Father Made Spaghetti

Every so often my father made spaghetti.
For four or six, it mattered not.
He’d bring to a boil the largest pot
filled with water well seasoned with salt
And throw in a pack (and sometimes two) of macaroni.

He’d stand in front of the stove,
Fork in one hand with arms akimbo,
Eyes glued to the boil, stirring the froth
Patiently waiting a minute or two.

Then with a smile he’d pick with the fork
a few slippery strands
Blow air on them as though to seal with a kiss
And together, we’d test for doneness knowing full well
that tasting was half the process.

He liked to see results.
Somewhere in his youth he’d heard the ultimate spaghetti doneness test
Was to throw a strand or two against the wall.
If it stuck it was beyond al dente
If however, it slipped and fell, it needed more of our arm toss.

Finally when half the spaghetti was in our system and across the wall
He’d drain and throw in hefty block of butter.
A quick swirl on the stove top once more and we were served presto.

Years later the mood would strike him with my children.
I would shake my head and get out of his way
While my kids took part and cheered him on without delay.

I’ve no idea what started him off on spaghetti making
But I’m glad he did.
It was exciting.
It made him non serious, mysterious
And our particular one of a kind father.

I cheer him on.

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Beautiful Hands

“These very hands, a mother’s hands, These old and new hands
These very hands… …That have been worn out And also become rough
But for all of us They are as tender as silk
These perfect hands, A mother’s hands.” (Excerpt from Mother’s Hands, by Baroyr Sevag)

I was having my fingerprints taken for official business. The well-manicured lady assisting me looked disapprovingly. She said there were too many horizontal lines in the whirls of my thumbs that blurred the clarity of the print. I looked at the familiar whirls and loopy circles of my fingerprints. It was true that there were quite a few lines dissecting those little hurricane patterns, but I didn’t see the problem she was seeing.
“Isn’t that what fingerprints normally look like?” I asked, defensive of my apparently non-standard fingerprints.
“Oh no! You have way too many cracks!she said with a genuine smile. “Honey, you’re too young to have hands that look like this. They should be smooth.”

One of my earliest memories of my mother was of her hands. Those slender fingers, with nails clipped short and unpolished, were never idle—from dawn to dusk they were engaged in selfless service, nurturing, loving, and assuring the well-being of family and friends. In the kitchen, her hands performed as “a chef’s most prized tools” as she used them to cut and mix, knead, shape and test for doneness.  As a nurse her hands gently caressed fevered cheeks, measuring with thermometric precision a patient’s temperature. She used those same hands to teach and guide, to labor, to wash and clean, to reprimand and to fold into prayer. Mama had the softest hands. I was never sure as to why or how because she didn’t use creams or lotions. It was an enigma. Every time her hands touched my face or in later years when I held her hand, her skin felt silky smooth as I would breathe in the scent of soap and lemon.  I expected those hands that had been through so much, to be rough, crooked and worn. But for some reason they were not. My mother had beautiful, soft, statuesque hands.

I often look at my own hands, so strikingly different in appearance to my mother’s.  My fingers are stretched wide apart like I’m palming a basketball. The knuckle on my ring finger appears larger than my ring. I am resigned to broken nails and creases, and the fact that I have arthritic hands, curl and knot my fingers like well-established plant roots. Alas, I do not have my mother’s hands.

Looking closely at hands, I see a series of milestones unspoken.  Hands, from the moment we are born have been the tools used to reach out, grab and embrace life. Hands have touched breasts and held onto newborns. They have caressed a lover, struck in fear or anger, brushed aside hair, wiped away tears. They have braced and caught falls. They’ve put food into mouths and clothes on backs. They’ve tied shoes, buttoned shirts, brushed teeth, and nursed scrapes and bruises. Fluffing, patting, retrieving, holding, writing, scratching, building, tearing down and soothing. Hands have trembled when forced to stand back to allow children their independence. They’ve been sticky and wet, bent and broken. Hands have tilled soil, reaped harvest, burned and dowsed fires and cleared snow. They’ve said hello in a hand shake and waved endless goodbyes sending sons and daughters to war. They’ve suffered blisters to raise brave youth. They’ve held riffles; been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They’ve been uneasy and clumsy. They’ve been pampered and manicured. They’ve been strong and they’ve been weak. Hands have shaken with clenched fists when boundaries have been pushed and injustices prevailed. From raking the yard to scrubbing floors, pulling weeds to changing tires, hands have moved through life fixing, cooking, nurturing, healing, for the comfort and safety of loved ones. Leathery, creased, silky or statuesque, hands have come together in applause, and folded together in prayer. There is life so beautiful in hands.

I realize that the world has its own idea of beauty and that it may have nothing to do with hands that serve. But my world has shown me that my hands (and “mutant” fingerprints), although strikingly different in shape, size and texture from my mother’s, will still carry the story of my work with me all the days of my life. Because in those creases and imperfections will exist a long and exquisite history of love that only mothers know.

Dedicated to ALL women who use the strength and power of their hands to mother all living things, and especially to mothers who are no longer of this world but there where they have been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.



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The Simple Life

The 40 days before Easter, better known as the Lenten period, is the time when we focus on simple living, prayer, and fasting in order to grow closer to God. For Christians, it is a bench test in changing our lifestyle and letting God change our hearts.   Easter and the Resurrection of Christ signify a renewal of our lives and a promise to reinvent ourselves….very much like Spring. Spring is the season that shouts out through nature that it is time to be a bud again, to revive oneself and bloom.  Like Easter, which reminds me that life is truly a constant beginning, a constant opportunity and a constant springtime, Spring sends a message that I can lighten the load, pack away what weighs me down (just like winter clothing) in exchange for the things that are less burdensome. It serves as a reminder to find meaning in living the simple life.

What does living a simple life mean? Does it mean getting rid of material things to make room for what I consider the nobler…relationships and friendship? Does it mean being more conscious of spending time instead of money in ways that will enrich my life and the lives of those around me? Does it mean living a life that isn’t defined by things I know won’t last? In other words, does it mean trading the material trappings — driving flashy cars, buying designer clothing, or the latest gadgets while attending every social event — for the freedom of creating less stress and becoming more resolute in the quality of relationships instead of quantity?

Is the ideology behind those actions enough to help me live a meaningful life? Because no matter how many closets I clean, it appears my struggle is less about deciding how much or how little stuff I have, and more about where I find my meaning in life.

At a recent panel discussion, a well versed speaker mentioned a quote by Joseph Campbell. “If you want to understand what’s most important to a society, don’t examine its art or literature, simply look at its biggest buildings.” In the early days of time, the biggest buildings in and around the cities were the places of worship, cathedrals, churches, synagogues, temples. By the 16th century, the biggest buildings in mid-city were political palaces of government. Today, the biggest/tallest buildings are office buildings and money market centers. It is the material that has the upper hand.

While I am convinced that, as human beings, it is our natural destiny to grow, to achieve and prosper, to succeed and amass, to find happiness in the immediacy, I also know that as individuals and as a society we want to positively impact and transform the world around us; to give meaning to our existence.  But we won’t find those things that give meaning by looking to either our “stuff” or lack of it. Sure, we can find meaning in our possessions, but one day they’ll be taken from us. We can find meaning in our external beauty, but one day we’ll lose it. We can find meaning in our immediate happiness, but one day we’ll be sad.

My intention is not to denigrate actions that are promoted by material possessions or abundance. Neither is it to promote minimalism that advocates a life of little. At one extreme, we are trying to define ourselves by iPhones, cars, homes, and disposables, while at the other, we’re trying to define ourselves by our own depth of contentment. But neither one alone is sufficient to ground me in a world of refugees, crises, cancer, famine, genocide, human trafficking, and…the list is endless.

I’ve come to the conclusion that simplicity isn’t just about less mindless and needless stuff;  It is about being present, being conscious of a world where nearly 1/2 of its population — more than 3 billion people — live on less than $2.50 a day, and more than 1.3 billion live in extreme poverty (less than $1.25 a day). It is about making a constant and conscious effort to renew myself in the face of changing circumstances and the evolving “biggest” buildings. Simplicity itself demands time, space, and room to question the depth of today’s envied, desired and coveted, trading them with loved, treasured and adored in the living and breathing. While there are plenty of signposts along the path directing us to make money and climb up the ladder of today’s tall buildings, there are almost no signposts except for Easter and Spring reminding us to renew ourselves and to stay connected to the simple things that make life grand, to reach out to others, to pause, to wonder, and to connect to that place from which everything is possible…The promise of new life in the Easter Resurrection of Christ, and the buds and blooms of Spring.


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Be Bold For Change

A trucker sits in a bar next to a feminist. They’ve both had a lot to drink and they’re arguing. The feminist says women have been oppressed for centuries — the trucker says they haven’t. The feminist says women deserve equal pay — the trucker says they don’t. The feminist says a woman should be president — the trucker just laughs. They simply don’t see eye to eye.

What’s the one thing the trucker and the feminist have in common?  

                                                                       They’re both men.                         

For more than a century, March is a time to celebrate and advocate for women. This year 2017, the International Women’s Day theme, “Be Bold For Change,” is tailor-made for a year that’s been quite turbulent. Women have demonstrated throughout history, their passion and courage in leading the march to gender equality, and we have seen a few men march at our sides, boldly raising their voices together with ours. It’s a no brainer that men’s presence in the movement for gender equality is vital. However, the number of men willing to step forward and take a public stand on behalf of women’s rights — to speak out, to raise awareness — is still simply too small in comparison to the coalition of women that has been forming and reforming for centuries. Why is it so complicated? After all, at its core, it’s about fairness, and real men are usually that. Fair. But the fact that men have historically been the recipients of the better deal in the gender divide seems to lessen their numbers. Where are all the other the real men, the thinking men, the fair men who get it? Where are those who understand that, whatever perks there may be in having their very own “assistant to life” actually works better when it’s shared. Men in 1848 got the idea. Thirty two passionate men joined the 68 women who signed the Declaration of Sentiments in a New York church in July of 1848. They knew that supporting women’s rights was essential for the moral soul and economic health of the nation.

Women have made great strides in the last few decades thanks to brave, bold, fearless and tenacious women and men. In Third World countries, giving micro-loans to women rather than husbands, has benefited these women’s families and in some cases their whole village. More women than men are graduating from college. Television and movie screens are depicting new role models for women, and just recently, commercials have included empowering girls and fighting domestic violence. Yet the work is far from over. Around the world there’s female genital mutilation, infanticide of girl babies, religions still teaching women are inferior helpmates who must submit to their husbands or hide their skin, pray at the back of the room, and wear slippers so even their footsteps are not heard. Women cannot drive or go out without male escorts in some countries. Even here in the United States, while women have desirable access to rights, recourse and resources relative to women in many parts of the world, we don’t live in a gender equitable society. We still have a lot of work to do to bring women into full equality so that they may reach their  reach their fullest potential without losing sight of their authenticity.  We have less than 20% of women in leadership positions in academia, corporations, religious institutions and politics. Women aren’t making equal pay as men for the same job earning an average of .77 cents for every dollar in comparable work. 1 in 5 women are sexually assaulted in college, and 1 in 3 will be penetrated against her will, and women’s basic reproductive rights are (still) contested, stripping her of whatever gains won over the past 50 years while men are still debating if rape is really rape.

“Be Bold For Change” is a cry for all men and women across the globe to fight for gender equality in their communities. As real fathers of daughters, men should share the vision of a world where every human being is equally respected. Men should share the vision of a world where women and daughters are protected, defended and nurtured. If we are ever to defeat the systems of oppression we are all subject to, men must be involved and must work together with women on these issues. Real men who get it understand that the world cannot move forward using only half of its resources. MEN, “Be Bold For Change.” Help forge a better working world — a more inclusive, gender equal world.


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Love is Family

140422-425x282-familyIt is February and among the many happenings globally, the one day that is commonly recognized worldwide is Valentine’s Day. Declarations of undying love, hearts that hope of promises, hearts that are lonely, revelations of broken hearts, separations, unions, in or out of love, February is the month when merchants sell 144 million cards, 35 million boxes of chocolate, and 320 million roses, generating nearly $20 billion in consumer spending contradicting the romantic notion that love is free. But I am not a cynic. I do believe that love is free. It starts with Family.

Family is where we learn the value of love, trust, hope, belief, cultures, traditions and all that in essence give depth and meaning to our lives. It is where we belong and from where our identity originates. It is those with whom we grew up and created a bond from our beginning years. It is those whom we talk to or reminisce about in our adult years. It is those whom we seek in our ending years.

I love family. I’ve come to realize I’ve always loved them. Perhaps it’s because I grew up surrounded by a family of relatives who were close knit and who never missed an opportunity to come together, share the table, tell stories, and give their opinion. My siblings and I, we were children then, just passing time while aunts and uncles came over for an evening or a Sunday lunch after church. Mama was a fine cook with a gourmet palate who could easily prepare meals that fed the standard 8, or on celebratory or festive occasions, 70 family members. Watching her and experiencing the family dynamics as children, we didn’t know we were building memories that were to become the most distilled and meaningful truth in our lives…learning that in the end when the trappings of life dissolve, all that is left is love. And we return to family because we live our lives in our families. The families we are born into, the families we create, the families we make through our choosing of friends. This is where we find meaning and this is where we define our purpose. Family is where we first experience love. It is where we first receive it and where we first give it.

As with any collection of people, family is not perfect. Members have their quirks, and like most folk, they may not always agree about things, but family is their foundation of strength.

At a recent gathering of peers, a young friend expressed that his family was in the midst of arguments with one another. Sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, cousins, parents, young and old were in disagreement and some were not on talking terms. Yet, in one of their darker moments, these were the people who came together because of a shared history of family, a long lasting relationship that held a bond with each other as they gathered around a remembrance celebration of their grandmother. I was amazed that even in their silence grown apart, together, their human souls manifested the family foundation of strength. With all their quirks, they were family.

Just yesterday, an acquaintance of mine shared a photo she had found of her young brother taken 47 years ago before he and the entire family would be separated. The brother passed away two years after the photo had been shot. A single photo, a memory of separation, refreshes a bond of love… a safe harbor in which to retreat. It revives and unites even in the silence of death.

I know of a grandmother whose heart was drawn and tugged toward a stranger sitting across the aisle of a crowded bus in a foreign city.  Both she and the stranger had felt an inexplicable fast vibration of their hearts. They had connected to find that they were long lost siblings separated fifty years ago. The heart knows. Family love vibrates.

Some families will thrive more than others. Some families may fail in their objectives, while others succeed. Some families are very close and get on famously well, while others lose touch. Regardless of the nature of your relationship with your inherited or chosen family members, they are an extension of you and the foundation of your strength in love. This Valentine’s Day, return to the family of people that first taught you what love is and feel your heart’s fast vibrations.  May they resonate across families of nations.

P.S. Some chocolate and flowers are always welcome!



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My Kindred Spirit

(Dedicated to sisters, daughters, and mothers)

“Friend” is the one word commonly used to describe everyone from acquaintances to intimates. It is a word we have to qualify with adjectives to explain the extent of friendship: school friends, work friends, old friends, casual friends, good friends, best friends, bosom friends. But this catch-all word, “friend,” doesn’t catch everything, especially when describing a truly close friend. What really defines a friend?

Women have defined a close friend as: someone who knows you in your silence, who accepts you as you are, understands you to the core; someone on whose trust and loyalty you can count, someone to have on your side; someone to share worries and secrets and the good stuff of life; someone who won’t dismiss or deceive you; someone who laughs and cries with you; someone you know in your heart would fight for you and someone you’d fight for. The desire for such deep friendship begins early in life.

Anne Frank, the famous young diarist of the 20th century, was said to have yearned for a close friend with whom to share her feelings when she and her family went into hiding to escape the Nazis. Deprived of that intimacy, she turned to her diary, making up Kitty her imaginary friend and writing letters chronicling life in the secret annex. “With them, she could laugh, cry, forget her isolation,” wrote biographer Melissa Muller.

In Anne of Green Gables, a children’s classic by L.M. Montgomery which was my daughter’s favorite, (alongside Little Women and A Secret Garden) the young heroine Anne is newly transplanted to Avonlea and is pining for a “bosom friend.” Anne confides her hope of finding “a kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I’ve dreamed of meeting her all my life.”

With that same yearning and inspired by Anne of Green Gables, throughout her elementary and secondary school years, my daughter would ask, “Who’s your kindred spirit Mommy?” I would answer that I didn’t think I had one, but that I enjoyed the company and friendship of many. “Everyone must have a bosom friend Mommy,” she exclaimed. Then, feeling sad for me, she would put her arm around me and say, “I’ll be your best bosom friend, your kindred spirit, Mommy.”

Flattered, I hugged and kissed her. But deep down inside I didn’t think that could be a reality. I was her mother; the authority figure. I was supposed to be parenting, not disclosing my emotional circuitry. No free-for-alls, no bargaining chips, no false praise or cheap feedback from this mother. I insisted on seat belts, I made sure she wore her jacket, I worried about melanoma. I warned, I toughened the love, I corrected mistakes. The Flu, insecurity, precocious puberty. I read notes found in pockets (secretly), I skimmed journals, felt her heart break. Mine bled. She had grit with a soft heart. So did I. I asked the hard questions. I hugged. I expected hard answers.  I soothed, I monitored, I stepped in, I receded. I was mothering with no room for confiding my inmost soul.

In High School, again she asked, “Who’s your best friend Mama?’ Again, I replied that I didn’t have one best friend but many who defined me and I them. It was a mutual relationship; a symbiosis of sorts. Years passed. Colleges, universities, spouse, children, new friends and old rolled through her life. My daughter never again asked me if I had a best friend. She didn’t have to. She knew.  I’d met her all her life.

**My best friend wishes for me to be more than I can dream for myself, the one who pushes me to pass my own expectations. Some days she is my anchor in the storm, and other days just the storm, but her unconditional love and acceptance make me challenge myself and chase a few rainbows. She is one I admire. Unpretentious, she is the quiet hero who marches head-on into uncertain moments, adapting as circumstances demand. She has grit and a soft heart. She loves intuitively, openly, fearlessly. She is genuine. She listens. She knows and understands when and what bothers me and she knows what makes me smile or frown. She can decode every line on my brow, every quiver in my voice or glint in my eyes. My best friend knows I love her, and that’s enough for her. She knows I’ve got her back. Of course I have. I’m her mother, her kindred spirit.**


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I Pray

happy-new-year-2017-png-55-2I pray. Sometimes, I systematically utter the Lord’s Prayer under my breath, barely audible, in between thoughts. At times I recite the words at the beginning or end of a thought when I just can’t put into words the happenings or emotions that accompany my existence in what I truly believe is a wonderful life. I, like many of you, experience moments of joy, pain, alone or shared, with laughter and tears. I sum up those moments to life’s long river winding and bending farther than the eye can see with twists that catch me unaware. And on the twisting path, I flow like water gathering stones, rocks, pebbles and sometimes debris only to deposit them in the course of my journey, carrying with me the sediment of lessons learned and wisdom gained. Yet, in all this splendor, I have days when the horrors of the world leave me in a conundrum.  I see violence becoming run-of-the-mill mundane; I hear people becoming more self-serving. Sometimes, I fear that every ounce of coveted humanity is being lost to iniquities.  But I will not allow my own anxieties to stifle the truth of my beliefs. And with each passing day my prayers seem to come often and regularly, not so much from duty, but from realizing my dependence on God in every aspect of my life.

I know prayer is not magic. It is not a guarantee against suffering. It does not make demands. I pray with conviction because I believe no matter what the circumstances, I function best when I am in relationship with God available to me through prayer. Prayer is for my benefit, not God’s.

This is what it’s like to believe: it means to be confident of much and yet to remain unsure of much. It is to know that God is real and yet it is also to wonder, frequently, what God’s purposes are. It is to be sure that prayer prayed according to the will of God will be answered, and yet to be constantly aware that neither I nor my prayers are in control of the answers. I do not have all the answers. But I know the one who does.

I pray. I pray believing that prayer can have a positive influence on the world and the people in it. I pray that we are moved beyond the limits of our humanity. That we give and love purely and without limitations. That we invite our souls to transform and heal the scars of an embattled world. Because deep inside, my heart still believes in humanity. My heart believes in a good fight against wrong, standing firm and holding onto the power from above. My heart believes in the beauty of the earth and the blessings of the Divine.  My heart believes in life, its sanctity and our purpose in it. My heart believes in the all-encompassing Presence above, beneath, around and beyond, and most importantly, within.  My heart believes in prayer.

This Season, what do I want most in this world. What will I ask? What will I ask in prayer from that place of within, that place of silence where I meet with the Everything that is? I pray.

That we be guided by our gifts and use them to the benefit of others. That our gifts be at work in the world as they come soaring out of our very souls and find easy expression in the things we do and love best. That we embrace them, celebrate them, use them to look after each other’s interests, to help other people be freer from pain and fear, and to contribute to the happiness of others. Because ultimately, being kind to others is being kind to yourself.


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