor went like this: in the less than 15 minutes it took for me to fill out the requisite forms, I observed no less than three pharmaceutical salesladies trot in to dole out free samples to the doctor, who, in fact did offer me a drug for osteoporosis before deciding whether or not I even needed a bone density test. I think I’m pretty in the know about the reciprocal back-scratching that goes on in the medical field, but I must admit to being kind of shocked when one of the salesladies in question whipped out her appointment book and notepad to take lunch orders for how many people did you say are working in the office now?

But my doctor surprised me further. When I said I was on bio-identical hormones and felt the need to have my levels tested, she said, “What are bio-identical hormones? Do you need a prescription to get them?” Okay, maybe not everyone knows what bio-identicals are, but a doctor? Within the context of the many hormonal changes I am experiencing, I told her that my breasts were quite tender lately, and we discussed a prescription for a mammogram. So I was again surprised when during the two-minutes spent on her examining table, she asked if I wanted her to check my breasts. Um, yeah? And then I told her that I had lost quite a bit of weight and wanted to make sure everything was fine on that front—you know, let’s check thyroid, adrenals, potential parasites, etc. But that conversation devolved into how thin I am and how fat she is and how she can’t stop eating chocolate at night. We ended up talking about her weight issues for a long, long time. Am I wrong or is that a little strange?

On the flip side, the places she sent me to for my mammogram and bone density test were kind of funky but clean and homey, and lacking in that sub-freezing temperature modern (and expensive) facilities love so much. Gotta get your gentle bedside manner wherever you can when it comes to unaffordable healthcare in America. Or maybe I’m just looking for love in all the wrong places.

Just the other day, while standing in line for the restroom at a Venice Beach boardwalk cafe, I started chatting with a woman who, at the end of our brief but lovely exchange, surprised me by saying, “I hope you don’t think this is strange but I have a gift for you.”

“Really?” I said.

She smiled and reached into the inner breast pocket of her denim jacket and pulled out a simply beautiful pendant made of mother-of-pearl with a filigreed silver dragon. The reverse side is a bright green jade.

“I told a friend of mine this morning that whoever gives me the warmest smile today is going to get this gift,” she said by way of explanation. And then she walked into the restroom, leaving me there, stunned, delighted and uplifted.

A friend of mine who has done a lot of research on dragons tells me that they represent transformation. Hormonal changes…transformation…delight… Sometimes the love and healing we hope to get from our doctors come from the kindness of an unexpected angel.

Cathy reflects on the positive reverberations of kindness and connection

It’s a new year, a new decade and time for a fresh start. Sometimes moving forward is just about going back, back to basics—and human kindness is about as basic as you can get.

In my last post, I wrote about my “funkified” state, concluding that self-kindness, loving-kindness, might be the best approach for calming the turbulent seas of my funk. Now, less than two months later, I believe it to be true. The cloud has lifted and despite many days of gray skies and rain, my enthusiasm has not dampened. My success was in large portion thanks to the kindness of others and finding out that I was not alone in my predicament. That and accepting that time was not on any particular schedule of my making, thus waiting for change while wading through the muck using patience and breath to get me through.

Kindness is free and limitless. It is a practice, an attitude, an approach. It’s an openhearted form of generosity that goes hand in hand with compassion; the more you practice kindness, the more natural it becomes. Jews speak of Tikkun Olam, to heal the world. Buddhists practice loving-kindness meditation. What would Jesus do? He’d be kind.

The most difficult part of the kindness quotient is loving-kindness toward self. In “What the Funk?” I wrote about the mite-infested parrot sitting on my shoulder squawking in my ear. What I really want to do is drown the dirty bird, but that probably wouldn’t work, he’d just come right back, pecking and prodding like something out of a Alfred Hitchcock film (you know the one); or I’d feel terribly guilty for having harmed the horrid creature. But if I approach The Negative One with caring and kindness, the bird could change, mellow and in turn act kinder too.

As Mother Theresa said, “Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.” You can make your or someone else’s day change from bland to brilliant in an instant with something as simple as an encouraging word or compliment, a helpful gesture, a knowing smile. Even science backs this up. Brain scans have proven that donating to a worthy cause leads to dopamine-induced good feelings. As Jonah Lehrer reported on Marketplace, “It’s the same part of the brain that’s turned on when we have sex, or eat a slice of chocolate cake.” No calories gained or lost.

“Be kind, rewind.” I still like that now antiquated expression from days of yore when video stores slapped the request on boxes that held actual videotape. It’s kind of deep if you think about it. To me it says, take a moment and pay it forward for the next person. It reminds me of a story I’ll never forget. One time during rush hour at the Bay Bridge tollbooth, a perfect stranger in the car ahead of me paid for my toll. I did the same thing the next day for the car behind me.

What goes around comes around and what a wonderful world it could be if we would all be kind and rewind. Kindness is, after all, contagious.

Share your experiences of acts of kindness, given or received. (It’s more contagious than the common cold!)