Month: August, 2013


Angie has never met a stranger. I am in awe of her. I feel like I could give Angie two pieces of fruit and she would whip up a zesty fruit salad. She meets someone and, before you know it, that person–man or woman, young or old, black, white, brown, yellow–is Angie’s friend and confidante.  It must be her open heart, her smile. Angie has her arms open wide, welcoming and embracing the world.

I hope the young ones in her care know, truly know, the gift they have in this woman. They should know; they should appreciate.


The Meaning of Life Here

Almost every day I ask myself this question: What is the meaning of life? Really. I do. On some days I ask myself, “What is love? Can it be defined?” There are days when I ask both questions, even at the same time.

I’ll be thinking about the nature of love while walking up the escalator from the Metro. I ponder the meaning of life on the bus to work. I would like to know if the people on the train with me are having similar thoughts. Should I lean over and ask, “Are you pondering the meaning of life?”

Walking to Dinner

On our first night back together a classmate was telling us about an encounter she had with a difficult student. Clearly, weeks after school had ended this excellent teacher and fine woman was still bothered by the way she handled things. She yelled at the girl, felt awful about it months later.

After Jan finished her story our companion asked, “What is her pain?” Those straightforward words took my breath away. The simplicity of it was overwhelming.  Can I remember Sean’s words when faced with difficult people? When I want to shout, can I ask instead, “What is her pain?”


Jack: “Therapy is about becoming congruent with yourself.”

The summer after my sophomore year in college I must have been depressed because my parents suggested I see a therapist. It wasn’t the greatest therapy experience in life, but it got me thinking in a new way.

It never occurred to me this was a bold thing for Mom and Dad. It seemed perfectly natural at the time—I was sad, I needed help, I got it. Voila! (Okay, I know it’s not that easy.)

Turns out, many folks think those of us who have been in therapy are crazy! Who knew?

We are not crazy, we are strong.


I find myself observing ways in which I am becoming like my mother. I reuse paper napkins that have a clean space. I observe how difficult it is to raise children today. She often said to me, “I don’t envy young people bringing up children today.” The same line rolls through my head. I love my mother–you might say I revere her–but I don’t want to become her. Yet, there it is.

I laugh when I look at this line in my junk mail “FREE ACCESS TO LOCAL SLUTS” and think,  “What would Mom have made of that?”