Have You Seen the Pale Blue Dot?

My son has a small round tattoo on his arm. I asked him about it and he told me it was "the pale blue dot." Many of you may already know what that dot is all about. I didn't. But this is what I have learned: 

The pale blue dot appears in a photograph of the Earth taken on February 14, 1990. The Earth appears as a barely visible blue speck in the dark space of the Universe. The photo was taken by the Voyager 1 space probe from a record distance of about 6 billion kilometers (3.7 billion miles) as the space craft was leaving the solar system.  

At the suggestion of astronomer Carl Sagan, NASA turned Voyager I's camera around and took one last photograph of Earth across a vast expanse of space. Later, Sagan wrote a book called The Pale Blue Dot, in which he said:

"From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it's different. Consider again that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

"The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity – in all this vastness – there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

"The Earth is the only world known, so far, to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment, the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.— Carl Sagan, Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space

Of Orchids and Oranges

One day when my son was younger, he was eating a sliced orange and out of nowhere he said, “Seeing an orange like this convinces me there is a God.”

I was a bit shocked, in a pleasant way, by his observation. I told him I agreed, but we didn’t go on to have a deep philosophical or religious discussion. There was no need to. He had captured one of life’s little miracles and that was that.

I thought about that comment this morning as I stared into the heart of my pink orchid, which finally bloomed a day ago. I love the very center of the flower.

I marvel at its mysterious structure. To me, it looks as though the orchid has two curved “arms” that reach right out of the blossom, offering up the flower’s unique beauty and architecture.

So here  I have written 139 words trying to capture the flower’s miracle whereas my son did the same thing with the orange in eleven.

Enough said.

What a Mensch Merrick Garland Is!

Is anyone else awed by Merrick Garland -- the man President Obama has nominated to fill the  Supreme Court vacancy left by the death of Antonin Scalia?

I listened to NPR 's coverage while driving to the airport yesterday morning. The President's description of Judge Garland's record and accomplishments was so impressive.

Such a brilliant mind. Such an amazing career. Such a devoted husband and father.

Oh, yeah and what else? For 20 years, Judge Garland has managed to find time to tutor second, third and fourth graders in Northeast DC in reading and math!

Judge Garland is also a man who can freely share his heart and soul in public.

After Obama's introduction, when Garland began speaking, it was clear to me from his gravelly voice that he was barely able to hold it together.

When he said that his mother was sitting at home watching TV and crying her eyes out, I got all choked up. And when he said "I only wish that we hadn't taught my older daughter to be so adventurous that she would be hiking in the mountains, out of cell-service range, when the President called," I imagined Garland answering Obama's phone call. That's when goosebumps shivered up my arms and legs. (OK, OK, I know very well that I am what my husband calls a "smush." :)

Whatever the outcome of the nomination process (and I sadly expect that the Republicans will do what they have promised and sit on their fat a----s refusing to act on the nomination), I am so happy that the President chose to introduce us to this wonderful man, who is both a highly respected judge AND the kind of guy you would love to invite over to a backyard barbecue or a Friday night Shabbat dinner. 

In Yiddish, there is a word for a person who is good and honorable and special in all sorts of big and little ways. We call that person a "mensch," and Judge Garland, that moniker fits you to a T. Now, if only we could work some magic on your behalf and see you sitting where you belong, there on the Supreme Court bench!

   

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Hillary, Come Meditate With Me!!

This may sound crazy but I think Hillary Clinton needs to meditate.

Watching her speak last night after winning Mississippi, it occurred to me for about the 200th time that she talks and talks and talks but never catches fire the way Bernie does. It's gotten to the point that when she is giving a speech on TV, I close my eyes. I can't stand to see how prune-faced she can look. I can't bear to see her as she was last night, with a kind of schoolmarm attitude, not smiling at all, practically scowling while she spoke.

What Hillary needs is a crash course in authenticity. She needs to step onto that stage and demonstrate both how vulnerable she is, but also how incredibly strong and capable she is (and she is both!) She needs to speak from the heart and really sound like she is doing it! She needs to smile (the way she does off-stage.) She needs to demonstrate that kind of Bill and Barack passion that grabs you and won't let you go. (Yeah, so, we know, Bernie has a lot to teach her.)

Back in 2000 when she was running for the U.S. Senate from New York, I met her at a press conference on prescription drug prices that she was holding with seniors in NYC.  I'll never forget: she wore a bright sunflower power suit,

and after the press conference she stood speaking to a cluster of seniors. Two things amazed me: how warm a person she is when you are one-on-one with her. And two, how she was able within just a few minutes to memorize all of the seniors' first names! She spoke to them with great passion about an issue which was very close to the seniors' hearts.

Fast forward 16 years. She still cares about seniors. She still has the right positions on so many of the issues. But can she convince us that her presidency won't be business as usual? Can we be convinced that she won't balance her convictions against the whopping influences of corporations donating to her election campaigns?

Ok so why should Hillary meditate? Because it is in meditation

that I have gotten some of my most profound insights. It is in meditation that  practitioners often receive insights and inspirations that percolate from deep in the subconsciousness.  I bet if she took an entire day (better yet, a week) to meditate, she might find her soul speaking in a whole new way. She might be able to tap into a whole new source of authentic power that meditation often gives you.

And maybe too, in meditation -- slowing down, breathing deep, over and over again -- she might keep from making costly mistakes. Mistakes like the gaffe attacking Bernie for not supporting the auto industry bailout in Detroit. That was just plain dumb, and she should have thought before she spoke. Maybe meditation will make her a bit more self-reflective. Finally, maybe by meditating she lets go of just a smidge of her GIANT PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE EGO. She will come to see that it is our ego that separates us; it is our ego that makes fearful and grasping and proud and swaggering.

Maybe she will see that what draws people to Bernie is in part because he isn't thrusting himself forward; his is a campaign that steams ahead collecting the energy of revved up crowds invested in "revolution."

Well, so I know a lot of great meditation teachers, and should the impossible happen (she would read this and agree), I would  be delighted to make the connection. But no, I won't expect a phone call, a text message or a tweet. Maybe I will just meditate it on the idea.

P.S. If you watched last night's Democratic debate in Miami, Hillary was smiling and looking more relaxed. Hey, so maybe she DID meditate! When asked how she felt about the fact that 37 percent of Americans don't think she's honest, she replied: 

“Obviously, it’s painful for me to hear that. I am not a natural politician, in case you haven’t noticed, like my husband or President Obama,” she added. “I just have to do the best I can” and “hope that people see that I am fighting for them.” A great answer. Honest. Forthright. Speaking from the heart! She is showing both her vulnerability and her determination to do the right thing!

Together, the Clinton and Sanders Narratives Tell the Story of Progressivism

By Richard Kirsch

After Hillary Clinton delivered her Super Tuesday victory speech, Van Jones said on CNN that his Twitter feed was full of people saying that she had stolen Bernie Sanders's message. But that was only half-true. While Clinton is incorporating more of Sanders's progressive populism, her campaign narrative is in the best tradition of American liberalism.

Taken together, the core stories that Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders are telling in their campaigns bring together the two main themes in liberal and progressive political discourse in America. They are telling a story that includes both driving ideas: our fundamental shared interest and our insistence that society should work for the vast majority, not powerful elites. Where the candidates diverge is where they put the emphasis in their narratives.

After Clinton's first campaign message--that she was a progressive who could get things done--bombed, she finally developed a powerful campaign story. She began her Super Tuesday victory speech saying, "You know all across our country today they, Democrats, voted to break down barriers so we can all rise together."

But then she quickly pivoted to Sanders's campaign message: "Because this country belongs to all of us, not just those at the top."

The rest of Clinton's speech was framed around breaking down barriers that block people from fulfilling their own potential and participating in the America promise: "Instead of building walls we're going to break down barriers and build ladders of opportunity and empowerment so every American can live up to his or her potential, because then and only then can America live up to its full potential too."

Even when she returned to Sanders's ground of progressive populism, she extended the olive branch of togetherness. This section from her speech captures how she combines the two:

[W]e're all in this together, my friends, and we all have to do our part. But unfortunately, too many of those with the most wealth and the most power in this country today seem to have forgotten that basic truth about America. ... Now I'm not interested in condemning whole categories of people or businesses... So let there be no doubt, if you cheat your employees, exploit consumers, pollute our environment or rip off the taxpayers, we're going to hold you accountable. But, if you do the right thing, if you invest in your workers, and in America's future then we'll stand with you.

Sanders, of course, does not soft peddle his attacks on corporate greed and its exploitation of working people and hijacking of our democracy. But the power of his campaign comes not just from anger at the powerful but in the hope for a more inclusive economy and democracy. As he said at the beginning of his victory speech in New Hampshire, "the government of our great country belongs to all of the people and not just a handful of wealthy campaign contributors, and their Super PACs." And in concluding that same speech, "Together we are going to createan economy that works for all of us, not just the 1%."

While the energy of Sanders's speeches is based in progressive populism, the tone of his two most recognized campaign ads is in the spirit of Clinton's inclusive vision of the American promise. "America," Sanders's instantly iconic ad, includes gauzy images of diverse, working and middle-class Americans to the tune of Simon and Garfunkel's refrain "They've all come to look for America."

Sanders's other powerful ad, "Together," begins sounding like the new Clinton: "Our job is not to divide. Our job is to bring people together." Its images literally bring diverse faces together. Its narrative rejects division and focuses instead on our common humanity: "When we stand together--white and Black and Hispanic, gay and straight and woman and man." It then returns to the Sanders version of togetherness, contrasting this with the dominance of the powerful. "When we stand together and demand that this country works for all of us, not just the few,we will transform America."

The divergence in emphasis between Clinton and Sanders is seen in the differences in the constituencies that respond most to each. Sanders's populism, along with his bold, transformative agenda, are reaching young people, progressive activists, and white working class voters. Clinton's call for breaking down barriers speaks powerfully to Blacks, Hispanics, and older women. And her moderated populism is more comfortable for Democrats with higher incomes and seniors.

In the best of worlds, the two narratives would come together. Sanders would learn from Clinton to talk about breaking down barriers that are much deeper than economic inequality. Clinton would stop apologizing for her populism and start linking the theft of our democracy with the ransacking of our economy.

Having said that, the good news is that Democrats are finally getting close to a shared narrative--a powerful, values-based story about their core beliefs. Underlying both progressive populism and the liberal idea of breaking down barriers is the progressive meta-narrative, "We all do better when we all do better." This is both a statement of values and of how society works. It is an understanding that when each of us can care for and support our families, when all of us realize our full potential to participate in society, we build thriving communities and drive the economy forward.

Clinton summarized this at the top of her speech: "America prospers when we all prosper. America is strong when we're all strong." Building an economy that works for all of us is a concept that is central to every one of Sanders's policy proposals. It is a story that can reshape what is possible in American politics.

Richard Kirsch is director of a new organization called Our Story, aimed at helping progressives express their core political beliefs. This post originally ran in the Huffington Post.

A Sad Goodbye to Our Parent's Home

It happens to every family at some point: an aging parent dies and then a home of decades has to be disassembled - but like so many things in life, you never really think it will happen to you until it does. For my siblings and me, the task of emptying 152 Sampson Parkway in Pittsfield MA has been gargantuan and heartbreaking and seemingly endless.

Sunday was one of the worst days of my 63 years of life. To see my mom and dad"s home go from being gorgeous and warm and welcoming and spotless to a total shit pit with huge piles of garbage everywhere you turned was brutally hard. I'm starting to cry because this is so difficult to think and write about.

Mom and Dad, I'm really sorry that your house ended up looking like it did on Sunday. But it had to be done and we all pitched in and did it.

It was so hard to watch my sister Karen work for 2 1/2 hours straight without once stopping  for a glass of water sweeping up piles of sawdust in the basement. That was the same basement where Dad had all of his woodworking tools. So many years and so many projects - so much of dad's heart and soul were in those endless jars of nails and pieces of wood. It was so hard to watch my sister Holly spend weeks sorting through dishes and towels and sheets and blankets and tons of other stuff.

Emptying mom's cabinets and her refrigerator was a killer. And it was so awful watching the movers take her dining room table out the door. We had so many amazing family meals at that table! There will be no more of Dee's pot roasts or apple pies or spaghetti and raisin meatballs. No more of her mouthwatering breads and desserts. Mom fed us so much love in all of the food she cooked in her 89 years of life.

I will never forget last Friday when I found dad in his hat and coat going from one room to the next doing what he called his final "pass through" -- saying goodbye to the house he really didn't want to leave. My endlessly strong dad was crying and I was trying to hold it together for him. I will never forget walking him down the sidewalk and helping him into my brother's car. As I kissed him goodbye he was crying and so was I.

We are all hoping that Dad enjoys his new apartment in Easthampton MA. We hope he makes a lot of friends there! We hope he adjusts to the un-Dee like food!

One big apology: At one point in the basement Sunday afternoon when I realized that there was still another room that had to be emptied I went berserk. I started yelling at you for collecting sooooo much crap and leaving it to us to shovel out. I started throwing things off the shelves into a huge and horrifying heap in the middle of the floor.

Inside I was crying already missing you both. 

Thank you Mom and Dad for being such wonderful parents. Thank you for making a beautiful home for us for so many years. I'm going to remember your house the way it was just a few weeks ago before you sold. I know the pain of packing up and moving out will fade. And my sibs and I will remember 152 Sampson for all the good times and the wonderful days we spent there.

WELCOME A GRAY DAY

One
morning
you stare
outside the
window
at the
gray ice dripping in
blips and blops

onto the brown lawn
and you think "My God, this has to be
the worst weather in all the world,"
and as soon as you think that,
you go WOAHHHHHHHH
you stop
and think
be grateful
for this water
that falls
so freely
and
plentifully
from
the heavens
so many people
in so many places are
dying of thirst and
drought.

There was a news story not long ago about some poor rural communities not far from Los Angeles where there is no groundwater at all, water has to be delivered by truck, each family faces such severe restrictions and has so few gallons a month that among other things they re-use dirty gray dish water to bathe.

Just
say
thanks
and stay in
gratitude
and
close
your
eyes
and
picture
the green
spring
that
awaits us
picture
those
lush
and
splendid
tulips
that
you are
fortunate
enough
to grow.

IN YOUR HEART

BREATHING LOVE

IMAGINE IT STARTING AT THE BASE OF YOUR SPINE.

FEEL THE WAY THE BREATH RISES SLOWLY,

ALL THE WAY UP YOUR BACK

TO

YOUR CROWN.

STOP FOR A MOMENT. 

WATCH THE BREATH GLOWING THERE

IN WHATEVER COLOR YOU CHOOSE.

NOW  SEE THE BREATH

AS IT DROPS SLOWLY

SLOWLY DESCENDING

THROUGH YOUR FOREHEAD AND

YOUR NOSE AND CHIN AND DOWN

INTO YOUR HEART, WHERE THE LIGHT OF THE BREATH

GROWS BRIGHTER AND BRIGHTER.

THE GLOWNG LIGHT TURNS AND TURNS 

INTO A SOFT FLAME

THAT CARESSES YOU WITH LOVE

AS YOU BREATHE IN

AND OUT

KEEP BRINGING

MORE ATTENTION

BACK TO THE HEART

BACK TO THE LIGHT

BACK TO WHERE YOU ARE

IMMERSED IN ALL THE LOVE

YOU CAN POSSIBLY FEEL.

An Open Letter to Serena Williams

Last weekend, German Tennis Star Angelique Kerber defeated Serena Williams 

to win the Australian Open. 

By Dr. Mel Waldman

Dear Serena Williams:

During the 2016 Australian Open, a mammoth snowstorm swept across the U.S.A. The deep snow covered New York City while you and the other players played in the sprawling heat of the Australian summer. And with the 16-hour time difference, I often watched matches in the middle of the night throughout the 2-week period.

You see, I am an aficionado of tennis. Although I haven’t played tennis since the early nineties, and in my heyday was only an adept amateur player, I am now a passionate voyeur. My hungry eyes swallow the rapid sweeping movements of the tennis balls and the cheetah-like motion of the players. I taste and breathe the sultry landscape of the game. Indeed, I devour tennis as if it were my Last Supper.

And I thank you and your sister Venus for feeding American women’s tennis with female power, intelligence, and grace and transforming the game into a transcendent sport and art. I am thankful and joyous.

For most of your 2016 Australian Open, you played at the top of your game and were in the zone. The night before your final, I drank soothing sizzling hot coffee at a Brooklyn Dunkin’ Donuts and told my friends, “I believe Serena Williams is the greatest female tennis player of all time.” One of my friends disagreed and we got into a passionate debate. An hour later, neither one of us changed his opinion. We agreed to disagree and wished each other well.

The day of the final I thought about the 2015 U.S. Open and how Roberta Vinci had defeated you in the semifinals. This loss had not changed my perception of you. Your outstanding record speaks for itself. You have nothing to prove to me or any other human being. Great players have bad days too. On any given day, anything is possible.

The night of the final, my wife Michelle, a long-time fan of yours, told me she’d watch the second half of the match. “I want to see Serena win. Tell me when she’s winning. I’ll watch her win and get her trophy.”

I turned the TV on at 3 A.M. The match started about 3:30 A.M. I watched the match alone. During the 1^st set, I became concerned. But after you lost the 1^st set, you won the 2^nd. “Serena won the 2^nd set,” I cried out. “Wonderful!” my wife shouted from the bathroom.

Serena’s in the zone, I thought. But then you struggled in the 3^rd set and Angelique Kerber

won the Australian Open.

“Serena lost, Michelle,” I said mournfully.

“Oh, no!” she said with disbelief.

During the trophy presentation, you were gracious and generous toward Angelique.

Before going to bed, my wife said, “Serena’s a great champ and a beautiful person.”

I stayed up for a few hours and thought about the final. Now, days later, I am writing this letter. Why? This is my gift to you, Serena Williams, the greatest female tennis player of all time.

I have created a short spiritual and psychological guide to your winning your 22^nd Grand Slam singles title and tying Steffi Graf’s record. Please read and enjoy.

1. THINK, FEEL, AND VISUALIZE THE END YOU WISH TO ACHIEVE IN A TOTAL, HOLISTIC EXPERIENCE.

Begin at the end and imagine it is a reality now. Everyday, summon all the sensory memories of the 21 Grand Slam finals you won. In your creative mind, re-experience and relive the thoughts, emotions, sensations, and spirituality of joy and success. Hold and caress your 21 Grand Slam singles titles trophies. Ask your team to help you recall and evoke the reality of winning the final.

2. CONNECT TO THE SOURCE OF ALL LIFE.

Everyday, find a quiet place and meditate in silence. Empty your mind of all negative thoughts and emotions. Rediscover a place of serenity. Think, feel, and visualize holistic memories and sensory images of beauty, love, and peace. Let go and immerse yourself in this beautiful place of serenity. Return to this place in your mind as often as possible.

3. CHOOSE A MANTRA.

It is a soothing sound, word, or phrase that is repeated by someone meditating or praying. A mantra connects you to the Source of all life. (OM is an example of a mantra.)

4. AFFIRM AND FEEL YOUR TRUE IDENTITY.

Everyday, immerse yourself in I AM.

I AM beautiful.

I AM loving. .

I AM joyous.

I AM peaceful.

I AM blessed.

I AM powerful.

I AM free.

I AM one with the Source of all life.

Create I AM statements of positive thoughts and emotions. Think and feel and fully experience your I AM Identity.

5. UNITE POWER AND LOVE IN YOUR MIND when playing tennis in the Grand Slam Final.

In my poem about Andrea Jaeger entitled The Habit of Love, I wrote, “What is the spiritual flow of a tennis ball rushing at you at 100+ miles per hour?” Former tennis champ Andrea Jaeger became Sister Andrea Jaeger, a Dominican nun in the Episcopal Church. At 16, she was Number 2 in the world. At 19, her career was over after having 7 surgeries. She didn’t want to be Number 1 because she could not find love and compassion in tennis. She turned to the Church to express and fulfill her love.

Yet I believe that a dialectical union of power and love is possible and necessary for ultimate success. When you return to the finals, imagine you are in a place of serenity, an inner landscape of peace and love, and your game will flow naturally. You will be powerful and triumphant.

6. REPLACE NEGATIVE THOUGHTS AND EMOTIONS WITH POSITIVE THOUGHTS AND EMOTIONS.

Everyday, think, feel, and visualize and return to a place of serenity. Recondition your mind so that on any given day, when playing tennis, you can summon and evoke a meditative, trancelike state of optimal performance.

7. FINALLY, ADDRESS THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM-your conscious and unconscious resistance to winning your 22^nd Grand Slam singles title.

I believe the pressure for you to always be great and perfect is a terrible burden. Your world-wide fans love you but expect you to win every time you play tennis. Are they kidding? You’re a human being like the rest of us. Sometimes you’re in the zone and win easily. Other times, you’re not in top form but win with much effort and will power. But some days, your game doesn’t flow, you struggle and fight yourself and lose. That’s okay too! Losing sometimes can be liberating. Failure may free you and lead to success.

When you’re ready to win, you will obliterate your doubts and conflicts, make peace with yourself, and believe.

Please consider my suggestions for winning. Rediscover a place of serenity and win from a beautiful place of love and peace. With love, your game will flow majestically with the power of the Source of all life.

 Sincerely,

Dr. Mel Waldman 

Dr. Waldman is a Brooklyn-based psychologist as well as a self-proclaimed poet, writer and dreamer.

A Recipe for Love

Note: "A Recipe for Love" is a short story that I am about to send out to literary magazines. Comments or suggestions from readers are welcome!

Wind scoured the side of the house and skidded across the back yard.  It was winter, but we hadn’t had a single snowstorm, and here it was the end of January.

Inside, we were standing at the counter with two cans of fresh tomatoes.  A huge yellow onion.  Four fresh cloves of garlic. 

My friend Jen had come to visit me from Amherst. And now I was going to show her how to make my favorite spaghetti sauce.  The recipe calls for capers.

Jen was reading from a heavily-stained three by five card.  I was cooking.  She would tell me a step, and then our conversation would wander.

“It’s just not me,” she said finally.  “I mean, what the heck was I thinking? I’m out there on Route 9 in some guy’s pick up truck and it’s one thirty in the morning?  What was I doing?”

I looked up at her.  “If I’m not mistaken, I think what you were doing was making out. Or, whatever?” I smiled.

She blushed.  “Oh but that’s craaazy,” she said, stretching out the “a” in that way she does.  When Jen says crazy like that, blood kind of flushes her face and she laughs and her voice flies up into a bird’s high register.  She practically squeaks.  It’s one of the things I love most about my friend Jen, the way she says the word crazy. 

I shrugged.  “It all sounds very nice to me,” I said.  “What’s the next step?”

“The next step?” She looked at me blankly, her head still making out in the truck I guess.  “Oh, sorry,” she said turning back to the recipe.  “OK, so now you dice a large onion and brown it in olive oil.” 

“Oh.  Well.  I know the recipe says a whole onion.  But I watched my grandmother make sauce for years, and she never used more than half.”

“Well, OK, that’s fine.  You also need two cloves of garlic.”

“Oh no,” I said.  “Not two cloves.  I use four.  Just don’t tell my husband, because he thinks he hates garlic.”  I set to work.  Jen watched as I peeled the brown skin off the onion.  I could feel her eyes on me.  I could feel her thinking.

“Hey, I need a big frying pan from that cabinet down there,” I said, pointing with my knife.  “Would you mind getting it out, and the cover too?”

Jen crossed the kitchen and retrieved the pan.  Handed it to me at the stove.

We were quiet for a moment.  “You know what I need,” she said. 

“What?”

She sighed.  “I need a recipe for love.”

I looked up.  “Oh Jen, that is a very sweet thing to say. And you know I would write you one in a minute, that is, if I had one.”  I slid the chopped onion into the frying pan. “How much olive oil do I need?”

Jen read from the card.  “It says a third of a cup.”

“Yeah, but I just pour enough to cover the bottom of the frying pan.”  I turned the front burner on high.

Jen started laughing.  “Claire, why exactly do you have me reading from this recipe card anyway?”

I looked up.  “I thought you wanted to learn how to make my secret caper sauce.  So you can fix Rick a romantic dinner.”

“I do,” she squealed, “but you aren’t following any of the directions.”

I frowned.  “Sure I am.  It calls for two cans of tomatoes doesn’t it?”

“No, it calls for one.”

“Oh well I always use two.  Can you open them for me?”

She laughed. I handed her the can opener.  For the next few minutes, while Jen opened the cans, neither of us said anything.

“Maybe,” I said.  “Maybe you just need to take it a day at a time.  I’m a big believer in staying in the moment.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jen said.  “Except one moment leads to the next, and then the next, and soon it’s a day and a week and, suddenly before you know it it’s a month later and he’s in your house repairing the doors.  He’s gonna totally take over my life.”

She set the lids into the trash.  “I just think my life was fine the way it was.  I was happy.  Yeah, I was alone, but so what?  And then, because of that dimwit in my office, I did it.  I did that stupid Speed Dating thing.  What possessed me?  Whatever possessed me to listen to her?  You know what’s going to happen.  You know how it will all turn out.”

I was stirring the onions.  I looked up.  “I do?”

“Of course,” she said.  “These things,” she had both her hands up in the air, waving them almost the way my grandmother used to.  “These things just never work out for me.  Think about...” her eyes closed.  “Think about…”

“Stop,” I said.  “Don’t you dare say his name!”

“GGGGRRRRR.”  She growled and grit her teeth.  “But you know how it went.  I spent seven years with that man, and then at the end I find out that he’s got a five-year old daughter.  A baby by another friggin' woman.”

I stopped.  Inhaled. Handed her the spoon.  “Here, you take over stirring.”

She did.  I went to the glass cabinet and reached up to the top shelf and grabbed two wine glasses.  I went to the dining room to the wine rack.  I took out my favorite bottle of red, a Montepulciano de Abruzzo, made in the region where my grandparents were born, in two tiny villages tucked beneath the snow-covered high peaks known as the Gran Sasso, due west of Rome.

I came back into the kitchen.  As I did, Jen had the three by five recipe card back in her hand.  “I think we were supposed to chop up some parsley.  And we were supposed to put oregano and basil into the oil.”

“Oh you are exactly right,” I said. “But turn off that stove for a moment, will you?”

She looked up at me.  “Why?”

“Because we are not ready to make spaghetti sauce.”

“We aren’t?”

“No.”

I reached into the drawer and pulled out a corkscrew.

She looked at me, confused.

“If you are going to make sauce the right way,” I said, “you gotta be in the right state of mind.”  I wiggled the cork out of the bottle.  It popped with a very satisfying thwunk. I poured each of us a tumbler of wine.

“Here, sit down and drink this,” I said, handing her a glass.

“Thanks,” she said.  We settled on the stools in the kitchen. We sat there without saying a word.  I heard what I call “the Sunday afternoon sound,” the football game, droning on and on in the background.

“I don’t have a recipe for love,” I said finally.  “But I know how my grandparents made it through.  One thing they did, they had wine every day.  Not a lot.  Just about three or four inches.  They were simple people.  And they had a kind of faith in things.  I think that’s what we don’t have enough of sometimes.”

“Yeah, well faith is fine for some people,” Jen said, “but that’s not me.  I’m not the religious type.”

“Neither were they.  My mother’s parents were not church goers, well, not so much.  But they had faith.  Things happened to them.  Some very, very sad things.  But somehow they never lost hope.  My grandmother, Mish, she lost her first baby, Dante, when he was nine months old.”

I sipped calmly from my glass.  Jen said nothing.

“What happened was, my great grandmother Clementina had heard about this new vaccine.  For diphtheria I think.  It was the early 1920s and she was a kind of forward-thinking lady. And also, back in Italy, she herself had lost a baby to pneumonia.  So my great grandmother told her daughter, my Grandma Mish, that she better get baby Dante vaccinated right away.”

“And?”

I inhaled. Shook my head “The vaccine was bad.  He died within hours.”

“Oh my God,” Jen said.  “That’s so so awful.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.  He was this gorgeous blonde baby, a rare and precious thing in Italy, blonde hair.  He was a real cherub in the one photo I saw of him.” I turned to face her.  “But what’s amazing is, my grandmother got pregnant again almost right away.  And you know what she named the new baby boy?”

“Let me guess…”

I nodded.  “Yeah.  Dante.”

“Somebody else might have avoided that name like it was contagious.  But my grandmother, she had a kind of faith in life.  She was quiet, but she was strong and stubborn.  She believed that one way or another things were going to be better.  Or, at least, things were going to be different.  She always used to say, in Italian, “in a day, a Pope is made.” Meaning everything can change totally. Overnight.”

“Yeah, I’ll say it can.  So what happened with the second baby?”

I drained my glass.  “Oh, well.  My Uncle Dante lived until he was 89," I said.  “He was my mother’s oldest brother.  A really great great guy.”

I stood up.  “So, Jen, maybe if you can think about letting go of the past.  Convince yourself that this relationship isn’t that other one back then.  Tell yourself that things do change for the better. ”

“Maybe.”  She spoke the word in almost a whisper.

I went back to the stove.  Turned the burner back on.

“You really gotta let yourself believe that Jen.”  The flame soared up under the frying pan.  “Hey, I have an idea.”

“Oh, maybe I should have a baby or something?”  She giggled.  Jen is turning 50 next week.

“No.  I think you should write a story.  Did you ever think of writing a story?”

“Claire, I think of writing a story almost every day.  I’m a writer, remember?”

“Jen, come on, I mean, did you ever think about writing this story?”

“This story?”

“Yeah, a story about this.  A love story.”

“I don’t write love stories, Claire.  I leave you to do that.”

“Well then, just write a story about your life right now.  Write about this new guy.  Write yourself clean of the past.”

“Claire, don’t you remember?  I did that.  I wrote the novel.  I tried to tell it all.”

“Yeah, you did, you did a great job too.  I love that novel.  I love the way you dealt with…” I cleared my throat. “HIM.  But now, now you need to write the next chapter.  Write what happens when you meet the new guy.  Write about Rick.  Make the story go the way you want it to.  Make it everything you want it to be.  Make the love come true.” 

“Oh Claire, you are such a dreamer.”

I shrugged.  “I guess I am.  But what’s the harm in it?  Rather than sit around being scared things won’t work out, just write the story the way you want to see it happen.  Make up your own recipe.”

Jen finished her wine.  “Right.  Like the one you don’t follow to make this sauce.”

I smiled.  “I never saw my grandmother ever once use a recipe.  And she was the best cook on the planet.”

Jen got off her stool.  “Do you want me to chop the parsley or not?”

“Yeah, chop the parsley.  It’s in a plastic bag in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator.”

I started to stir the onion again.  Oil spurted out at my wrist.  “Oh and while you’re at it, pull out a carrot.”

“A carrot? What the heck do I need a carrot for?”

I smiled.  “Grandma Mish’s secret ingredient.  To sweeten the sauce.”  I held up the three by five card.  “I know, I know.  The recipe says, add one teaspoon of sugar.  But that’s not what I do.  Grandma always said that spaghetti sauce came out sweeter if you dropped in a carrot.”

“That’s craaazy,” Jen said as she handed me the carrot and set to work washing the parsley. 

I stood next to her, peeling the carrot.  “Yeah, my grandma was kind of crazy.” Suddenly an image of Grandma Mish flooded me.  I saw the halo of grey hair, tied in a bun behind her head. I saw her soft bosom, where she always rested big loaves of crusty homebaked bread as she sliced them up for dinner.  I saw the huge serrated knife heading straight toward her chest.

The rest of us would cringe, terrified she would lop off her breast. But she was fearless.

I blinked.  I don’t know if was the wine at work on me, but standing there, suddenly I could see the flesh of a baby, right in front of me.  I could see into a set of watery grey eyes.  A newborn was squawling.  His head had a fuzzy blonde layer of hair.  A thick little clump sprouted up over his brow.  His face lay nuzzled there right against my grandmother’s giant bared breast, his pink wet mouth rooting for the sturdy nipple.

I watched her sitting there in the dark, nursing.  Rocking through the night. 

It was less than a year after she had buried the first baby.  The questions pressed beneath my tongue.  I felt them thick and heavy, weighing against my heart.

Did she cry when she felt the milk leaking into that new baby’s mouth?  Did she hold that tightly swaddled warm bundle of life thinking about the baby that had gone cold?

How did my grandmother manage it?  How did she ever manage to move on?  And how could she possibly have given the second-born that name? Dante?  

THE END