Why is this day different?

Christmas makes me appreciate that I am different. I am not part of the dominant, white Christian culture, thoughsSome of my best friends are both white and Christian. Seriously. But the experience of not being part of the mainstream, not being part of the revelry that is Christmas, reminds me of my heritage.

The exclusion is just as much as a reminder as is observance. To be sure, there are subtle differences in experiencing exclusion versus observance. Observance requires active involvement with tradition, while exclusion is passive and subtle.

This time of year highlights an awkward divide. Some Christian friends are at a loss for words. One friend warmly drew us into her home and celebration. We honestly had great fun and ate ourselves silly, but we were visitors. I am proud of who I am, I am comfortable and I am grateful to appreciate what it feels like to be different.

When I am among the dominant culture in the room, I have the strength to reach out to the 'other' among us. Today, I have everything in common with any other non-Christian. How ironic that on Christian holidays, Muslims and Jews are especially united as outsiders. If only we could embrace that commonality.

Postcards from the edge

In some respects, receiving cards from friends at holidays is a warm gesture that I appreciate. How nice it is to know that you are in someone's thoughts. On the other hand, once I have opened the envelope, I have no idea of what to do with these cards.

Frankly, the cards I receive are promptly placed in the garbage. Then, I feel badly; someone thought enough to keep me in their thoughts, and I toss their card in the trash. Being environmentally conscious makes the greeting card issue especially irksome. Someone thought enough to send me a card, I guiltily toss the missive or picture of their precious children and, to top it all off, I get an additional dose of guilt for having added to a landfill.

My solution is that I simply don't send out holiday cards. Never have, never will. I don't send them for the Jewish New Year, nor do I send them at Christmas. On occasion, I have sent out e-mail missives for various holidays and that is about the extent of it. Perhaps I should be more thoughtful. Perhaps I should be more organized, but I am not. Oh well, I suppose I will have to accept imperfection. Happy holidays to all.

A Dog's Life

National Public Radio's "All Things Considered" featured a memorable program about parasites. Toxoplasmosis, a parasite in cat feces, was discussed in detail. Apparently, rats and mice ingest the toxoplasmosis, which travels into the rodents' brains. As a consequence of the parasite, the smell of cat becomes attractive to the smaller critters. Since the infected mice and rats are drawn to cats, they become easy prey. Anyone who has had a cat knows the rest of the story. The radio program I listened to surmised that perhaps toxoplasmosis has a similar effect on people who live with cats. It is often said that the cat owns the human, and not the other way around.

I wonder if there is a similar substance in dogs. Before I had a dog, I had little interest in these creatures. Now, I notice dogs constantly. This morning I heard a brief discussion about the death of Target, a former stray who, along with several other dogs, thwarted a suicide bomber in Afghanistan. Target was accidentally euthanized. Honestly, I got a little choked up as I heard the story recounted.

Target and the other dogs who were with him in Afghanistan demonstrated the quality of altruism - unselfish concern for others' welfare. How remarkable that such a lofty emotion can be demonstrated by a simple dog. How pathetic that the dogs were morally superior than most humans.

Has my little dog affected some chemical change in my brain that makes me partial to other dogs? Or have I been moved by a truly remarkable story involving purity of spirit? In any event, there is a lesson here for all of us humans, dog and cat lovers alike. Would that we all could demonstrate gratitude for the simple things that others do for us. Would that we could all be sufficiently brave to protect and defend our pack.

The Circle of Life

Today is my birthday. The first week in this new year of my life is filled with practically every life-cycle event imaginable. A friend called to let me know her son and daughter-in-law had a new baby boy this week and asked me to join them at the bris. In a short while, I will head to the local Jewish Center to help celebrate a bat mitzvah. Tomorrow, there is a funeral for a friend's mother died yesterday after a very long illness. On this day, I feel like I am in the middle of a whirlpool, surrounded and embraced by all of these events.

Yesterday, I called our family's favorite special occasion restaurant to make a reservation. The maitre d' knows my family and we caught up on the news of pending marriages of the then children, now young adults. We spoke about the perspective we have up here on this mountain of the aged. It is frightening, kind of like peering over a cliff.

Though I am definitely more vibrant and active than my parents were at my age, I wonder if my children, nieces and nephews think of me as an ancient. In some ways, I think they don't. On the other hand, it would be nice to be accorded the respect of a venerable elder.

North Shore-LIJ Healthcare Systems and its Visionary President and CEO

North Shore-LIJ Healthcare Systems is raising funds for construction of the new Katz Institute for Women's Health and Katz Women's Hospital. In support of that effort, a group of Long Island executives, called the Commerce and Industry Council, held an event at which Michael J. Dowling, president and chief executive officer of North Shore-LIJ Healthcare Systems, was the keynote speaker. Mr. Dowling is visionary.

Healthcare is a complex industry. It involves people of varying skill, real estate, construction, facility maintenance, supplies, equipment and security.* North Shore-LIJ hires approximately 80 to 90 people each week, and Mr. Dowling meets them all. Up-to-date facilities, however, are integral to provision of medical services. New York's medical facilities, in particular, are aging.

Fifty may be the new thirty for people, but not so for buildings. The expense of building hospitals is close to incomprehensible. Covering the costs for delivery of care by the medical professionals is another challenge in the face of cuts to medicare and medicaid. Mr. Dowling, however, seems one step ahead. He has anticipated and prepared for changes in the landscape of the healthcare industry. Facilities for professional and patient education, as well as facilities for treatment have been created throughout the metropolitan area, and expansion is envisioned.

Excellent medical education is a hallmark of America's medical care system, yet not one medical school has opened in the United States the past 30 years. Hofstra University and North Shore-LIJ will co-own and operate a new medical school and the first class is currently being selected. Mr. Dowling told the group that 4,000 applications are ultimately expected and that the first year class will be comprised of only 40 students. The class will expand to 100 over the course of a short, few years.

A multitude of jobs continues to be created by the healthcare system that Mr. Dowling has created. Mr. Dowling said, "no one is perfect, but we always try to close the gap between where we are and where we want to be." In a troubled economy, Mr. Dowling is spearheading a remarkable effort to create a network that will provide jobs and stimulate the local economy, while creating a premiere network for provision of medical care and professional training. These impressive efforts will have a positive impact on thousands of people in the New York metropolitan area for years to come.

*For an idea of how many people are involved in the daily operation of a hospital, I highly recommend the You Tube video entitled "Pink Glove Dance."

Triumph over Adversity, a Good Story

I just finished reading the "Modern Love Column" in the 'Styles' section of today's Sunday New York Times. It is my favorite column of the week. The stories range from ones where love conquers all to those where love doesn't succeed. In today's column, love permitted the writer to move on from tragic losses. It made me wonder whether sadness is the sole impetus for evocative prose? Jeanette Walls's "The Glass Castle," which recounts a most fantastic childhood with mentally ill parents is riveting. Frank McCourt's book, "Angela's Ashes" was a remarkable ouvre. These works grab your attention.

A former colleague was a student of Frank McCourt's at Stuyvesant High School in New York City. He told me that McCourt had no patience for anyone who handed in a story that didn't include a healthy dose of suffering and deprivation. As far as McCourt was concerned, exposure to alchoholism was a necessary life experience. I suppose the man had a point; sad stories are compelling.

Tragic events provide dramatic action forcing change. To succeed, the change must be inspirational. Otherwise, the story wouldn't be worth telling. Certainly, had McCourt or Walls not overcome their pasts, they would not have been capable of writing their works. Perhaps someone else would have picked up the story of someone who survived a broken childhood only to continue a pattern of destitution. That story would just show how some people lack the ability to extract themselves from pathetic lives. A desperate situation is an attention grabber. The reader must find out what happens and how the protagonist emerges victorious. How did McCourt go from being an urchin to a distinguished educator? How did Walls end up living on Park Avenue while her mother scavenged in garbage cans? Somehow, they do move beyond their circumstances, and if they can do it, so, too, can the reader. The contrast is essential to the inspirational message. I suppose that we must accept that triumph over adversity is an essential ingredient to a story worth reading.

The Camel Knows the Way

 "The Camel Knows the Way" is an autobiography recounting Lorna Kelly's  successful career as the first woman auctioneer at Sotheby's, her battle with alchoholism, humbling experiences in Calcutta and  a remarkable relationship with Mother Theresa. Though it is a story of Ms. Kelly's particularly Christian spiritual awakening, "The Camel Knows the Way" nonetheless speaks to people of all religions. The author's artful use of language to portray vivid images and emotions, as well as her honesty, is remarkable.

Ms. Kelly's spiritual shift experienced through her work in Calcutta is beyond moving.   Ms. Kelly learns  to see each and every person as worthy of compassion, even the people covered in filth and feces.  She accomplishes this by envisioning each suffering person as Jesus, himself or, in one case, as her mother.  With that shift, Ms. Kelly is emboldened to help the people of Calcutta. Even though I am Jewish, I found this metaphor particularly transformational. It is a metaphor that frequently comes to mind, especially in the midst of some of the more exasperating moments in parenthood.

I have had the honor of meeting Ms. Kelly and speaking with her in person. We first met at a school fair, where I had purchased my copy of "The Camel Knows the Way, a Journey. " When I sought out Ms. Kelly for an inscription, I found her, gleefully getting her face painted.   It was not surprising to read that Ms. Kelly jumped into the Sea of Gallilee fully clothed.  I would expect no less of someone this brave, adventurous and alive. Ms. Kelly's full embrace of life is admirable.

 

Oliver Stone's Wall Street, Money Never Sleeps

Wall Street, Money Never Sleeps is worth seeing. Gordon Gekko, the arch villain of the original 1987 film, is released from a lengthy prison sentence to start life anew. In the intervening years, his daughter, Winnie, has grown up. Proclaiming abhorrence of all things Wall Street, Winnie has nonetheless fallen in love with a young man named Jacob Moore who is, surprise, a Wall Street trader. Jacob, played by Shia LaBoeuf, represents 'the good'. He isn't in the money game for money alone. Instead, his objective is to raise funds to support development of a technology he believes really will be a game changer in the alternative energy field. He avenges injuries inflicted on his beloved mentor, Lewis Zabel, by hedge fund manager Bretton James. Zabel, played by Frank Langella, committs suicide as a consequence of James's exposure of extensive bad debt held by Zabel's firm. On top of all that, prince Jacob makes best efforts to effect a reconciliation between Gekko and his daughter.

This movie is Shakespearean. Power plays, meetings in oak paneled rooms, accusations and miscommunications, deceptions and betrayals abound. Lewis Zabel's ghost even appears to prince Jacob after Zabel's suicide. Hamlet? As the senior member of the Federal Reserve, Eli Wallach's character functions as the fool. Wallach's ancient of Wall Street appears to be completely batty, yet it is he who anoints or condemns. In this film's world, the wheel of fortune spins rapidly, with money replacing dominion as the crux for conflict.

Shia LaBoeuf was perfect as the young prince. The actor convincingly portrayed innocence, conviction, love and passion. Gordon Gekko is Michael Douglas' character. No one else could ever assume that role. Douglas looked rugged and aged. One imagines that Douglas skipped months of botox treatments. Josh Brolin conveyed perfect evil and duplicity through the vehicle of Bretton James. Susan Sarandon portrayed the quintessential Long Islander as Jacob's mother. Loved seeing Sylvia Miles reappear as a realtor selling Jacob's apartment. They both afforded comic relief. I was not enthralled by Carey Mulligan's performance. Constant resort to tears detracted from her character's depth. Also, the audience never sees real anger, even though Winnie professes to be furious with her father. This was surprising, considering all of the other attention to detail in this film. There is one other plot flaw. Gekko's actions at the end of the film, and I will not be a spoiler, seem inconsistent with his personality. Go and judge for yourself.

Sunrise, sunset

I often wonder whether lyricist Sheldon Harnick and composer Jerry Bock knew that "Fiddler on the Roof" was going to be a hit or, for that matter, a timeless classic. Through the vehicle of the Jewish liturgical cycle, the work addresses universal themes such as the of brevity of life and the swiftness of time's passage. The dispersal of an entire village underscores the frailty of existence of individuals and entire communities. Anatevka was a fictional town in Czarist Russia. Its residents knew that, as Jews, they weren't welcome and that changes were afoot. One day, suddenly it seems, the residents are told that they are to leave. It's over. So, too, in individual lives, gradual changes are barely noticeable. Feet grow, clothes become small, the tooth fairy period comes and goes. Then, one fine morning, everything is different.

We experience childhood, waiting to become teenagers and anxious to assume responsibilities. All of the sudden, we find ourselves out in the real world. Ellen Futter, then the in-coming president of Barnard College, gave a speech at my college graduation. My recollection is that she told us that we would spend the next ten years trying to accomplish specific goals. It would seem like it was taking forever, until ten years had passed and we would wonder how all that time had passed so quickly.

Here we are at Jewish New Years again. Another year is about to begin and another about to end. Instead of a year of gradual change, this is one of great transition for my family. A daughter is about to leave for school and embark on a new adventure. Another has returned home and will be spending her year at a new school. All of the sudden, my time as a full-time stay-at-home mother is coming to a close, but another door is opening. Now, it is time to embark on new adventures. Happy New Year to all.

Obscenity: You'll Know if When You See It

Never have I thought of an automobile as obscene. Until now. The Automobile Section for the August 29, 2010 Sunday edition of The New York Times contains a review of the 2010 Mercedes Benz E63 AMG. This car is nothing less than offensive. The $100,000 price tag isn't shocking. However, the car "burns $1 in gas every three or four miles" which translates to 9.5 miles per gallon. Is the Mercedes-Benz marketing team living in a cave?

I am not necessarily an ardent environmentalist, but I can't imagine what prompted development of this obscene machine. The market, high end included, clearly is interested in using less fuel, not more. Production of the E63 is absurd in the current climate. I can't imagine what the folks at Mercedes-Benz had in mind. I would imagine that some potential customers might think twice about purchasing a Mercedes-Benz at all. It definitely will impact my decision, and I happen to be in the market for a car.

In Jacobelis v. Ohio, 378 U.S.184 (1964), Justice Potter Stewart wrote a minority decision in a case deciding whether a particular film was "hardcore pornography." Justice Stewart stated that he could not intelligibly define hardcore pornography, but he would 'know it when he saw it.' There probably won't be many E63s on the road. However, if you happen to see one, think of Justice Stewart's statement.

Accepting Limitations

For most of my life, I suffered recurring, horrific colds and respiratory infections. My first bout of strep occurred when I was in the second grade. I missed most of the winter of grades 4 through 7 because of pneumonia. My mother would sit up with me nights while I experienced coughing fits. Eventually, I figured out how to function while ill. I remember driving from Manhattan to Hartford for a business meeting accompanied by a box of tissues, a bottle of seltzer and a box of Hall's cough drops. Finally, at the age of 48, I was diagnosed with an immune deficiency and immediately felt different in my own skin.

A friend recently discovered that she and her son lack a sufficient amount of a component in their blood called Von Willebrand factor. Von Willebrand factor enables blood to clot. This woman gave birth to two children and miscarried a third. Her son bruised easily in contact sports. It never occurred to anyone that there was a problem until the son had oral surgery recently. His failure to clot properly resulted in a diagnosis. All of the sudden, my friend and her son found themselves confronting the reality that they were, in fact, living with a flawed.


It feels slightly creepy to learn that you really have any type of non-visible disability. There is a sudden, yet invisible change. You are not who you thought you were; you deceived yourself. Instead of being a strong, healthy person, you are a person with a problem and the problem has a name. Those are two very different identities, and ours is a society in which weakness is not a positive. As always, self-acceptance remains a challenge.

Fall Fashion Economic Indicator

It's back to school time and I am busily refreshing the wardrobes of two teenaged girls. This is challenging, when style is comatose and the color palate is absolutely dead. I have been scouring malls and boutiques for the past two weeks, from high end to low end. There is absolutely nothing new or exciting on the racks. Literally. Palates are limited to grey and black, with a one muted color thrown in, depending on the line. J. Crew"s offerings followed the trend, with two mustard yellow pieces and a few pale heather pieces. The lines reflected design paralysis and depression. Even the attempt at infusing a lift through the use magenta by Anne Taylor Loft fell flat. Only the use of a lovely plum served to entice interest in a suit I saw in Lord & Taylor at the Westchester Mall.

Another noticeable trend was limited inventory. Vendors seem to be anticipating a market of unwilling buyers who will purchase only items that are absolutely needed. Interestingly, the shoe inventory seems to differ. The Aeresoles store was chock full of new designs and an array of fall colors. Thank heaven; we'll need a lift from drab grey. My survey has been entirely unscientific, but my impression is that retailers do not look forward to a successful season and are cutting their losses. If the tenor of the retail fashion market is correct, we are in for a bleak winter. Hopefully, we will see more positive signs in the spring.

Intolerance

Have you noticed that society is increasingly intolerant? A disturbing article in the August 6, 2010 New York Times reported on the campaign by the Dutch political leader, Geert Wilders to ban the Koran and impose a tax on head scarves. Does this remind anyone else of a certain dismal periods of history?

Americans interred Japanese residents. Germany rounded up Jews like cattle. Genocide was committed by the Tutsis against the Hutus in Rwanda. Scores of Muslims were killed by Serbs in Bosnia. The Shiites hate the Sunni. Now, we have all Westerners, both European and American, against all Muslims. Let's all get on the hate bandwagon!

There is a psychological comfort in the "us" versus "them" attitude. Viewing the world through the us/them lens makes for easy identity of the enemy. Trying to determine those individuals in the 'them' group who don't threaten the goals of 'us' is too hard. Directing vitriol toward an entire group is easy, yet so very dangerous. It lends credence to complaints of oppression and may entice some of 'them,' in this case Muslims, to return intolerance with intolerance, perhaps expressed through violence.

There is an undeniable basis for the conflicts among the Muslim and the Judeo Christian world. Indeed, the campaign of fundamentalist Islam is against Western Civilization. It brutalizes women and children. Peace with Israel is not even in the fundamentalist Muslim playbook. Wilders recognizes that Israel is the victim of fundamentalist Muslim brutality, because Israel serves as an easily bullied symbol of everything Western. However, the mistake lies in failing to understand that being Muslim and acceptance of a Judeo-Christian ethic are not mutually exclusive. Lumping all Muslims together in one big category of evil is overly simplistic and plain wrong. Distinguishing between fundamentalist, radical Islam and the more tolerant among the Muslim community is crucial. There are many peaceful, kind Muslims, even among observant Muslims and they need to come forward so that they can get well-deserved recognition and support.

Society needs to avoid the low road of hatred. Any tax or ban of religious garb, and certainly the ban of the Koran or bible in any country is absolutely unacceptable. Equally unacceptable are any violent attacks against anyone who criticizes either the Western or Muslim communities. As we tell children, use words, not fists, remembering always that words can be a source of healing. Wisdom often comes from the mouths of the simple and Rodney King, the robber who was caught and beaten by Los Angeles Police after a high speed chase, said it best when he posed the question: "Why can't we all just get along?" Even Anne Frank, in her diary, stated her belief that "...all people are basically good."

The Parent Trap

Parents constantly make decisions for their children. Making choices that affect someone else's future can be a frightening and intimidating responsibility. One wonders how and whether the choice will effect the child in the long term. Though life experience and educated advisors are helpful guides, it remains burdonsome to resolve murky areas for another person. The right path is often uncertain.

Some decisions are easily made, like providing food, shelter, clothes, medical care and an education. That's easy. The debatable issues, where one decision could be as right or wrong as another, invariably result in frustrating debates. Consider, for example, the decision to put a child on medication for ADHD. Medications carry risks, both known and unknown, but they also hold the promise of permitting a child to function optimally. On the other hand, the drugs don't always make a difference. It is one thing to make a choice for oneself, but quite another to make a decision for another person.

No one has all the answers. Circular debates must eventually yield a decision, and whatever decision is reached has to be accepted as the definitively right answer. Like any good corporate or government leader, being a parent requires inner resolve. In truth, though, the most any parent can do is make a best guess and assume an appearance confidence.

Criminals and Redemption

In The Joys of Yiddish, Leo Rosten defines chutzpah as the unmitigated gall, best illustrated by the example of a criminal defendant who has killed his mother and father, then throws himself on the mercy of the court because he is an orphan. Yesterday's new York Times featured the stories of two criminals who bring chutzpah to new heights. As criminals go, each one of these men was accomplished.

Arthur Williams was 63 years old. He died when he lost control of the car he was driving in a high-speed police chase. At the time of his death, Williams reportedly had at least 134 convictions in the State of New York. He was imprisoned more or less continuously, between 1975 and 2009. The most recent release was granted , Williams suffered from emphysema and diabetes and was undergoing dialysis. He assured the parole board that he would not commit any more crimes, because it would kill him. Williams was married and moved to Alabama with his wife. He borrowed money from the Family Loan Company and made payments in person, but then, he robbed the place. The last spree involved a trip from Alabama to New York. Reconstruction of the trip showed that, prior to robbing a store on Madison Avenue, Williams had been in the vicinity of his childhood home in Hamilton Heights, New York, where his mother, aged 92, still lives. A dutiful son visiting his mom, perhaps?

Colton Harris-Moore is 19 years old. He gained renown as 'the barefoot bandit.' In comparison to Mr. Williams, Harris-Moore was incredibly sophisticated. In addition to robbing houses, Harris-Moore is accused of having stolen GPS navigation systems, laptop computers and airplanes. Harris-Moore, a 9th grade drop-out, was apprehended in the Bahamas on a stolen motor boat. Harris-Moore had spent two years on the run after an escape from a juvenile half-way house. One wonders at the contribution of his upbringing to this scenario. A sign outside the road leading to his mother's trailer says "Notice, if you go past this sign you will be shot." Neighbors reported that Pam Kohler, Harris-Moore's mother, does, in fact, shoot. Though neighbors reported that Harris-Moore continually sought parental substitutes he nonetheless stayed in continual contact with his mother while a fugitive. Mother and son were reported to have been in contact over the past two years, and the mother encouraged her son to go to a country that didn't have an extradition treaty with the United States. Just like a teen to disregard his mother's instruction.

Though they are both criminals, Williams and Harris-Moore are very different. Williams seems more of a lost soul. His mother is said to have remembered her son as a man who served G-d. Harris-Moore, on the other-hand, is a young man who was not served by our system. Child Protective services was involved with the family when Harris-Moore was a child. Redemption was obviously never possible for Williams. He threatened victims, but never hurt anyone. Perhaps he was essentially well meaning but addicted to something beyond his control. Harris-Moore is clearly brilliant and misguided. Hopefully the system will offer him a means toward redemption so that he can become a productive member of society. Clearly, he has the capacity. The example set by his mother, however, provides support for an argument in favor of requiring potential parents to become licensed before they produce a child.

Do Nothing

At the Equinox Fitness Club in Woodbury, New York, I have been taught the Tabata interval training and the High Intensity Interval Training ("HIIT") methods. Tabata, which was developed and studied by Dr. Izumi Tabata, involves 20 seconds of intense exercise, followed by 10 seconds of rest. The intervals are repeated for a total of 8 cycles. Similarly, HIIT involves a 2:1 ratio of work to rest. Both methods have been shown to improve athletic performance and effectively burn fat. More important, though, is the life lesson these methods impart about the importance of recovery.

Kristen Gagne is the Group Fitness Director at the Woodbury Equinox and an instructor. In her classes, Kristen doesn't simply give directions. Instead, she educates. She explains what to do, how to do it and the purpose of the exercise. When using an interval training method, such as Tabata, Kristen constantly harps on the importance of the rest and recovery portion. "DO NOTHING," she shouts to a room of die hard, aggressive people. She tells us that the ability to recover quickly is the best indication of cardiovascular health, that anyone can spike a high heart rate, that we need to rest - blah blah blah -like telling so many teenagers to clean their rooms. Except that she is 100% correct.

Rest and recovery are as essential to well being as any all out effort. My life is a whirl of constant motion, driving here, driving there and then driving here all over again. Last week, though, I stopped. I went to the southwest coast of Bermuda and stayed at The Pompano Beach Club. The hotel optimizes every possible ocean view. From the room, I watched the fishing boats go out in the morning, single file, and solemnly return in the evening. I enjoyed the shallow ocean water. I sat and read a book. I did nothing.

During this vacation - or recovery process - Kristen's admonishments about recovery came to mind. Indeed, recovery can be more difficult than work and the ability to recover is an important skill. Because of a purposeful rest, I attacked my training early on Monday morning with renewed vigor. I have learned to appreciate the all out push, but also to respect the power of recovery.

Mission Too Impossible to be Plausible

By now, everybody knows that 10 people were arrested in the United States as "deep cover agents" for Russia. The spies were ordered to adopt an American lifestyle, and the agents certainly did so with enthusiasm. A young spy proved to be a quick study; he bought a Mercedes. Not just any Mercedes, but an S500 model. Prices for the S class series start in the mid-$80,000 range. Another couple bought a house in Montclair New Jersey. According to the New York Times, messages were coded in invisible ink or "embedded in ordinary-looking images on the Internet," information was passed between operatives at the Forest Hills train station in New York, funds were retrieved during trips to "an undisclosed South American Country." These accusations are so dramatic as to strain credulity.

Clearly, something else is happening here. A 15 year old Montclair resident, Jesse Gugig, told The New York Times that "she couldn't believe the charges." "They couldn't have been spies ... look what she did with the hydrangeas" said the young neighbor of accused spy Cynthia Murphy. This young woman has a valid point. Lack of interest and skill in gardening are well known traits of all spies. After all, the life of any spy is unstable. Espionage necessarily involves extensive travel. Any gardener knows that cultivation requires constant attention. If this case ever goes to trial, the accused spies should consider this defense.

I challenge Jesse Gugig's theory. Instead, my theory is that this was an elaborate publicity stunt by John LeCarre or an up and coming author in the political thriller genre. That, or it was an example of guerilla theater at its best. Will Americans be concerned about threats to our national security? I think not. Rather, most Americans will wonder whether Taylor Lautner will accept the role of the 20 year old who purchased the Mercedes and whether Reese Witherspoon or Scarlet Johanssen will play the gardening spy, Mrs. McCarthy. Do not expect this film to be speedily produced. The courts will need to answer the burning debate over who owns the story. Indeed, life is often stranger than fiction.

Obsessive Compulsiveness, Explored

I admit to being a perfectionist. Attention to detail was definitely learned from my mother. The lessons she taught about attending to quality and classic design have served me well. She was always impeccably dressed, her home was spotless and beautifully decorated. The word 'casual' had no place in her vocabulary. Putting a jar of ketchup or mayonnaise on the table was anathema to her; condiments were presented in lovely bowls. Always. I have relaxed that standard, but am particular about where I purchase my food and what I consume. Sometimes this is an innocent matter of mere preference, because food is meant to be enjoyed and I want to eat things that I feel taste yummy. Other times, my concern with fat content and calories feels a little compulsive and not a little bit scary.

I also admit to being preoccupied with my physical appearance. Okay, I am concerned about being fat. Again, this is inherited baggage from a mother who wasn't comfortable with her body. She regularly compared herself to other women. Her brother called her 'fatso,' which certainly didn't help either the relationship or mom's self image. I started exercising regularly in my late 20's and never stopped. My daily routine involves vigorous exercise and ingestion of a very healthy diet, which includes a little chocolate or ice cream every day. Most of the time, I feel content with my body. Perhaps I am not perfect, but I am just fine for me.

Perfection is not and cannot be an absolute. Perfection is relative. Absolute perfection cannot be achieved. My desk is a mess and I am okay with that. The rest of my house is beautiful. My husband bought me my favorite chocolate for Mother's day from The Chocolate Lady in Oyster Bay. I started out by eating small tastes of each piece, but realized that I was behaving like someone with an eating disorder. So, I went ahead and ate an entire piece. I enjoyed it. A lot. Nobody can be perfect. We can only be our best possible selves.

POSTSCRIPT:

It was not until I was in the middle of writing this that I realized that today is Mother's Day. My mother, Miriam Rosenblum Spiro, died in 2003. For many years, she lived with Parkinson's disease. Her decline into dementia became apparent in 1992. It was a long, long way down. Mom was a truly gracious lady. Her caregivers called her "Mother Miriam" and told me that mom always thanked them for their help. Ultimately, mom lost the ability to move or speak, but her caregivers made sure that Mother Miriam was always clean and as well-dressed as possible.

The quest for perfection was apparent in the way my mother selected her clothes. Mother chose her clothing like the finest of curators. She had a magical style that was infused into everything she wore. After her death, we cleared out her closets. It was an odd thing to see those clothes as they lay lifeless on her bed, as if their souls had departed. Without Mother Miriam, the spell had been broken. Once again, those clothes reverted to being mere pieces of cloth.

The Only One in the Room

Several months ago, Wes Moore, the author of "The Other Wes Moore," spoke on the Joan Hamburg radio show on WOR 710. Mr. Moore's book compares his life to that of another man with the identical name and home town. Despite commonalities, the two men have disparate life experiences. Mr. Moore, the author, was graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Johns Hopkins University and received a Masters from Oxford University as a Rhodes Scholar. The other Wes Moore was convicted of murder.

During his discussion with Ms. Hamburg, Mr. Moore spoke about his early childhood experience at an elite private school. He discussed how difficult it was to acclimate, unguided, into a totally new culture. While he acknowledged that schools seem more aware of this issue today, he said he would have appreciated a guide who understood his experience. The transition was doubtless difficult for Mr. Moore, and the adults at his new school were probably completely unaware of his confusion. Even if they were aware of his discomfort, they probably wouldn't have had any clue of how to help; it is impossible to completely understand another person's experience unless you have travelled a similar road. All the compassion in the world cannot permit an understanding of the isolation felt in the absence of colleagues with a common cultural background. Experiencing life as an extreme minority, however, provides insight.

My eldest daughter attended a wonderful boarding school in Connecticut. The school was affiliated with the Episcopalian church, but accepted students of all backgrounds and religions, with an intent to encouraged students to retain strong affiliations with their different faiths. Our family is Jewish and the school's Jewish population was well under 10%. Despite heartfelt efforts by the school's staff, there were subtle cultural cues that they couldn't comprehend. After trying to explain the unexplainable, the school asked a Jewish faculty member to help guide the activities of the Jewish children at this school. This was an impressive, commendable effort. For reasons completely unrelated to the cultural issue, my daughter left the school. She started attending our local public high school. Together, my daughter and I noticed that the public high school was utterly lacking in cultural and economic diversity. We also noticed that our awareness of the lack of diversity was reflexive.

Cultural experiences provide a lens through which we view our interactions and color our view of perceived nuances. Two individuals from similar backgrounds will have an unspoken understanding of subtext. Others from differing backgrounds will never perceive, no less understand, that subtext. There are times, though, when those commonalities aren't available. In those circumstances, being 'the only one' can be painful and confusing, but can also be an opportunity to be enlightened.

Quitting

My first job out of college was working as a secretary in the subsidiary rights department of MacMillan Publishing Company. MacMillan, a hard copy publisher, auctioned paperback publication rights to other publishers. With my Barnard degree, I had the honor of typing multiple copies of the identical letter to numerous potential bidders. Word processors were in their infancy. I was lucky to have an electric typewriter with automatic whiteout [for those of you who remember white out]. While I was growing up, my father made it quite clear that people who quit anything were depraved losers. On the first day on the job, I went to my father's office at lunchtime. I cried about how miserable I was with this menial position and he told me to quit! I wondered if I had walked into the wrong office.

Dad was right, but yet dad was wrong. Sometimes quitting is a sign of weakness, while at other times it is a sign of strength. It's kind of like cholesterol or fat - not all of it is good, but not all of it is bad. Negative quitting basically means laziness. Abandoning a goal because it requires a little bit of effort is just giving up - like being in a race and slowing down in the last 2 minutes instead of giving one last push. This type of quitter doesn't even want to bother showing up for life and would rather sit around waiting for death.

Deciding to abandon a harmful relationship, be it personal or professional, is a different matter. It is not a sign of weakness. In fact, it is just the opposite. Leaving a relationship or a job is risky. The next job or relationship could be worse - or it could be better. So long as best efforts have been made, abandoning an exercise in futility is entirely reasonable. Quitting bad or destructive habits also falls into this category. This is the 'good' kind of quitting; quitting that leads to positive changes.

Years have passed. I wish I could have had this discussion with my father, but, sadly, he passed away on August 11, 1991. Since that day in 1982, I have learned that sometimes quitting is justified and even admirable. Knowing when to hold 'em and knowing when to fold 'em is a far healthier and fulfilling state of mind.

Idols with Feet of Clay

Our most respected leaders have exhibited remarkable failings. President Clinton's daliances were discussed and kind of brushed off, we were aghast at the indiscretion of former governor Elliot Spitzer and shocked, absolutely shocked by the extra-marital affairs of Tiger Woods, among others. The examples men in positions of public trust who have been dishonorable in their marriages are legion. While the behavior of these men is troublesome to many, many consider adultery to be a private matter that doesn't or shouldn't affect public reputation. Moral lapses also abound in the financial markets.

With wide-eyed amazement, we wonder how mortgages could possibly have been given without credit checks to people who were destined to default. Now, we are surprised to discover that John Paulson had a hedge fund that bet on the likelihood of a multitude of mortgage defaults. The Securities and Exchange Commission is blamed for lack of oversight. People wonder what possibly have gone wrong.

Has anyone ever heard of character? Not to get all prophetic, and I am not predicting the end of society as we know it ... but our idols have feet of clay. Few moral boundaries remain. Many people are embarrassed and uncomfortable judging men who cheat on their wives, but why not? Hello -it's cheating. It stinks and it denotes dishonesty that doubtless carries over into other areas of life. The same character flaws perpetuate the immoral lending practices that took advantage of relatively ignorant borrowers.

The problem with society is that no one can be trusted. Like the marital contract, our society is bound by an ethical contract. When either contract is breached, the relationship fails. The source of the failure is a destruction of trust. Can you name a politician that you actually and truly trust? If you can name one, isn't there some voice in the recesses of your mind telling you to beware? The hallmarks of honesty that engender respect are rarely taught or valued. The time to start modeling ethical behavior is now, and the modeling starts at home. We have to reclaim moral behavior at home and in the commercial sphere in order to reclaim stasis.

The Journey of our LIves

Passover commemorates the liberation of the Jewish people from slavery in Egypt. Jews around the world start this holiday with an at-home Passover service that is called a Seder, and a book called the Haggadah contains the ceremony's liturgy. Throughout the ensuing week, Jews refrain from eating bread and other grains that have been permitted to rise. Bread is replaced by matzo, a mixture of flour and water that is cooked into a cracker in no more than 18 minutes. Eating matzo reminds us that our ancestors had to get out so quickly, that they didn't have time to let their bread rise. The Haggadah instructs each Jew to undertake the journey as if he or she had been present at the exodus from Egypt.

I am Jewish and, with my family, I celebrate Passover. I have been celebrating this holiday my entire life. In adulthood, I have found a slightly different lesson in this holiday every single year. This amazes me. This year, "the journey" has occupied my thoughts.

The journey undertaken by those ancient Jews with Moses required both collective and individual change. Exodus required reformation of the collective, lower than subservient self-image. That collective negativity remains a plague. Our collective remains threatened and afraid - perhaps with good cause. For centuries, Jews have tried to "pass" and our modern artists have explored this phenomenon. Philip Roth, in "The Human Stain" explores this desire to be one with white culture through the ironic vehicle of a black protagonist who spends his life passing as Jewish. Anne Roiphe's magnificent portrayal of her family in "1185 Park Avenue," contains illustrations of classic, modern-day identity conflict. Pointedly describing her perception of Episcopalian non-Jews in her youth, Roiphe states in the first chapter of her book:

"If society is a pyramid in which the top comes to a point, they were the point. They did not so much cast a shadow over the rest as provide a source of constant anxiety for the others. That is the place where you weren't wanted. That is the restricted hotel on this block. That is the hospital that doesn't allow Jewish doctors to admit patients. That is the school you won't bother to apply to. "Them" was the word spoken with a touch of awe and a spark of anger. Who are "they" really to think they own the world and are so much better than "us"? The big businesses, the big banks, the big fortunes, the big givers to charity, the big owners of boxes at the opera: all of them were "them." They didn't want "us." Who cared. In America who cared. And besides one could imitate them or at least try."

In my individual journey, I have tried to shed shame about my identity. I am not the only modern Jew following a road away from self-hate and towards embracing a wonderful tradition. Self-acceptance takes fortitude, but self-acceptance offers the gift of release. Judgment of choices that other people make for their journeys is not necessary. I can choose my path, and other people can choose theirs. A broader acceptance is also being experienced by society at large - with both negative and positive consequences. Isn't it interesting that we all are still in the midst of an Exodus?

May you all have engaging spiritual journeys in the coming week, no matter what holiday you celebrate!

The Chocolate Lady

The little beach town of Oyster Bay, on the far north shore of Long Island, is home to a most unique chocolate artisan. In her shoe-box sized store on Audrey Avenue, across from Canterbury Ales and Buckram's Variety Store, The Chocolate Lady, Lee Perrotta, works her magic. Perrotta creates her own base chocolate primarily from vanilla, spices and cacao beans that she personally selects on annual trips to the Caribean at harvest time. There are actually 15 different chocolates involved in formation of the base, and that includes some French and belgian bases. The resulting chocolate is crafted into the confections that are made at the store in Oyster Bay. Passion, creativity and connection to the history of the art of chocolate making sets The Chocolate Lady apart from other local chocolatiers, and you can taste the difference.

Being health conscious, I am partial to dark chocolate. In this area, the Chocolate Lady excels. Chocolate covered caramels are smooth and rich, especially when accompanied by a hint of grey salt. Chocolate covered marshmallows are another favorite. Well, so is the chocolate covered orange peel, chocolate covered nuts and any truffle that Lee and The Chocolate Lady collective create. Other chocolatiers have approached non-traditional spice and chocolate combinations, but the "Maya Maya, So Spicy We Named it Twice" truffle is a stand out. With its secret ingredient that gives the truffle a special kick, the Maya Maya truffle is not for gulping. Savored slowly in small bites, however, this truffle reveals layers of sweet, savory and spicy.

The Chocolate Lady is a family affair. The store's logo features a sepia picture of Lee's great aunt, who was a chocolatier in the early 1900's, astride her chocolate making table. That same table now resides in the Oyster Bay store. Husband Paul is generally around and son Brandon, though not a chocolate aficionado, makes an ocassional appearances and came up with the idea for a cookie dough truffle. Paul Jr., the couple's elder son, is serving our country in the Armed Forces. So, patronizing The Chocolate Lady is not only supportive of the local economy, but also an act of patriotism. What's more,
The Chocolate Lady chocolate, in particular, has been shown to have positive health benefits.

Okay, that statement is not based on a scientific study, but eating The Chocolate Lady chocolate has made me and my daughters very happy. My husband bought me two diamond bracelets for a landmark birthday. They were okay and I eked out a form of thanks, but the gift of The Chocolate Lady chocolates this past Valetine's Day elicited a FAR more exuberant response. The bracelets were returned; the chocolates were joyfully devoured. Also, I sent a box to my cousin after brain surgery. She wrote," The chocolates were terrific, and they definitely made me feel better!" What other proof is required?

Visiting The Chocolate Lady, alone, is excuse enough for a trip to Oyster Bay. The Chocolate Lady products can be ordered on line at www.chocolateladyboutique.com, too. Ms. Perrotta also makes educational presentations about chocolate the history of chocolate and loves to prepare favors for any type of party. What an excuse to have a party! Visit the shop at 49 Audrey Avenue in Oyster Bay or call (516)922-2002.

By the way, this is an unsolicited review. I haven't been paid AT ALL. However, I have been influenced by the chocolate and the affable atmosphere created in the shop by its owner and her family.

Recovery

I take the most amazing spin classes at Equinox Fitness Club in Woodbury, New York with Kristen Gagne. Interval training -raising the heart rate through short bursts of effort followed by recovery - is part of the program. Kristen explains that the uncomfortable feeling will always feel uncomfortable. It is the threshold for tolerance of the discomfort that changes. Kristen also emphasizes the importance of recovery. With a room full of cardio junkies who are constantly on the go, Kristen demands that we stop pedaling our bikes at warp speed and take it easy for a few seconds before the next bout. The recovery phase, she explains, is work and the ability to recover quickly is the hallmark of an athlete.

Just like physical intervals, emotional pain and stress will always be painful and stressful. The ability to persevere in the face of emotional discomfort and stress, as well as the ability to recover, are crucial to overall well-being. Isn't is just like life to toss into our paths seemingly insurmountable obstacles, emergencies or crises? Some crises are like long, challenging intervals with no recovery in sight, as when a child is fighting cancer or living with a permanent disability. In those situations, a new threshold for tolerance of stress is developed purely as a matter of survival. Having lived through that type of long-term pain, I learned to create short a breaks in the interval simply to catch my emotional breath.

Functioning in the wake of a painful situation isn't easy. In many ways, it is easier to remain paralyzed by stress, frustration and pain. Entrapment by those emotions provides a convenient excuse to not move forward. They are the food of depression. But despair never helped anybody. Just as intervals don't last forever, neither does emotional stress. Someday, the opportunity for recovery will come - sooner in some instances and later in others. The form of recovery is different for different situations, but recovery is essential. Forever sustaining stress at the rough equivalent an anaerobic level is simply impossible.

Moving on is difficult. We hold on to our wounds, we replay arguments in our heads, we maintain grudges over matters long extinguished and are thus prevented from living in the moment. Once an interval is over, it is essential to leave that stress level behind. Recognizing the futility of holding on to stress and letting go is not simple. It requires surrender. It requires slowing the pedals down and letting that heart rate fall. Indeed recovery is the hardest work of all.

The Glass Castle - a review

I took some time off this afternoon to finish The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls (Scribner, 2005). The Glass Castle recounts Walls' surprising childhood. Her parents were brilliant eccentrics. Providing basic necessities for their children - like food and adequate shelter - was not a priority. Instead, the four Walls children lived in hair raising conditions. Their survival was nothing short of miraculous.

Rex Walls, Jeanette's father, was an alchoholic. Her mother, Mary, suffered from an unspecified psychiatric disorder. Neither parent could hold down a job or manage money. Rarely did the Walls family live in one place for very long. Money would run out, Rex would get into arguments or scrapes with law enforcement. The Walls children regularly were imperiled by their parents' judgment. While living in Phoenix, Arizona, Rex and Mary insisted on leaving the front door, the back door and windows open at night. Vagrants would wander in and fall asleep in the house and, on one occasion, one tried to molest Jeannette. The family picked up stakes to move back to Welch, West Virginia Rex's childhood home. The Walls relatives in Welch fulfilled every stereotype of Appalachia imaginable. Grandma Erma tried to molest her grandson and, on another occasion, Uncle Stanley attempted to fondle Jeannette. LIving conditions frequently were perilous.

Both parents eschewed responsibility. Each decision they made, even those endangering their children, was excused. They never felt guilty about exposing their children to bitter cold, hunger, physical pain and humiliation. Walls' mother was certified to be a teacher. Her mental illness manifested in a refusal to go to work, complaining that her children were a burden. She showed no concern for the comfort of her children and didn't know or care that they frequently scrounged in garbage for food. Rex disappeared for days at a time, spend every dime to drink, even steal from his children to buy alchohol, yet would challenge the children to tell him whether he had ever let them down. Mary's response to any hint of criticism would be some retort - luxuries would make the children weak and soft, others had it worse and the like.

On the other hand, Mary's attitude showed how one can view a challenge as a hardship or as an adventure. Rex did show he cared by making valiant attempts to dry out. The children did become resourceful and independent and, with the exception of the youngest child, became fully functioning adults within mainstream society. To an extent, Mary was correct that her children were stronger as a consequence of their experiences. It is clear that the author remains angry at her parents for

Our home is warm and cozy, with plentiful food and abounding in comfort. I like it that way. But maybe a thing or two could be learned about parenting from Mary; perhaps we 'typically functioning' people are a bit too cautious. Certainly, this book made me realize that, as a typically functioning, very mainstream adult, I have failed my emerging writer of a daughter by not providing her with material for a book.

What if? Reflections on a Visit to a Homeless Shelter

In t "The Inferno" of Dante Aleghieri's "Divine Comedy", the poet Virgil guides the author through hell. At one point, Dante and Virgil are climbing a steep, narrow path and Dante is so consumed with the view that he looses his balance and almost falls into the pit of hell. Well, last night glanced the precipice pit when we volunteered at the Ansche Chesed men's homeless shelter.

We didn't do much, really. Two rooms occupy the floor where the men stay. During the day, these rooms serve as a nursery school. They are at opposite ends of a long hallway. By the time we arrived at 7 p.m., the residents had already taken out their beds and sheets from storage and set up the television. I took out two microwaves from a closet that the residents use to heat up dinners provided by the shelter, logged in the men's names into the shelter's record book and called the two referring agencies to let them know that everyone had arrived safe and sound. The men ate their dinner and watched television. One man fastidiously washed out his clothing in a utility sink. Others made telephone calls on their cell phones. Were they calling family, I wondered. The men stayed in their room; my daughter and I stayed in the other, waiting for the overnight volunteer to arrive. No big deal. I made up the bed for the overnight volunteer and set the alarm clock for 5:25 a.m.; by 6 a.m., the residents must dismantle their beds, collect their belongings and leave.

An arctic front had moved into New York City by the time my daughter and I left the shelter. We headed toward Pennsylvania Station to catch the train back to Long Island. I noticed people milling around who looked as if they had nowhere else to go and thought of those eight fortunate men fortunate enough to be warm for a few hours.

It's eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. I am warm in my bed and it is the last day of vacation, and I really don't want to get up. The guys from the shelter have been out for two hours already. The wind howls outside. I can hear it. Last night, when we left the shelter, I didn't think the experience had touched me. I was so very wrong.