Stories of Today

To be thankful is an entitlement. It is not a commitment -- unless the person chooses to make it her own commitment. I could live as if life is granted to me by an act of grace and I could choose to be grateful, that is my choice. I am entitled to make this choice. Because it is a singular choice, there are other choices I am entitled to as well. A person could choose not to be grateful. “I did not ask for your generosity!” someone could say. And even if the person has asked for an act of grace, she could still choose to not be grateful, unless she has promised to be so. To be grateful is a commitment only if I commit myself to being grateful.   It is a choice; “Thou shalt be grateful” is not a categorical imperative. But some people speak as if being grateful is an “ought”. To justify gratitude as a normative obligation, comparing the person who ought to be grateful to someone less fortunate or more disadvantaged. They say, “you should be grateful that you have this il

We wish for things, and when our wishes are not granted, we feel sad. We expect things, and when the norms upon which we grounded our expectations are violated, we get mad. We intend to change the situation so we can be granted our wishes or we can redeem the violation, but at times, we just cannot. We feel helpless. To make our helplessness more palatable, we say to ourselves that we just don’t care. But we know inside that we really do care. If we didn’t care, we wouldn’t have been sad or mad in the first place. We are stuck. Life, however, is constantly moving and does not accept stagnation. We act. We tell our wish to the other person, and if it’s legitimate, we hope that by making our desires clear, our wish will be granted. At times, we communicate our sadness in order to be authentic and express ourselves or to strategically move the other person and change her position. The other person then recognizes us and understands or is moved and influenced by o

I drew a box on my iPad. Because it did not look like a box, I wrote its name next to it: “Box.” I created the box to open it when I want and close it when I want. This became a conceptual tool, although it is odd to say the box is a tool in my toolbox. This makes it a box in a box. I woke up the next day and decided to use my box. I gently wrapped my sadness and left it at the bottom. Then I locked it. “This morning, I am a doctor! My focus is on taking care of my patients. I will take care of my sadness another time.” But then the first person who saw me asked, “How are you doing? Are you OK?” I was disappointed. My box was not locked enough to keep my feelings from others’ curiosity. Sometimes, we wish no one would ask us how we feel. We make a choice to hide our feelings, lock them in a safe place, and carry on. But people want to know. Some people are nosy. Many truly care. And others just think it’s what they should say. I wish I could tell them

                                                  “How can I help when someone I love develops cancer?” This seems to be a simple question, and the answer can be both easy and difficult. A simple answer is the fact that you cannot help if your aim is to cure them. You also may not be helping if your plan is to bring a casserole and then leave as quickly as possible. True, there is no formula that fits everyone, and true, you may not be able to cure your loved one’s illness, but you can do something meaningful. You can be with them, and you can give them care and kindness. This sounds like a cliché, but I am far from wanting to reaffirm an old adage. To be there for someone and to provide kindness and care are easily said or thought, but are neither easily done nor attainable for everyone. When someone we love suffers, we hurt, too. Witnessing pain is painful. And when we hurt, many of us tend to avoid what causes the pain. At other times, we may forget, a