The first thing any judge or prosecutor should ask a prospective panel of jurors is not what they typically ask. I found this out today fulfilling my biennial trip to the Circuit Courts building. After nearly 20 years, this every-other-year pilgrimage has become a tradition for me. I receive the colorful summons by mail, return the requisite information, and avoid arrest by showing up on the appointed morning for what might be one, two, three days, or even several weeks of jury service – if selected. It’s like a lottery drawing: you never know what you might win until the day of the event. Pepper in a healthy sprinkling of summonses received for Federal Court jury duty and it can seem as if jury duty happens in St. Louis every year, unlike other cities where one can live a lifetime without ever seeing the inside of a courtroom. Our jury supervisor explained the high demand for jury service among City residents when she told us today that the City of St. Louis starts each week of the year with an average of 250 cases on the docket. This number exceeds Kansas City and St. Louis County combined. Given its lower population, the stress on City residents is understandably greater.

The system is remarkably well run, all things considered. Still, after being asked individually and as a group no less than five times the same qualifying questions (are you a US citizen, are you over the age of 21, do you reside in St. Louis), it seemed to me at least one of those times someone would have switched up and asked something more pertinent, such as: Would you be able to serve on a murder trial?

Especially after the prosecutor’s opening remarks in voir dire, in which he disclosed the nature of the charges being tried, I kept waiting for the question to be put to us. It never was. And as the hours droned by, the questions become more and more discomforting to me because there is a well of painful memories just below the surface that were waking up, warning me not to go deeper unless I was prepared to pay an emotional price. I had already raised my hand in response to so many questions that the prosecutor, the judge, and the defense lawyer were obviously scrutinizing me, yet still not asking the right question. So, once again I raised my hand and asked if I might speak to the judge at the bench. “Yes,” the prosecutor replied, “we will do that later.”

After that exchange, I was glad that they stopped returning to me and settled in to wait for the opportunity to explain that I was getting more and more anxious by the minute. My thoughts were not clear. My memories were pulling me into a very dark place. Finally, we broke for a short lunch and were dismissed. I walked outside and realized I was seeing the world breaking up into pieces of shattered glass, like a kaleidoscope: I was having an ocular migraine. After lunch, we reassembled and the defense lawyer began his line of questioning. From these questions, I learned interesting things about the group. Over 50% of this eclectic cross section of men and women had been arrested at least once in their lives for offenses ranging from DUIs to not showing up for jury duty. Yes, that’s an offense punishable by arrest! At least one-third had a relative or friend with a serious drug addiction and most of those were heroin. Then, starting at the far end of the room, he asked each prospective juror the same questions: Are you a native St. Louisan? If not, from where did you move here and why? Where do or did you work and what do or did you do at your job? This was going to take a long time, and at one point about halfway around the room, the judge asked the lawyer to speed things up. In our group of 60, there was a surprising number of transplants. If the person moved from Illinois, they never specified what city, just answered, “Illinois;” if from another state, they gave the name of the city without the state. The most prevalent job occupation was some form of IT, followed by various medical occupations. As I listened to the questions and answers, I was still waiting for the opportunity to speak to the judge about my unsuitability to serve on this case when a man sitting in front of me rose to his feet to take his turn answering the three questions. The court reporter could not hear him and so he repeated over and over that he was a retired professor who had taught gross anatomy. Gross Anatomy. GROSS ANATOMY. In desperation, he extended both of his arms outward and shouted G R O S S A N A T O M Y. When he did this, I instantly visualized DaVinci’s Vitruvian Man. In a flash, my imagination connected this image back to a previous question asked earlier in the morning by the prosecutor:

“We have the police report, but we can’t show it to you. We will quote the police report, but we can’t show it to you. Are you okay not seeing the police report?” Over and over, all around the room, the question was asked of each person, “Do you need to see the police report?”

For some reason, this police report made me very uncomfortable. Even though I was not asked the question, every time it was asked, I answered internally, “I don’t want to see the police report!” Now, as I listened to the retired professor, and when his physical representation caused the Vitruvian Man to flash into my thoughts, I saw another graphic depiction. It was the outline of a man’s body in a police report from 1986. It has been over 30 years since I saw that image and today was the first time in all those years that I remembered it. Arms and legs spread outward on the page, both front and back of the body were marked where wounds had been inflicted; so many, in fact, that the report indicated wounds within wounds. It was a savage killing and an image that I have, understandably, suppressed, along with so many other things that I saw and heard and witnessed during the horrifying days surrounding that death, not the least of which was the police report.

Suddenly, not being picked for this jury was taking a back seat to a more important goal: just getting through this day.

Which I did. And, gratefully, I neither had to explain myself to the judge or legal teams, nor was I picked to serve on the jury.

It felt good to walk the half mile back to the parking garage, rather than take the shuttle bus. I let the cold wind whip around my face. I whispered his name and allowed a tear to roll down my face. The gift of 30 years passage of time was that I found more than a small measure of self-confidence to face this moment alone, with nothing but my own internal resources to rely on for strength. As I walked, I remembered that image in the police report and understood the deeper reality – that it was a map of my own emotional wounds, still there whenever I look; never too far out of mind even if I never do. I can trace every broken place in my life, every emotional scar, every loss, every failure, every regret. Some are wounds within wounds. They are all there, below the surface, because they were once a part of my life. Some of them still hurt. But, not one or all singly or in total makes up the entirety of who I am.

Perhaps we never completely heal, but we are not static beings; we do learn and grow, and I believe our wounds help shape who we are and become, for better or worse. We can use them to ignite a desire to offer a hand to someone who might need it; to help prevent something horrible from happening by showing a different way, showing that we care; to not just hear – but to listen to what someone might be saying; to tell the people we love that we love them. This is the process of living. Trust the process.

Space

Sitting in a metal patio chair at an outdoor table. This is my personal space. I am early enough that there are miles and miles of empty space between me and the next coffee drinker at this neighborhood café. The table has uneven legs and see-saws back and forth every time I pick up or replace my coffee cup. A minor annoyance. I am relaxed, absorbing the fresh air, the morning, the space.

Awning

A heavy rain fell early this morning, but stopped by the time I began my half-mile trek to this space. Water no longer pours from low-hung storm clouds but continues to drip from every single summer leaf overhead and from the wooden plank awning that is the only obstacle between me and the big, blue July sky. Between the slats of the awning I hear thunder rolling off in the distance. Goodbye, thunderstorm, like an unhappy child being sent to her room, noisily complaining as she stomps her feet, loudly marching on her way eastward through Illinois. Who is she? Where did she come from? What is her name?

Dogs

This café is a petting zoo of companion animals of the dog variety who accompany their owners to their favorite neighborhood hang-out. Near enough to their homes, by daily coming here, dog owners can get their morning dose of coffee while their dogs get a little exercise.  I’m a cat person, but I get it. The rising sun has burned off the last of the clouds and the air is damp, humid, warming up fast. The odor of wet dog hair permeates every breath I take.

Owners

I imagine these are mostly single guys, older, in their 60s and upward judging from the looks that I am not always competent to analyse. They are the first wave of patrons to arrive. They walk past the row of tables beneath the awning, stop at the entrance of the café, tie up and leave their dogs at the door, and disappear inside after promising their dogs they will return, which they do –cup in hand. They untie their dogs and mosey along the length of the wooden plank awning, past mostly empty tables, out to the sidewalk and back home. There’s a distracted quality to their demeanor; they hardly seem to notice the animal attached to the end of the leash they hold. But, familiarity works both ways, and their dogs walk along, nonchalant, unconcerned about that man on the other end of the slack line. They know each other. The shine has worn off. They get along.

Next comes a wave of younger guys with younger dogs and younger women with laptops. The owners and their dogs are more energetic. One seeing-eye dog, a Shih Tzu mix, a Labradoodle, a Schnauzer, a 6-month old Golden Lab, three Chihuahuas prancing in sync with each other as if professionally choreographed, a Great Dane, a Bulldog, a Beagle, a Yorkie, a 3-legged Pomeranian, 2 Cocker Spaniels, and a frisky Greyhound. The dogs are one by one reined in and presented to the coffee drinkers now settled in their seats at the patio tables. “Would you mind?” “I’ll just be a minute.” “Could you please?” Incomplete sentences but fully understood meanings: I’m going to leave my animal(s) unattended over here right next to you because there’s an empty table and I don’t want to lose it while I go inside to get my coffee because, you know, dogs are not allowed inside. I want you to guard my laptop/knap sack/book and also keep an eye on him/her and take responsibility for making sure that he/she does not attack the other dogs in the parade as they pass by and are left with other non-owners in the safe-keeping of other strangers, perhaps even you. The standard reply: a nod of the head, assenting to the unspoken request.

Occasionally, a beautiful young ingénue with makeup and hair beautifully done – far too perfect for this time of morning, dressed to kill in a form-fitting body stocking type of running suit, will chirp and coo and ask about the dog: its name, sex, pedigree, age, food allergies, favorite color, favorite toy, favorite treat, litter mates, zodiac sign, place of birth, training, etc. The communal water bowl is refilled, the cooing and chirping ceases while the owner is gone. But, when the dog owners return with their coffees in hand, they often end up abandoning the staked-out table in favor of uniting their space with the space of the person who watched their dog while they were inside. Years and years ago, back before Internet dating web sites, I occasionally participated in a Friday night cruise through the aisles of what was known as “The Pick-up Schnucks” – a grocery store, in the heart of an affluent neighborhood, that developed an interesting reputation as a place to shop for companionship as well as canned artichokes and wine. Maybe this neighborhood coffee shop has taken up the mantel of that long-gone enterprise.

“Are you Karen?”

My space is invaded with the question that lands on my ears like the scratching of fingernails on a blackboard. I look up and scan the personage standing in front of me. “Are you Karen?” she inquires again. Only now do I realize that I’ve sunk so deep, deep into my personal space that it takes effort and a few seconds to swim up to the top and process those three words repeated for clarity. I look around to get my bearings and recall that I am still alone at my table so maybe I am Karen. But, no, I am not.  “Excuse me, are you Karen?” she asks again. There is a dog attached to her hand by means of a red, retractable leash.  Still not yet completely emerged from my bubble of solitude, I shake my head ‘no’.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“No, I’m not Karen,” I answer.

Unconvinced, she looks me over from top to bottom and I have the feeling that I’ve been sniffed. She is jealously eyeing the 3 empty chairs around my table. I get it: there are no more empty tables underneath this wooden awning and she is looking for a place to sit or to tie her dog. It’s early, and I haven’t yet accessed sufficient verbal communication skills to offer her a place to sit with me, so it probably seems to her that I have been tied up to this table to wait for someone. But I have not.  If only I could prove to her that I am not Karen. If only I had some form of ID with me, a tag engraved with my name and phone number.

At last I gain control of the language center of my brain and put together the words she is waiting to hear. I offer her a chair at my table. Great! She says, and turns her back to me, signaling 3 other women and their dogs, who are waiting at the far end of the awning, to come and join her at this table. A quick count around the table and they are openly disappointed to find that they still require one more chair. Every eye is on me, every dog is on me. The third wave has arrived. I’m a cat person. Okay, it is time for me to go, but could I wait until they get back with their coffee?

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

If you didn’t mind listening to her snore, or breathing the heavy air that hung like a dense fog in the cozy nest that was her bedroom, you could perch quietly in the corner by Mariel’s bed every day of the week, Monday through Friday, and watch the same scene performed over and over with only occasional, minor variations.  At 6 o’clock every morning, Mariel’s alarm clock signaled the workday with a cacophony of pre-programmed noise.  In exactly three seconds, Mariel blindly reached over to silence it, swung her legs over the side of her bed, sat up, rubbed her eyes, and stumbled into the bathroom, all in one seamless arc of motion.  Her morning ablutions and preparations to leave for work had become so ritualized over half a lifetime of repetition that they required no thought on her part – not so much perfected as practiced, streamlined by the necessity of efficiency required that early in the morning at a time of day well before clear thinking informs action.  And, like any habitual occupation, Mariel adhered to the formula even though the original intent had long been mislaid somewhere back in the cobwebs of a cold dark morning without electricity or when an extended holiday or a bout with the flu interrupted the normal flow of activity.  Change occurred subtly over the course of decades, but it did happen, and often it was so gradual that Mariel was not aware of it.

Lest you should mistakenly assume that she was just not a thinking person, on the contrary.  Mariel was a very active thinker with a lively imagination.  And so while she went through the motions of getting ready for work each day, for all appearances incapable of logical deliberation, you’ll just have to grant her this:  that after a night full of vivid dreams after a day of constant intellectual exertion, these first hour of acting by rote rather than by intention gave her mind just enough space to rest and relax before meeting the many challenges of the day ahead.

Promptly at 7 o’clock, Mariel was standing at her front door going over her mental checklist for the last time, ticking off all of the things she needed to have in hand before locking up.  At this point, her thoughts were just starting to organize, but not enough to prevent the occasional lapses of memory such as forgetting the hot coffee thermos or bagged lunch on her kitchen counter, her ring of office keys, or the checks she needed to drop in the mail.  As if on auto-pilot, she soon found herself behind the wheel of her car and, like a fish swimming in and out of its school along the eddies and currents flowing around islands of commerce, Mariel joined the formation of cars traveling to their workplaces.  By the time she was parking her car, walking into her office building, unlocking her office door – doing all of the very same things that she did every single day of her work week – her critical thinking was in full gear.  For the rest of the day, she would occupy space in two parallel universes:  one that relied  solely upon the instinctive muscle memory of decades of repetitive work and the other that required her to think about completely unrelated things, evaluating and anticipating this or that or something else that had happened or was about to happen.  “Triage,” she liked to call it, taking care of putting out the brushfires that required quick thinking while she simultaneously continued to carry out the other functions of her job, like a memory-resident program that is constantly running in the background.

There was a lot of consistency in Mariel’s day from week to week, month to month, even year to year that caused a certain degree of complacency.  But, because she was a thinker, even this observation set up an interesting question for her to be bothered by for quite some time.  The question was:  which part of her repetitive day was the most important?  To frame the question, Mariel parsed the hours of each workday into clearly defined blocks of time.  Once this was done, she likened her day to a liturgical celebration, with the separate blocks of time representing rites within that liturgy.  To what other image could she better compare the work of living than something sacred, something that held in one place all of the richness of symbol and belief and sensation?  Mariel came up with the following list of the order:  Rite 1:  INTRODUCTORY RITE – Rising and going to work.  Rite 2:  PENETENTIAL RITE – The procession to work, work, and the recessional home after work.  Rite 3:  EUCHARISTIC RITE – Discretionary time after work/before bed . . . because she was oh so thankful for this time of her day!  And, lastly, Rite 4: FINAL BLESSING AND DISMISSAL – sleep, obviously!

Each of the rites or sections of time took on more or less significance at any given time, depending on the circumstances of her life, at times outranking the rest, at other times receding back to lesser emphasis on her scale of importance.  But, Mariel wanted to know which section in particular was overall the fundamental and most important in the grand scheme of all things.  Could they be isolated one from each other in order to determine which was the most important, or were they simply inseparable?  For most of her adult life Mariel had considered Rite 2 to be the greatest in importance because without the successful accomplishment of a day at work, there would be no paycheck to fund her existence, no place to rest her head at night.  Rite 1 sometimes advanced in her esteem, but usually remained as a close second behind Rite 2.  Mariel reasoned that without getting to work on time and sufficiently prepared for the day, the impact upon Rite 2 could be unavoidable and devastating.  Rite 3 took on increased importance in her life during the times when she was involved in a romance or taking a class after work or working on a project or doing volunteer work.  But, only recently had Rite 4 emerged in her ideas as being perhaps the most important part of her day.

Apart from remembering her dreams the next day or waking up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason, Mariel realized that the hours when she was asleep were the most mysterious part of her day.  It was nearly inconceivable to her that such a long period of time went completely unobserved by her.  It was unseen and unknown.  How could she measure the importance of this vital part of her day?  And, without the ability to think and reason while asleep, what was she doing all that time which required nothing more than animalistic instincts?  Even in her Rite 1 pre-thinking daze, at the very least, intuition or some innate sense would startle her into recognizing the centipede crawling in her bathtub before she stepped into her morning shower.  But, once she closed her eyes at night, what happened remained completely shrouded in the secrecy of sleep.  It could be very well that this total loss of consciousness, this complete separation of mind from body, left her not only in her most vulnerable state, but perhaps also in her most valued state.  How could she know?

Mariel was thinking about all of this one day when she left her office for a little fresh air and exercise.  She loved to walk around the office campus each morning just before all of the shops opened and the sidewalks filled with the hustle and bustle of other people’s daily activity.  Every morning at 9:00, rain or shine, she took 15 minutes to treat her day to this little diversion.  She crossed the parking lot and followed a path that ran behind the parking garage.  The shady path was lined on either side with tall pine trees and sugar maples filled in the spaces between them.  The pines gave an aromatic scent to the air and the maples provided indicators of the seasons with their changing foliage:  the pale green new leaves of spring yielded to the deeper green, denser canopies of summer.  In the autumn, the path was carpeted with layers of deep red, dusty orange, and sunny yellow leaves.  By the time winter made the scene, bare branches and twigs entwined overhead forming a lacy black pattern against a frosty, grey sky.

Once Mariel was in the trees and out of sight from the windows of her office building, she transformed into a bird.  It happened every day.  One minute she was the well-dressed woman, professional in appearance and decorum; the next minute she was a bird.  To look at her, you might wonder if she was some rare breed of fowl.  She seemed terrestrial, was low to the ground, and silent.  She had wings, but these were always folded at her sides, and she had never attempted to fly.  She continued walking on two spindly, birdlike legs and feet, strutting along the path, cocking her head from side to side, listening for insects on the ground and using her eyes to their fullest advantage, facing outward instead of forward.  Mariel was outfitted with brilliantly colored plumage and a lovely crest on top of her head.  Her feathers were canary yellow and arctic white, long and silky.  Her tail feathers were also yellow but blended out into a soft sage green and the ends were edged in sapphire blue.  She only knew this because occasionally there were cars parked near enough that she could see her reflection in their windows when she hopped up onto the wall of the parking garage.

Mariel had no idea why this happened to her, but, like the other recurring events of her day, she just accepted it.  It was but a rubric in the second rite of her daily celebration of her life.  It happened every work day.  It happened every time she took her morning walk.  She did not turn into a bird on the weekends or when she was on holiday.  This daily transformation was not borne out of volition or will except perhaps for the fact that Mariel did keep up her daily walks.  She couldn’t remember when this had first started and she couldn’t remember ever missing becoming a bird on any workday.  It was just something that took over her, it happened without thought or consideration on her part.  As Mariel pondered the questions that occupied her mind – about what happened when she was sleeping – she did think for just one brief moment of the possibility that maybe she turned into a bird while asleep, too.  What a silly idea!  She chided herself for even entertaining such a thought – as if someone could turn into a bird when they were asleep!

There were enough things in her life that did not feel good or that just left her feeling numb that made Mariel relish being a bird for a short time every day.  Being a bird counterbalanced these things, it released something positive that was pent up in Mariel, and it made her feel good.  It felt as natural as not being a bird.  It fulfilled some inner longings that Mariel didn’t recognize until she was a bird.  And, it made her feel complete – as if she were seeing something rare and beautiful about herself that was usually hidden, something that no one else could possibly know about her and that she was fortunate to know about herself.

As Mariel continued her walk –sometimes hopping up on the parking garage wall, sometimes walking up the side of a tree, she became steadier on her feet.  The shady path ended at the side of a lake with a lovely fleur-de-lis fountain far out in the middle.  Mariel was still a bird at the lake and she sometimes hopped onto the water’s clear surface and paddled out to the middle, feeling the mist from the fountain spray over her.  It was refreshing, especially on hot mornings.  She felt the air ruffling her feathers and, being so much lighter as a bird, a strong breeze sometimes blew her across the water.  Mariel enjoyed this and when it happened she felt like laughing out loud, although she did not.  It was a great treat to be so freed from the constraints of her predictable life.

Once Mariel had traced her steps back along the same tree-lined path, she emerged in full view of her office restored to her human shape, looking exactly as she had when she first left her house that morning.  She resumed her day as she had yesterday and as she would tomorrow.  Things and days came and went as they had for years with no indication of dramatic alteration of any kind.

So, it can be of no wonder why Mariel looked at birds differently than, say, you or I or anyone else who does not daily find themselves transformed from a human being into a bird.  She was especially kind to all birds, not knowing if this might be a person she worked with or a relative or even her best childhood friend.  Who could say?  Mariel was a strong advocate for birds and left birdseed, suet, and dishes of clean water wherever she had the opportunity to do so.  Always mindful of the kindness shown to her while in bird form, Mariel felt it was her duty to be as fair as possible to the birds that she came in contact with.

But, all of the routines and rituals of her life were about to come to a halt.  For several days, Mariel had increasingly been thinking about the rigid patterns of her life, wondering about sleeping and being a bird.  Things just weren’t adding up for her and finally, one morning, she went for her walk on the tree-lined path behind the parking garage at work, and she decided to see if she could fly.  She wasn’t exactly sure what kind of bird she was, but she knew that she had wings.  She wasn’t even sure if she could make a birdlike sound, but she wanted to try and to hear what her birdcall sounded like.  Mariel waddled down to the end of the path and hopped onto the smooth surface of the lake.  She felt her light body buoyed on the water, bouncing up and down on the crest of a wave pushed along by a chilly autumn breeze.  Suddenly, Mariel exerted muscles in her back and sides.  To her surprise, quite large wings extended on either side and instantly caught the upward draft of the air.  She felt herself being lifted from the water, her wet feet dangling beneath her.

“Wow!” she cried out in ecstasy.

To her amazement, Mariel herd another voice nearby answer her, “Wow!”

Mariel flapped her wings to steady herself midair and, as if born to it, flew higher, spiraling around the lovely fountain below her.

“Wow!  Wow Wow Wow!!”

“Wow Wow!”

“Hey,” she called out to the other bird nearby, “do I know you?”

“I don’t know,” she heard the other bird call back to her.  “I work in that building over there.  I sell life insurance.”

“Wow!  Wow Wow Wow!!”

“Wow Wow!”

“Hey, do you want to get out of here and go somewhere?” Mariel asked, surprised at herself for being so forward with a complete stranger.

The other bird glided effortlessly nearer to Mariel, circling around her.  From the tilt of his head, Mariel could tell that he was giving her the once-over.  “Yeah,” he said, “let’s get out of here.  By the way, my name’s Bert.”

“Cool!” Mariel answered.  “You lead the way.  This is the first time I’ve flown.  My name is Mariel.”

“Wow!  Wow Wow Wow!!

“Wow Wow!!

“Wow!  Wow Wow Wow!!”

I have been hearing about Bari Tessler and “The Art Of Money” for several years from one of the likeliest of sources – in my life – for pure success at a home-run:  my daughter.  As with my son, it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that when she has something to share with me from her own personal experience, I’m going to be (1) 100% interested in the subject matter; (2) totally captivated with the information that she has to share with me; (3) so personally enriched by the conversation that I continue my own investigation once our discussion has ended.  This is typically true regardless of my previous interest in the subject.  There’s just something about my kids’ interests and where their lives have taken them that I find fascinating.  Often, they build upon interests that we shared while they were at home with me.  But, very often, it is the case that they have moved into areas of circumstance and experience that are well outside of my sphere of knowledge and expertise.  I have learned so much from them!  They are very good teachers.

So, when my daughter first started effusing to me about Bari Tessler and “The Art Of Money,” I was surprised to realize that it was an immediate turn-off for me.  Financial therapy?  Money shame?  My relationship with credit and debt, spending and saving, income and outgo?   This was an area of conversation that I had no interest in pursuing at all.  At first, I questioned (for the first time) my daughter’s usually spot-on ability to assess character, and I feared that she fallen under the spell of some get-rich-quick evangelist.  But, I soon realized that was not the case, and so I simply had to accept that this was a frontier I could not cross with my daughter.  We had come to a parting of the ways where I was concerned, on the subject of money.   She was not pushy about it, no more than she is with other things that we don’t see eye-to-eye on.  But, this money thing was not of an ilk as, say, tastes in music or movies or books or Scotch.  This was a life-changing event, a paradigm shift that I could see inspiring and invigorating her to make a deep commitment to her own personal financial health and well-being.  My own history of dealing indirectly with money by avoiding eye-contact with the deeply ingrained behaviours and thought patterns of a lifetime was about to be challenged with all the terrifying confrontation of a piece of French silk pie and a basket of kittens.

It didn’t take but a few minutes of honest self-reflection to realize the source of my skepticism:  I am a person (among oh, so many) who never really learned how to develop a healthy relationship with money.  So, with the gentle encouragement of my daughter, I set aside my personal ambivalence and read with increasing interest “The Art Of Money,” soon to be released in book form by Parallax Publishing.  In a time when, for the thoughtful person, no topic is beyond the bounds for reevaluation, “The Art Of Money” comes along to shine a healing light on hang-ups and personal misunderstandings about money that are inculcated early and can survive a lifetime despite other changes and self-improvement.  This delightful book is the culmination of years of the balanced and thoughtful integration of study and discernment with practical experience and real-life stories – a road map, a traveler’s guide along the sometimes weedy, over-grown path of personal money management.  Money – it is what it is, but each person’s relationship with it is subjective and learned.  This book does not promise to make one rich, does not promise to make one thin, wise, or beautiful.  But, contained in the captivating writing on the pages between its covers, the reader will find clear and concise help to crystalize issues they may have been too afraid to confront, issues that cause misery and unhappiness when it comes to money.  And, once those issues are clarified, the book helps to demystify and deflate the unrestrained power those personal concerns exert over a healthy relationship with money.  The “Art Of Money” is a very healthy and informative book, written with careful attention to detail and sensitivity to the unease of many readers dealing with this topic.  Not only does it provide a very personal, comprehensive introduction to Bari Tessler’s on-line program, The Art Of Money, but it provides a wealth of helpful resources.

Did I find myself on just about every page of the book?  Yes, it is surprisingly relatable.  Hard to isolate just one or two places that particularly struck home with me, so I’ll go with this one:  letting go of money shame.  Turns out, I recognize this characteristic in myself pretty strongly – it’s the conflict with money that has risen out of subjective responses to isolated experiences, but lasts and lasts well beyond a healthy shelf-life.  I was surprised at the stance that Bari Tessler takes on this and similar “character flaws,” (my terminology) because I expected her to be unyielding in her insistence to eradicate all such bug-a-boos from her readers’ minds.  However, Bari correctly nips the idea of “tough love” right in the bud.  She leads the reader through kind and gentle steps toward self-healing, citing:

“Shaming ourselves is an old, unconscious pattern. Telling ourselves, again and again, that we are not doing it right, that we’re not good enough, or that we’re unforgivable is self-directed violence. It’s unhelpful and flat-out inaccurate.”

I’d say this is sage advice and applicable to any area of one’s life, starting with money.

UPDATE:  Thank you everyone who’s read this post and for those who are interested in purchasing the book, you can pre-order at Amazon using this link:

The Art of Money at Amazon