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| U.S. Supreme Court Justice Hugo Black, staunch defender of the First Amendment, never wrote a free speech decision I didn’t like.
From my perspective, even symbolic speech, armbands worn by protesting high school students, flag burning, etc. should be protected. Expose all that is spoken or written or symbolized to the light of day and encourage conversation in the “free market place of ideas.” I reject not only government censorship, but most institutionalized voluntary censorship as well. Of course, I make exceptions for speech or symbols that create a clear and present danger (i.e. shouting “fire” in the theater), and allow for protection of youngsters from that deemed too frightening or perverse, but little else.
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| As the scientific study of anger evolved, I failed to keep up. Until very recently I continued to believe that suppressing this emotion leads to high blood pressure and depression, and that seeking even physical outlets for one’s anger is the healthy path. Here is how a new understanding unfolded:
A husband and wife began mediation hoping to maintain a friendly relationship as parents, and their conversation in my presence was moderate, if guarded. In private both described unhappy years as they drifted apart, and each blamed the other for the failure of the marriage. But, |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| Her eighty-eight year old father, hospitalized for over two weeks, was not expected to survive, but he did. His clear instructions: if this happens to me again, no more heroics, too much pain and too much expense. Just let me go.
She was quick to respond and reassure: But, I’m not ready to let you go.
Her father: This is not your decision to make.
She realized he was not only stating his wishes, but also giving her permission to carry them out. |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| She said: you need to learn some new dance steps.
On my weekly Sunday walk with a close friend, she a psychologist, I’d spoken of my inability to penetrate the gloom that had befallen my husband. Each time I probed to learn more about the source of his apparent sadness, the few words he spoke in response served to close not open the door.
I queried: a new dance?
Her response: Stop asking questions. That’s your old dance. Just tell him how you’re feeling, only a few sentences, no accusations and see |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| When 11 years old, I cut my own hair, snipping off long locks to create bangs, and was actually rather pleased with the outcome. My mother did not hide her dismay. Tears. But when my father came home and was brought to my side to view the damage, my spirits soared, for even faced with his wife’s disapproval, he said: I like it very much. She’s very pretty.
An important moment for me, if remembered more than sixty years later. (And eventually the bangs grew out, for mother was right, not a good look for me.)
I write this on Father’s Day, still filled with gratitude. But as I search for other childhood memories of him, I realize that except for his place at Sunday dinners, I have few. For as I was growing up, he was more of an absence than a presence. As a child of the Depression, I was |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| One of the great joys of getting older are friendships that span decades, being so well known, without the need to defend when feeling vulnerable or weaknesses are exposed.
Paul and I talk often since the death of his wife four years ago, she a good friend as well. In his early seventies, retired, and in robust health, last year he’d become intimate with another woman, and reveled in his new found love. She, eight years younger and still engaged in her work, also expressed delight about their coming together.
But now the bloom was fading.
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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I avoid most large social occasions, explaining, or complaining, that my tolerance for idle chat, small talk, is low.
The three friends with whom I shared this view on a recent spring evening, nodded in silent agreement, as we strolled to our city’s huge Convention Center. We were headed for
what we expected would be a crowded event, that I knew would require considerable insignificant chatter, before I could retreat to the pleasure of having the remaining hours of the day be of my own
design. There was every good reason to be in ... |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| The name announced over my office intercom was vaguely familiar. As I lifted the phone, she said: You may not remember me. It’s been seven years since my mother and my sister worked with you. My sister is dying and refuses to see me. Can you help?
My failed mediations remain a more vivid memory than my successes, and as soon as she offered this background, I remembered her well.
I’d been consulted by a friend of a friend who asked if I could mediate a problem that was tearing her family apart. |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| I had an unusual experience last week. In honor of the remarkable life lived by a former high school classmate who recently died, I, along with three other old friends of his, spoke to an audience of young people now attending the same school. Looking back on that occasion, I realize I missed an important opportunity.
The only woman on the panel, I decided to comment on how the aspirations of boys and girls differed when I was in high school in the 1940s, and to mention and pay homage to two of my high school teachers who caused me to wonder whether my future was actually as limited as I then assumed it was.
The men with whom I shared the platform, a doctor, a lawyer and an architect, all had made major contributions to the public good. From their earliest days, they could answer the ubiquitous question |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| The eyes of the woman seated on my office couch brimmed with tears. At my request, her husband had just left the room. This was their third mediation session and they'd been making steady progress, inch by inch, working out the terms for dissolving what had become a peaceful but joyless marriage.
The decision to part had not been made lightly. For a time, they see-sawed back and forth and tried, with a skilled counselor, to reverse the downward slide. But now both felt sure they were making the right decision. And once their direction was clear and mutual, calm had returned to their home, the children secure in the knowledge of their parent's ongoing love for them. |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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I rarely pay attention to my dreams and recall them infrequently. Recently one caused me to rouse with a start, come alert, and then sigh with gratitude that the waking world offered safety from the demons that invaded my sleep.
Some background before I tell the story: I was ill last week with an infection that, had it gone untreated, could have had serious consequences. Once on medication, I was assured a fairly rapid recovery. My antibiotic carries on its label the instruction to complete the full compliment of pills, even if no longer symptomatic. The package insert repeats this warning in bold type suggesting a likely return of illness if all pills are not taken. My druggist repeated this warning. |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| The year Len returned to campus for his sophomore year of college, he was driving a car, a faded green 1941 Hudson that had already seen six years of far better days. His buddies, all returning World War II vets, living the promise of the original G.I.Bill, had challenged each other not to come back without wheels.
Our small campus was in a rural Ohio town. There was nowhere to go that wheels were needed. So, why? I soon found out.
For it was in the fall of 1947 that we met. The horrors of the long deadly war were in the past. It seemed everyone was eager to reclaim normalcy and ready to play by the rules. Only the rare bohemian student tossed cultural norms to the wind. The pill and the freedom it would offer were not yet dreamed of. What later would be designated the silent generation was emerging. |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| She rummages in her purse but then pauses, smiles, and remembers that she no longer smokes. It’s a tense moment and she wishes she still did. Deep sigh: he says he just needs some space. What do you think?
For some months now, I’ve been aware that the marriage of my friends was troubled, although she was sure they both still valued their bond. Counseling was rejected, her husband insisting this was a private matter and he didn’t need to get “fixed”. My cautionary words were: if respectful conversations are still possible, give it more time. Separations usually become permanent.
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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He said: If only I could make you see, convince you of the harm . . .
In frustration he stopped talking, jaw clenched. Seated on my office couch, he turned to face his ex-wife, eyes pleading for her understanding. Staring straight ahead, her
body rigid and poised to respond, her words were clipped: you just don’t get it!
A classic argument ensued, one not unique to divorced parents. A classic truth: trying to convince someone that you are right and they are wrong seldom works. The details
hardly matter.
This ... |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| I talk to people in elevators, in the early morning when I descend to the lobby of my apartment building to collect my newspaper, and at day’s end when fellow passengers are also weary and happy to be home. Even unfamiliar faces open to a smile, a passing comment on the weather and the question: how are you?
Almost invariably the answer is: fine.
And we part wishing each other well.
A graceful verbal pas de deux.
When shopping some weeks ago, a woman approached me, familiar, but out of our usual context. In but a second there was recognition, she a physician I see annually, I a patient of long standing.
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| I’ve followed Elliott Spitzer’s fall from grace, and carefully read the details in the national press. I prefer to think that my interest, as a lawyer, is due to the complexity of the legal issues, not the curiosity of a voyeur. But intriguing questions do arise about his motivation, beyond the excitement of furtive sex. To be caught? Assume he’s invincible?
Even more puzzling is why the women I know, and those who write op-ed columns and blogs, are so critical of his wife, of all of the wives who stand by their man, put on the powder blue suit and pearls, and usually say nothing, as a husband confesses to sexual misdeeds.
Are those who denounce her simply projecting, imagining the anger they would feel if in her place, and feel thwarted by her apparent passivity |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| They were smiling when they walked into the room but not when they left. As mediation began each echoed the other’s intent to be fair and amiable throughout the process. Fantasy.
After months of anguished talk, tears, recrimination, and efforts to be forgiving, they made the decision to end their marriage. Together, the night before, they told their children. Divorce. The kids said little, but both parents thought it had gone pretty well. Maybe.
Sheepishly they described a new found sense of well-being, the scariest of demons |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| I rise early each morning, make coffee and return to bed, laptop propped against my knees. A favored time for checking in with the world. Often, I follow the advice of the latest happiness guru whose book I’ve read, and consider what I’m grateful about on that day.
At this time of year my mother-in-law always comes to mind. Leora Larsen died on Easter Sunday almost ten years ago at the age of ninety-eight. Born at the turn of the last century, she was five years old when her mother died of tuberculosis. Her father, unable to cope alone, left her in the care of two kindly women who ran a bakery and took in foster children.
Attending school only until the eighth grade, she began at a very |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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I was scheduled to speak at a seminar on the day the blizzard of March 2008 began, snow starting to blow as I walked to the hotel from my downtown loft.
By the end of the day, roads were covered and sidewalks icy with the major accumulation still a promise. A promise kept. That evening and the next day, warm and cozy, I
watched the world whiten from my large third floor windows, filled with memories of another March blizzard, fifty years ago:
My 28th birthday approached as Len and I and ... |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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| On the day we first meet, I spend time alone with each new client, and ask how disputes were resolved during their marriage. It’s helpful to understand their negotiating style, and essential that I uncover any claim of intimidation.
She said: I just went along to get along.
And when she noted my knowing smile, my eyebrows raised as if questioning the truth of her words, she became more insistent: I really did. Even if we argued bitterly, I’d give in just to keep the peace.
I explained my curious glance, telling her that often both parties deliver the same message, that they were the one who was passive in the face of disagreement, the one who always surrendered. And this was exactly what her husband had told me moments before. |
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| Posted by Bea Larsen at | | | |
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