Judith Peck Books

Judith Peck, Ed.D.

Chipmunks are cute and adorable. Mice are deplorable, not cute at all, but why the stark difference? Both are rodents— run as fast, eat, and intuit similarly, even look a bit alike, except for one thing: one is pretty and the other is not. Chipmunks have colorful stripes and a cute nose and puffy cheeks. They both keep their distance, though mouse hides, sort of knowing he’s not a pretty thing to you, and certainly not wanted, while chipmunks runs and darts around like it’s you who are on his turf and not the other way around. Chipmunk does things that amuse you, like stand on his hind legs and munch on a nut, spilling the shells from his adorable cheeks. He’s earned that nut, scavenging for it, and eating it is his just reward. The only time you see mouse is the split second he appears across the floor to scare the wits out of you or sprawled out in a trap. He’s stealing whatever he finds in that kitchen, even though you yourself have tossed it or left it out. Both seem forever hungry, but chipmunk is a winner whatever he does; mouse is a looser.

What a difference between chipmunk and mouse and what’s the winning lesson? Well, it’s better to be pretty. Statistics have shown that – in politics, education, love, money – success. And it helps to be colorful and cute and have a few appealing tricks. All that works for the outside looking in, but how much are you really able to use from achievements that accrue from that vantage point to meet a personal success mark? Achievements you’re not sure you even want? Being exceptionally pretty – beautiful – has its downsides: you may begin to depend upon it to the exclusion of efforts that might make you happier; and, of course, time and travail will take its toll. The productive perspective is from the inside looking out, if we have the courage to separate the two. There, we are the undisputed expert.

Sometimes we feel ourselves to be the chipmunk, spunky and adorable and charming, a little flirtatious, gripping attention, holding court. But more often, the little mouse appears: scurrying about with nobody noticing except when we get in the way or do the wrong thing. Then we feel unremarkable at best and unlikable at worst.

Hunger motivates our actions either way, just as it does chipmunk and mouse. We’ve learned how to satisfy these motivators and adapted the means to our needs. But we’ve got something neither of those guys has, a real game-changer when it comes to that self-perception, and that’s attitude. How we feel.

Best it is to feel like a chipmunk. We should because we are adorable to some if not all. We know this by the way such admiration is expressed in words or actions or sometimes never expressed, merely intuited. Best it is to keep our mouse in perspective: were it to look at itself and have the benefit of reflection, it would perceive a lovely creature, doing as prescribed, true to its nature and rather inventive in its efforts. Best it is to be yourself, savoring the kinship of your burrow and venturing out to the many fields beyond, alone or in company with the selected folks who accept you as adorable.

Judith Peck, Ed.D.

A large table in my bedroom had been moved away leaving a whole corner area empty. The next morning seated and lacing my shoes I glanced at the empty space so previously cluttered and was seized by a glimpse into the future. Not my future, for I was no longer here as I was dead; my bedroom existed as simply space.

Using my hands as blinders, I captioned off that corner space and it no longer held an eerie glimpse into the future. Instead the room fell into place as it belonged. There were the black slacks slung over a chair, the rumpled bed, the cascading books on the night table, the earrings and neckless I hang on myself as adornment in the world outside my bedroom door. All that crumble and clutter, glitter and immediacy.

I had a similar glimpse into future when my daughter embarked upon the task of slimming down a bookcase that appeared to beg for release of discomfort. Watching her from a nearby couch, the glimpse came over me: this old body gone and other daughter joining her to empty the books and other possessions transformed into the detritus of my life.

How these glances into my future (again, not mine) occur seems oddly similar to a being inside me who appears quite often, not depressingly but on occasions in life’s full flower. This observing self is the disembodied “person” I complain to when fretting about someone’s behavior that I can’t talk about to real folks. I talk and talk, the grievances passionately articulated with not a breath exhumed. Not that there is relief because the aggravation remains, though the phantom never tires of listening.

So, who is this listener, observer—that second self waiting in the wings to appear when summoned by the script I write, direct and act in? I suppose it is my mother, she to whom at bedside I could complain about childhood injustices with no repercussions from the villains. She offered calming words of advice, perhaps—in retrospect just to get me to sleep—but the overarching message was that she cared.

Who else cares like a good mother? The ears and eyes of a good mother probably continue to reside in a child to become that phantom, the interested listener. Just as sleep allows daily experiences to be organized and unimportant images discarded to refresh the brain, the phantom figure affords some needed equilibrium. I love this lady, this other me: She provides a forum for my aggravating grievances to sputter out and she gives license for the utterance of forbidden thoughts. Like sleep, she frees the emotional airways to breathe in all the challenges of a new day.

Judith Peck, Ed.D.

It struck me that I was looking out at a landscape that was in these moments completely untampered with. The scene was natural, pristine, real. How unusual to feast on something, so genuine. A mist covered the trees and the lawn, a fog not yet lifted embraced everything, joining disparate surfaces and soothing their textures. The air was so still, not a single leaf fell, though it was the 10th day of October. Then at last a lone one did, cascading gently and wavering as if reluctant to fall at all. So still the air, tall trees majestically standing with their vast network of leaves immobile, as if waiting for a whisper from somewhere to summon movement.

I thought about what else in my life was genuine; not a product of something else; something that was as pure, albeit far from simple like those intricately complex trees that would never be completely knowable. My children, of course. The love between them and among us within the complexity of our lives. How fortunate each of us were to share that love as thick as this embracing early morning mist.

But how strange, I thought then, suddenly aware there was no movement of animals to be seen inside this silent mist. The scurrying I saw every morning, chipmunks racing across the lawn quicker that I could draw a pencil line, squirrels in circular leaps with short stops sitting upright to split open and munch an acorn. No birds, not one, nor deer trotting from the woods to steal whatever flowers remained. Everything seemed waiting. Too still, too quiet, eerily so. Like a moment in time stopped, the clock no longer racing forward. Nothing in motion, either forward or spinning around.

I went inside the house. On the news I learned that Hurricane Michael had just struck the Florida panhandle, the worst storm in its history. But no impending storm was predicted here. I put the eerie morning sights out of my mind and started my day, settling on the notion that the natural world in my backyard had engaged in a moment of silence for its kin.

In the afternoon, I stepped outside for a break. High above me, branches gently swayed, multi shades of green leaves glistened in the sun; a chipmunk crossed my path scratching itself between its runs; a bird swooped so low it startled me; squirrels shopped and gathered high in the oaks; acorns fell, one hitting me squarely. Bald spaces on the lawn revealed themselves, puddles lingering on the chairs, rust spots marring a table. Time was moving swiftly, dragging with it an imperfect world careening by: my intricately complex children and the puddles splashing at them and among them, my marring rust spots, the bald spaces that needed filling and maybe never would be. I reveled in it all.

Judith Peck, Ed.D.

You are absolutely right in the dispute, no question. He has inflicted a wrong-doing upon you, the logic of which is obvious. He is simply too thick-headed to see it; lives in his own world; blind to the truth; unwilling to face facts. Those are the facts as you see it, the sub-text: he doesn’t give a hoot about your feelings, doesn’t care about you, let alone love you, let alone like you. But there he is, claiming the exact same hard-fact complaints about you. Only the subtext isn’t there because men are trained to keep feelings un-watered—no tears—and these dry up  unrecognized as living things.)

Could both of you be right? Yes, because the logic of the situation belongs exclusively to each of you and is different for each of you. That logic, which brought on the firestorm, began with a hypothesis. From that, your argument and his proceed on their  own trajectories through to the blow-up finale. Without hearing (e.g. listening) to the other’s hypothesis and following its logic to the end, both of you have nothing to grasp at but anger.

Okay, here is an example: He wants to stay home and watch the playoffs on Sunday; she wants to accept her parent’s invitation to come for dinner before they leave for Florida. His hypothesis and the logic that follows is he works hard all week, Saturdays is full of the chores (she gives him) and come Sunday he is entitled to relax and do something he likes. Her argument: she needs to accept the invitation; her parents have given her so much and here  they are leaving for the whole winter. Each is right, traipsing along the yellow brick road of their arguments. But here come the side-paths the two stumble on, as neither one truly hears the other and their anger escalates: all you do Sundays is lie on the couch, she says, you should exercise, just look at that belly. He says, Your father is a grouch and never approved of me, and your mom makes pot roast for dinner when she knows I like steak. She counters defending her dad’s naturally gruff nature and her mom serving soft food for the man’s dental problems while he defends his bodily contours, and they’re off. Something has to intervene to help as the trail of logic hits a blockade and neither of their personal GPS’s work.

Enter empathy. That is, achieving the insight to understand why the other one feels wronged; stepping into the other’s reasoning; creating a bridge on which to move. This is hard for adults to do in the throes of anger and resentment. It’s impossible for young children in their disputes because they lack the maturity and experience to cultivate empathy (though parents can cultivate this—giving them the responsibility for feeding and walking a pet, for example, to feel its needs.) So, how should the couple disputing play-offs versus family obligation proceed?

First: Let go of who is right. That’s because both are. Their feelings are truthful.

Second: Start moving across the empathy bridge by accepting that truth. He feels he deserves to do what he wants on Sunday plus he remembers watching the games with his father every Sunday plus seeing the play-offs is a matter of urgency—no matter to her that all that running around after a ball is ridiculous. She feels guilt from a history of rebelling against her parents plus she rarely visits them in Florida while her sister does it routinely plus her mother loves making pot roast for family which she calls her signature dish—no matter to him she should grow up already.

Third: Now that they are traversing the empathy bridge they make an honest effort at listening; truths of the past they never thought about may even emerge to change an argument to enlightenment.

Fourth: Accepting #’s 1, 2 and 3, they set about finding a resolution. This might be her coming to dinner and him arriving later after the play-offs. She explains to her folks its importance to him. He waits for the results but not the post mortem commentary and arrives in time for a signature lemon meringue pie to wish the folks well in Florida.

Sometimes, unfortunately, resolution of a conflict is not wanted. This happens when chronic argument deteriorates to become the event that excites, when asserting power and inflicting emotional pain becomes the goal. Or to a lesser and more common situation, when winning an argument takes precedent over the health of the relationship.

As adults, we have the maturity to acquire empathy and the wisdom and skill to use these in interpersonal relationships. It takes all three—maturity, wisdom and skill—to accept that people form their opinions from personal perspectives. They create their hypotheses to support those perspectives and make logical statements supporting this. Conflicts that ensue because of a counter perspective and a disputed logic can be resolved with no one shamed or blamed, by crossing the empathy bridge. To be able to do that leads to one of life’s greatest pleasures, fully enjoying the company of others. Especially, a partner.

Yesterday, I had a strong desire to make a lunch date. I wanted to be social or more likely, put off further what I was putting off. I ran through the roster of candidates. Sonia was bright and informed and would love to meet, but Sonia had cousins. On any subject of conversation—political, historical, academic—she had a cousin who did that, an expert in the field and that one’s credentials would rise, burying the subject. Fran always called me to go to lunch and I sifted through that scenario. Fran was a devoted friend, smart as a whip in her job as an analyst. But that is the subject we talked about, her job as an analyst. I knew every co-worker over and under her, I knew every snipe and jab and woe and shared her exhaustion. Bonnie was an old friend and up on everything; a political wonk like me, read my kind of books. About to text her, I recalled laboring to get a word in edgewise about my take on Trump, my assessment of  Hillary’s What Happened, my whatever and eventually, my frustration.

I’m a good listener and I like learning something new, always seeking a hidden nugget under the brittle shell. But what I wanted going out to lunch was the give and take of a good conversation: listening and speaking and affording space for the transition between the two, space to articulate a thought and thereby bring it to fruition. A good conversation is like a work of art, the awakening of a thought or memory or insight, then bringing it inside to expand toward something else or simply to retain with a comfortable sense of a new occupant residing in your psyche. I had to accept that the GC wasn’t going to happen with these ladies, likeable as they were.

So whose company would I want to lunch with? Of course, it would be my own. I knew it the next day approaching my favorite diner at the lunch hour. I instinctively took a table on the busy side, not the “dining” side in deference to its being a functional event. From time to time, a lone man entered to sit at the counter (men are all about function), no lone women. Tables all about me had munching and chattering couples of mixed genders. The waitress, cheerful and efficient, took my order of coffee and the chicken salad sandwich special. We negotiated the substitution of cold slaw instead of soup. No sooner had she walked away, a warm feeling came over me. I recognized it as happiness. It took only a moment more for thoughts about the novel I’d been working on to enter my head. A problem floundering in my brain began working its way to solution. A thin string of narrative appeared there; I followed it as my coffee came and I poured the milk and sipped; I hung onto the floating string as you sometimes do in early morning when you try to catch a dream by its tail before it disappears as the light begins coming up.

Oh, I was having a good time. The cheerful efficient waitress brought me extra cold slaw and refilled my coffee several times. So much chicken salad filled the rye bread, I had to bring it home along with the slaw. I gave her a 40% tip and still it was a bargain. Back at home, the glow of happiness lingered and I said out loud—to the same nobody as sat with me at the diner: “I have a good life.”

Back to work later that day, I could not resist mumbling to the vacant face of my computer, “We should do this more often.”