Category: NEXT: An Empowerment Series

I slowly unpacked my essentials: Journal √ Stack of books√ Yoga mat√ Candle√ Herbal tea√ White satin slippers√ Each winter I take a solo retreat for reflection. While living alone gives me ample opportunity for solitude and sitting on my sofa, I know myself.  Without a boundary of distance and drive time, my mind quickly reverts to my To Do list telling me I still have not hung that picture, organized those photos, or cleaned beneath my bed. Any call from a friend  to see a good film easily becomes an excuse for not allowing myself time to ponder. I

When I was a child, I rarely interacted with any of my extended family members. Uncle Leonard sporadically sat at our table for a fried chicken dinner. Two of my father’s sisters occasionally brought panic with unannounced visits to our home. And I cannot recall a single birthday, holiday, or wedding celebrated with a cousin. Four of my five brothers each gifted me a sister-in-law.  Being wed I gained more. Marriage, divorce, death, and choice can determine who we declare family.  One of my stepdaughters once referred to me as “my friend who married my father.”  She was grown and

The enthusiasm is palpable. I see energy in the actions. The new gym membership. The new meditation practice. The new juicer. My coaching calendar fills with appointments. Recovering from the holiday hullabaloo, we set our sights on the year ahead. Some set SMART (specific, measurable, attainable, relevant, time-based) goals. Some identify intentions. Some resolve to be better or do better. Some simply pick a single word. One focus for the year. Regardless of the strategy, in a few weeks or a few months, many of us will have not only lost the zest of the new year, we will have

Arlyce asked for two things. One: To celebrate on the actual day. Two: Cards. Arlyce was clear. Her birthday falls four days before Christmas. For decades it has been gifts “for your birthday and Christmas” wrapped in Santa paper. She understood that the birth of Jesus trumped her special day. But still. After too many times of feeling like a footnote to Jingle Bells, Arlyce marks this milestone differently. For her 90th Arlyce asked for what she wanted. I admire Arlyce. She zips around in her scooter on her daily walks with her dog Mojo. She lives in an elegantly

I didn’t notice that the paper was red and green, only that it was beautifully wrapped.  It was three days past my December birthday. I assumed the gift awaiting me at the end of a long day did not want to wait another moment to be opened. I removed the plaid bow. I carefully lifted the tape. I opened the small brown box and pulled back the tissue. I gasped. A soft pink and white tea cup, decorated in gold, was tucked inside. Instantly I knew it was not a reproduction but an antique. I carefully lifted it out by

This week marks a decade since Howard died. Like my father, he died within weeks of a lung cancer diagnosis. Dad had died on Christmas day, Howard the first week of December. Two years later my mother’s would also be a December death. With the arrival of my December birthday, my heart memory reminds me to reflect on the good fortune to be on this earth to celebrate another year. Howard married my sister Diane when I was six and she was sixteen. He became my sixth brother. He was the first person I remember teasing me, an experience of

I love to talk. It is a natural state for me. I think by talking aloud. For 25 years I made a litigator’s living by talking. The fifth of eight children, talking was a serious survival skill. I enjoy talking to a room of hundreds or walking into that same room and making a connection with another person within a matter of minutes. I’ve been known to delight a stranger with the story of how I fell in love. While many of my dearest friends are tortured by social events, I leave a party exhilarated while they decline my invitation

I stare at the photo as though I’d never seen it before. Alone in my living room, I hold the black and white Polaroid in my hand and start to choke up. It’s been twenty-fours since Tim died. When I returned home for the holiday break Tim overheard me talking to our mom in the kitchen about my first experience at a gay bar as a college freshman. “I need to talk to you,” he said. We walked down the wooden stairs to his bedroom in the back of the basement. “There’s something I need to tell you. I’m gay.”

“They just don’t care,” he said. His disgust infused his disappointment. The silver haired man in a suit with bright blue eyes scanned the room of the anxiously hopeful awaiting results on the big screen? “Where are the young people?  They just don’t care.” “They just don’t” he repeated, shaking his head. He spouted off his support for his belief, providing a litany of facts for his conclusion. By now the polls were closed and I was done trying to persuade anyone to a different point of view on anything. I resisted the urge to argue about how wrong he

“I just hate him,” she said. She started to cry again. My hug felt like a petty comfort to the searing pain the blast had left. It was 72 hours after the Tree of Life Synagogue slaughter. She was referring not to the shooter but to the president of the United States. I knew which facts forged the basis of her emotion. I also knew that her suffering was exacerbated by her hate. Being a tender-hearted person, she was not being herself. Later that day, I told a friend, “Trump’s going to Pittsburg.” “Good for him,” my friend replied. Shame