When the First Continental Congress met in 1774, the men started bickering within two days, so someone made a motion to open the sessions in prayer. John Adams said it had a remarkable affect, according to a new book, “Forged in Faith,” by Rod Gragg. Describing his work as “a survey of America from the colonization of Jamestown in 1607 to the creation of The Declaration of Independence in 1776, the author said: “Faith shaped the birth of our nation.” America really was forged in faith.
“Colonial Americans did not want a national religion like The Church of England,” Gragg emphasized during a TV interview this morning, “but they wanted the Constitution to reflect biblical laws and values and for Americans to have freedom of faith.”
Although Thomas Jefferson was an unorthodox thinker, he always claimed to be a Christian, Gragg noted. Interestingly, when his Congressional colleagues asked him to design a new national seal (to stop his complaining every time one of his words was changed in The Declaration of Independence), Jefferson’s design depicted the biblical image of the children of Israel leaving Egypt. Although the seal wasn’t used, the theme revealed the Judeo-Christian faith that gave rise to our great nation.
As we approach the 234th birthday of our incredible country, I propose that our esteemed Congress take a leaf from our Founding Fathers, stop bickering and grandstanding on both sides of the aisle and open its sessions in prayer. It doesn’t matter who anyone prays to, or even if he or she prays at all. What matters is that the men and women who represent us all look beyond themselves to keep America beautiful–from sea to shining sea.
I can't flip the photo for some reason, so please tilt your head
When I was recently walking through one of the busiest intersections of Manhattan—the corner of 60
Street and Fifth Avenue—I did something few New Yorkers usually do: I stopped to take a look around me, instead of rushing blindly to my next appointment. There, right near the southern entrance to Central Park, stood a giant, colorful metal sculpture. It reminded me of a monster ribbon.
It was a happy sight. Tourists were taking pictures of it, kids were crawling over, under and on top of it and I was smiling at it. I couldn’t find any information about the piece, even when I Googled it, but that doesn’t matter. It’s delightful.
I decided right then and there that I have to spend more time looking at my own city. Too often, we are so swept up in our day-to-day lives that we can’t see the sculpture through the trees, so to speak.
Parisians rush past the Eiffel Tower and The Seine; Londoners don’t give a moment’s notice to Big Ben and Venetians don’t marvel at their canals. The Empire State Building is just another building when I’m walking past it.
And what about all the lesser know, but not less captivating, pieces of my city? How often do I take it all for granted?
I love my home. It’s helped shaped me into the FOF woman I am. It deserves more than a passing glance.
When I saw Patty Duke and Anne Bancroft in The Miracle Worker on Broadway in 1962 (I was 15), I could not stop thinking about Helen Keller. I still remember the scene where Annie Sullivan persistently held one of Helen’s little hands under a water pump and wrote out the word “water” in the other, as she tried to teach the child the meaning of the word. When Helen, left deaf and blind by a childhood illness, grasped what Annie was doing, and slowly started to utter “wah,” my heart felt as if it would leap from my chest.
People like Annie Sullivan are the greatest people in the world. Wonderful teachers are inspiring. Those who choose to teach under extreme circumstances are in a class by themselves. Their patience, persistence and passion are humbling.
My FOF friend, Mary Brooks, is involved with Clausen House in Oakland, CA, which helps people with developmental disabilities to live, work and serve in the community. Choreographer and Cal State professor, Eric Kupers, through his program Dance for All Bodies and Abilities, teaches modern dance and improvisation to many in the Clausen House community. Participants learn self-expression and communication; it also promotes psychological healing.
Mary sent me a DVD of a performance. It was beautiful. One of the dancers was in a wheel chair and reminded me of a character in the hit TV show, Glee.
I am sick and tired of seeing photos and articles celebrating the looks of FOF actresses. Why shouldn’t they look great? Do they turn into beasts when the clock strikes fifty? Do they lose their style and talent (assuming they have either)? Do they shrivel up and die?
FOF women all look great, whoever and wherever we are and whatever we’re doing—doctoring, teaching, sitting on the Supreme Court, painting, writing, selling, managing, building houses, building companies or taking care of our families.
It takes a lot of work to keep up those perky breasts, tone those arms, flatten that stomach and smooth that skin, but it takes a great deal more to have soul, strength, stamina and style. FOF women the world over have all that, and more.
It’s painful to see our vacuous media continue to define us by how we look on the outside. I am thrilled when women like Kathy Bates and Helen Mirren bare their less-than-glam butts and breasts.
When a reporter asked Helen Mirren if she felt that people were upset because she’s willing to flaunt her body at an age beyond the Hollywood norm, she quietly replied, “Well, too bad,” cracked a knowing smile and started to laugh.
“Habit converts luxurious enjoyments into dull and daily necessities.” –Aldous Huxley
Uncle Normie and aunt Helen dined at the same restaurant every single night for years; my sister Shelley and her husband, Rusty, spent their anniversary weekend at the same hotel for a decade; my husband, David, wouldn’t stop using the same tailoring shop to make his custom sports jackets, even when a new owner took over who did dreadful work, and my former mother-in-law, Gerry, wore her hair in exactly the same style (pulled off her face in a bun at the nape of neck) her entire adult life.
I love traditions, but habits can be, well, habit forming. Traditions are warm, reassuring, comfortable and usually loving. I get it that change can be disquieting, filled with anxiety and maybe even paralyzing. But breaking habits–even those that aren’t toxic, like smoking and drinking four martinis every night–can be refreshing, releasing and rewarding.
“Where are you going on vacation this summer?” I asked the handsome young man from Zurich who was applying permanent makeup to my lips and eyes.
“To Calabria, Italy, and Monaco,” he replied. “We go to the same places every year.”
“Where do you stay?”
“At different hotels every time we go. We research places we think we’ll like and if we don’t like them when we get there, we leave and go somewhere else.” His philosophy? Variety is the spice of life. “If we love a hotel, we think we could love another one even more,” he told me. What a cool attitude.
I’m proud of myself for kicking some pretty bad habits (inhaling two packs plus of cigarettes a day, for example) and I’d like to kick some more (eating the icing off cupcakes in the middle of the night). But like my friend from Zurich, I try not to make a habit of too many habits, even nice habits.
So when I walk Rigby I take a different route every day.
A former producer at a local New York news station has filed an age discrimination suit, claiming the station wanted to replace experienced anchor people with cheaper, younger talent. Notice I said cheaper and younger, because TV executives apparently believe “prettier” people are more appealing to audiences, and younger equals prettier.
Someone needs to tell these geniuses that the reason no one is watching the local news has less to do with who’s delivering it than with how they’re delivering it–and what exactly they’re delivering. As TV advertising revenue has declined and staffs are sliced, diced and chopped all over the place–from writers and camera crews to producers–the medium has lost imagination, not to mention urgency and relevance.
Tired and old are not the same thing. TV news is tired. Even if Angelina Jolie, Julia Roberts, Matt Damon and Leonardo DiCaprio tag teamed to deliver it, it would still be old.
Think about this: Larry King’s ratings are dropping, not because Larry’s old but because his style and substance are tired. Betty White’s style and substance, on the other hand, never got tired. When someone asked Andy Rooney recently when he’s retiring, he answered, “Ask me when I’m dying.”
Life is about energy, enthusiasm, passion, new ideas and new challenges. Fresh, young faces are irresistible, but without the rest, they start to look tired pretty quickly.
The music was so loud, I could barely hear myself think in the Steve Madden shop where I was trying on a pair of cute shoes. And it wasn’t Mozart. “How can you stand it?” I asked the twenty something salesgirl at the register. “I don’t even hear it anymore,” she said. If she works there for for much longer she literally won’t hear this Madden(ing) Music, or anything else, because she is going to go deaf.
My nephew’s girlfriend worked for another fashion retailer that blared the music at deafening levels. She quit. Smart girl.
Sylvia, my FOF friend, complained about intrusive music in yet another shop. “Do you think it’s our age?” she asked me and another friend, Terry.
“I thought we were supposed to get hard of hearing,” I laughed.
“I read something about loud music making you buy more,” Terry added.
My Lord. This world is going crazy. Perhaps every one of the retail executives who decides to employ this noise attack should first be forced to sit alone in a room for 24 hours with non-stop music. And I don’t mean Mozart.
“They have wonderful dispositions. They don’t throw tantrums at all, ” said my FOF friend about her three-year old twin grandsons. We’d all love to have tantrum-free children, except my pal’s grandsons have something we don’t want any children to have: Autism.
The boys’ condition was diagnosed earlier this year and now they undergo hours and hours of therapy every week and will, understandably, attend a special school. “They don’t talk but they’re learning to point. I feel worst for my son, that he has to go through all of this. He is so worried that they won’t stay happy once they become more aware of their surroundings,” my friend said.
Most parents completely agree with the adage, “You’re only as happy as your unhappiest child.” Every single one of us would trade our child’s pain for our own.
It is ironic that the autistic twins are happy in their own worlds, yet the people who love them are suffering emotionally.
We all want to take away the suffering of those we love, but often the best we can do is to make it a bit more bearable. I have great admiration for my friend’s attitude and practical approach to her son’s ordeal. No doubt, it will be a long one. She helped him locate the resources he needs to care for his children. She spends lots of time with him and his family. She is an emotional support.
The love between parent and child is indescribable. It’s indescribable, indestructible, and indispensable.
I got to where I am, personally and professionally, because someone or something helped me…
…a co-worker who took the time to critique stories I wrote; a boss who never stopped teaching me how to be a great salesperson; an ex-husband who let me cry on his shoulder for hours about my love life; a therapist who steered me towards more self-awareness; a book that walked me through the first stages of motherhood; sisters who never stopped liking me, even when I wasn’t very likable.
It is our obligation to pay it forward and help whoever we can, whenever we can, I believe. I emailed a FOF member who lost her daughter two years ago: “I was heartbroken to read your email about the loss of your daughter. I wish there was something I could do or say to lessen your heartache. If you ever want a ‘pen pal,’ please drop me an email.”
It was a small gesture, but I meant it, and yesterday I received a wonderful email from my FOF friend telling me how she’s doing. “Thank you for letting me talk a little about myself, my giant step forward on this path to a new life…” she wrote.
I brainstormed with two other FOF friends who are starting their own businesses and wanted my advice. “Thank you so much for taking the time out of your afternoon yesterday to talk with me,” one of them emailed. “I have to say you have such great energy and your willingness to share and brainstorm is contagious.”
Another FOF friend has a marvelous idea for a screenplay and she asked if I’d connect her with someone in the business, which I did.
I adore getting thanks, but that’s not the reason I help.
No matter how much experience we have, we can always benefit, and grow, from others’ connections, expertise and compassion. I know people are there for me and I will always be there for them.
Last year, a mass in my groin suddenly appeared. Within 24 hours, I visited my dermatologist and internist and had a sonogram. A hernia was ruled out, but no one knew for sure what it was, so I was advised to go to a cancer surgeon. By the time I saw the surgeon, a few days later, I had decided I had lymphoma and would probably die. He, too, couldn’t make a firm diagnosis, so we scheduled surgery.
I was apprehensive, for sure, but I was formulating my plan of action. I’d do everything I could to take care of my problem. I wouldn’t tell my kids until I absolutely had to since I didn’t think it was necessary for them to suffer, too. I’d also continue working, provided I was up to it.
I am not overly brave or selfless but I needed to have a plan of action so I could avoid having an illness take control of me. Even if disease stinks, I wouldn’t want it consume me mentally. Physically is bad enough.
My sister’s FOF colleague had Stage IV colorectal cancer and worked until the weekend she died. A fellow parent had ovarian cancer, over 25 years ago, when our kids were in Pre-K. She didn’t let it get her down and was there for her daughter as long as she could hold her head up. My former mother-in-law had serious pulmonary disease in her eighties but did everything she could to live as normally as possible. No one bitched and complained, “Why me?”
Why not me?
Turns out my groin mass was nothing at all. Whether it was a permanent reprieve or a dress rehearsal, it gave me a chance to reflect on my life. I want to love it with every breath I take.
