By Victoria Vickers

The calls were flooding in.

Media outlets all over the world wanted to know why he did it -- I did too. So when Joshua Karp answered the phone 4:05 p.m. Tuesday, Jan. 27, I immediately began firing questions at him. But all he had time to tell me was, "Its been a crazy day today. I'd be happy to answer your questions and talk to you at length tomorrow. I've been handling calls from national press outlets all day," said Karp.

When I called back the next day, at 1 p.m. Chicago time, Karp's phone was still ringing non-stop. Just about every caller wanted to know why, at a time when newspapers are laying off and going under, Karp launched The Printed Blog. Yup, it's exactly how it sounds. Selected blog posts, pooled into an 11x17-inch, full-color, eight-page, print newspaper. The Printed Blog hit the streets in Chicago and San Francisco on Jan. 27.

"I don't believe that newspapers should go out of business, or will go out of business," Karp said. "I believe the model has to change."

The Printed Blog is chock-full of posts and photos extracted from a variety of blogs including the national, political blog Daily Kos, as well as, lesser knowns like Baster Life, which offers dish on steamy topics of the bedroom variety. The paper is distributed twice daily -- in the morning and evening and offers commuters and readers who prefer print an opportunity to read blog-form writing. It's also downloadable in PDF format from the Printed Blog Web site.

What's the journalistic process like? "For the first issue, we laid out the content starting at around 7 p.m. in the evening, sequenced it at 2 a.m. and were proofing at 7 a.m.," Karp explained. "We have a reasonably automated process. It really doesn't take all that much. We are distributing by person right now because it gives us attention. We just need a printer and to flip the switch on our Web site."

How much does it cost? "Right now it's difficult to study the numbers because it's going to work so different in the future," Karp said. "Our prediction is $1,000 per week in each location. Right now it's weekly, but soon it will be daily."

The stories featured in the The Printed Blog are selected based on reader-generated comments and local appeal. There's a little bit of everything, except hard news. It's more of an eclectic collection of musings ranging from thought-provoking to entertaining to, well, provocative. There are also lighter features like the daily play-list of suggested songs to sample. And a profile of "a unique person." The ads and a small social events calendar are also weaved in.

Karp and his staff sought out bloggers for the first edition, but all that changed as soon as the first edition was printed.

"At first we did have to approach bloggers that we liked and then after the New York Times article came out and the first issue came out, bloggers are approaching us. One every few minutes," said Karp. "Even [while we're] on the phone right now, I'm seeing people sending their blogs. I just got one from Mexico. We're getting requests from all over the world, inquiries from all over the planet."

Experience is not a criteria for The Printed Blog bloggers, they need only have a voice that people want to hear. "We have some national bloggers and some people who are writing in their basements. There is no minimum experience," said Karp. "We're less interested in the mainstream bloggers and more interested in the individual."

However, reporters looking for a gig, don't get your hopes up. Bloggers do get a portion of the revenue from ads that run next to their posts, but traditional benefits aren't on the horizon.

"We're going to stay away from offering benefits," said Karp. "We're trying to be a lean organization. We're paying [our bloggers] because they're taking the time to do the writing and we're respecting that effort. Bloggers are writing for a different reason. They're not writing because they want a job, they're writing because they have something to say."

Photos courtesy of the New York Times.

Writer Victoria Vickers is a graduate student in journalism at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C.

Kirsten Gillibrand, sitting in my den, way back when....

By Claudia Ricci

It's official, Kirsten Gillibrand, a "Blue Dog" Democrat from upstate New York, has been appointed to fill Hillary Clinton's U.S. Senate seat.

Like so many others, I'd been hearing rumors that the little-known Congresswoman was on Governor Paterson's short list. But still, it comes as a bit of a shock to learn that Kirsten's going to get Hillary's job.

Less than three years ago, on a winter Sunday afternoon, she sat in the den of my 1850s farmhouse in upstate New York, contemplating her very first run for office. She was there with her husband, and as I recall she took the leather sofa. My husband, a political activist, took the rocking chair by the stone fireplace. He spent the next couple of hours offering Kirsten his best insights, and his encouragement and advice on how to go public with her campaign.

I would like to say that my reaction to Kirsten that afternoon was love at first sight. But honestly, I found her a bit cold. And even, a little frightening. She was certainly friendly, polite, upbeat and completely enthusiastic about the prospect of defeating then cong John Sweeney, a rather vile Republican who held the seat.

But in the course of the meeting, she spoke about the work she'd done as a high-powered corporate attorney defending cigarette companies. I sat there in my own rocking chair feeling that she would certainly be a big improvement over Sweeney, but she wouldn't be my first choice for a candidate.

What is amazing is how that meeting in my den began to transform Kirsten into the candidate that would win a seat in Congress. She confessed to us that afternoon that as a female lawyer, working in a tough and largely male corporate world, she felt compelled to project that very cold hard persona I saw. She said that she couldn't do her work without embracing that facade.

My husband, wisely, advised her to take an important step: embrace a new public persona, that of a strong woman who could speak to the powers that be, but one who would still reflect her heart and soul, and even, her femininity.

Well, so, she did that. (And she has publicly acknowledged my husband's role in helping her realize that she needed to make the change.) She defeated Sweeney that November in a tight, and somewhat ugly race. (My youngest child, Noah, then a senior in high school, volunteered on her campaign.) I voted for her, and she became our Congresswoman.

Her last election, this past November, was expected to be a tight race, but lo and behold, she blew her opponent, Sandy Treadwell, a ridiculously rich businessman from the Albany area, away. Her success at this last run demonstrated her extraordinary fund-raising ability, and, her popularity with her largely rural upstate constituency.

For my part, I've come to like her. I respect her hard work on the job. I respect -- and marvel -- at the fact that she manages to balance a very demanding career with her mothering. She's done right by us, and she deserves her success.

And while she's still a "Blue Dog," her voting record has been liberal.

While she will have her detractors for sure, Gillibrand is poised to play an important role in the Senate as part of the Obama era, and she is well positioned to be a force for change in Congress.

One Gigantic Shining Moment

By Claudia Ricci

It was way before sunrise when celebrants began to converge on the Mall to form the human quilt that stretched from the Capitol to the Washington Monument and way beyond.

How many of us were there? Two million? Three? Looking out at the sea of people, it looked like a red throbbing blur. Later, I spoke to people who despite their best efforts, actually never made it to the Mall. Three women from Iowa who had toiled hard back at home to get tickets for a good standing room perch by the Capitol told me that they ended up waiting four hours in a tunnel to get to the mall.

Sadly, police closed the entrance before they -- and thousands like them --were able to get in.

But even in that case, according to these Iowa women, there was, remarkably, no one pushing or angry or swearing, even after they were turned away. This was a day for gentle and upbeat celebration, despite the many challenges. Waiting in long, long lines, and in numbing cold, we joked and smiled and made endless chit chat. We fell into impromptu conversations with complete strangers as we walked miles, and waited hours, and watched the festivities with the press of bodies all around.

What we found was a huge spill over of emotion.

In the moments immediately after Obama was sworn in, I turned to an African American woman standing behind me and we just hugged, celebrating in that tight embrace the collapse of racial divide. We shared too what everyone out there was enjoying: a renewed sense of pride in being able to call ourselves Americans. A renewed hope that our new President can lead us through very scary and challenging times.

The spirit that took over Washington, D.C. this week will go down in history as one gigantic shining moment. A high point when we came together to celebrate our belief as Americans that anything is possible. That all dreams have their moment.

This inauguration is surely one such moment, and a wonderful launching pad for the Obama Presidency. Part street festival, part carnival, it exuded a spirit of love and cooperation, hope and possibility, that I have never associated with political events. Yes, it was a cold, cold, day, but the warmth of the people attending, and the inspiration of the leader being installed on the podium, fired us up. Gave us the heart and the heat and the hope that we indeed are witnessing a sea change in history.

No matter what disappointments lie ahead, and naturally there will be some, for now, we are glowing and so connected. We know what it means to act -- and to celebrate-- as a diverse American nation. We are convinced that we've chosen a man to lead us, to bring us together, a man who can inspire us to have the courage we need to face these very scary and difficult times.

Millions and millions of us were out there on the mall. We formed a crowd like none the nation has ever seen before. We were a long and throbbing sweep of human beings, a pumped up crowd that was at once elated and energized, screaming and cheering and waving Amerian flags, but at the same time, completely peaceful - astonishingly, Washington police made not a single arrest all day long.

It was a good, good time, and no one who was there will ever forget it. I know I won't forget the joy I saw all around me. One image carved in my mind: a jubiliant young African American man stepped off a curb and started leading his own impromptu parade, calling all of us to chant with him at the top of his lungs: O- BAM-A, O-BAM-A.

The party ends, but maybe the chanting --and the belief that we've found a leader-- can continue

The day after inauguration: MARCH FOR IMMIGRATION FORM

By Claudia Ricci

Whether we are one of the millions converging on the Mall in DC, or we are sitting in the living room in South Dakota or Saint Lous or Denver or Detroit glued to the TV, we are all riveted on Tuesday's inaugural events. We are a nation waiting for an extraordinary chapter in our history to unfold.

But once Tuesday's excitement comes to a close, there will be Wednesday, January 21st. And that's the day when our real task begins: changing the way this nation has governed for the past eight years.

One event that deserves our attention -- and that of the Obama admininstration -- right after inauguration, is immigration reform. Toward that end, there is a march in DC on Wednesday, January 21st, organized by a group called the Fair Immigration Reform Movement, or FIRM.

FIRM is a project of the Center for Community Change, a national network of local and state community organizations. Their aim: "just and humane" immigration reform. Toward that end, the group has organized a march on the offices of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) in DC. Their intention: to host "a ceremony to cleanse ICE of 8 years of repressive policies."

So if you are still in DC on Wednesday, and you want to say something important publicly about an issue that is crying to be fixed, join the folks converging on Benjamin Banneker Park, 10th & G Sts. SW, Washington, DC. The group will march to ICE's national headquarters at 500 12th St., SW, and from there, will proceed to an afternoon forum on immigration reform at Westminster Presbyterian Church, 400 I St.

As President-elect Obama has said, the election, and the inauguration, provide an extraordinary opportunity for change. The real work for change begins in the days after.

"Open Mic, the Best Medicine"

By Camincha

Arriving full of frustration, headache. Alba smiles feebly in answer to Big Hello from Reading Host, and swallows an aspirin. Looks ‘round for Julia.

The host starts the reading.

The two Features are women: The first one has PIZZAZZZZ. Cadence in her words. And that delightful sound, what is that instrument?

Ahhhhh, it's her right hand beating against her large, well-built thigh. What a sound it makes! No wonder! She’s reading a love poem:

Your manly beauty,
resplendent, covering me
along side me, behind me...
thump, thump, thump, pan, pan
The second Feature is reading about a friend she’s just lost:

I miss you in small quiet ways
When I look at the geraniums under
the front porch and find your smile
floating among the red and white petals...

Alba is paying attention. Listening. Absorbed, she forgets her headache, all those frustrations.

Julia walks in. They embrace. I'm so happy to see you! Alba smiles.

Me too, Julia whispers in her ear, her long ripe-wheat-honey-blonde-hair falling, brushing her knees.

Tear Drop––Alba’s favorite regular––is on. He pummels his words with raised fists, his thumbs high up in the air for punctuation. He’s passionate. No wonder, he’s reading about his favorite subject, defending the homeless:

Holding his plastic bag
he reaches 11th and Folsom, one
more corner, just like all the
others he’s passed tonight, empty.

All doors are closed
No lights at the windows
No one’s waiting for him...

Alba’s headache? What headache?

And Alba doesn’t feel frustration anymore.

Camincha, a regular contributor to MyStoryLives, is a pen name for a writer living in the Bay Area of California.

Lost Identity

By John Ryan

During my three-day journey home from Iraq in 2006, I never prepared for the familiar-yet-oddly-estranged America that awaited me. I envisioned embraces with family, beer-filled reunions with friends, and a much needed close-to-a-war-torn romance.

My travel ended instead with a “Welcome Home” ceremony in a gymnasium at Fort Hood in Texas. There I proudly stood in front of the Master of Ceremony, under finger-painted banners. I felt the whir of adoration from the tearful audience. Once dismissed, I collided with my mother on the gym floor where she wrapped me in her arms, and together, to the auspicious lyrics of Kool and the Gang, we exited the buzzing gym. Ce-le-bra-tion. Boy was I glad to be back.

In the parking lot outside the gymnasium, I received the first of what would be hundreds of questions regarding my experiences in Iraq. My father, who had stood silently behind my mother in the gym, came forward and asked, “So, how does it feel to be back home?” followed by a cautious “And how was it over there, anyway?” My paltry answer sufficed at the time, although I can’t recall its details. It didn’t seem to matter much. What seemed to matter to him was that I was standing unscathed at his side. Of course, not everyone else would be so appeased, but his brief, although unscrupulous, questions alerted me of that. It was a startling revelation. Gone were the simpler days of, “Sir, Lieutenant Ryan reports as ordered!”

I was not my usual outgoing self during the first few months after my return. Frankly, I was a social introvert, who when pried, lashed out with a clipped army tongue. A beloved aunt asked me for my thoughts on the war, and I startled her with the sharpness of a radio transmission, “I don’t know. Don’t want to talk about it. Eliminator 21 out!” Even the most casual conversations besieged me. When a Maytag man, who came to fix my dishwasher, asked about my service in Iraq, I darted to the bathroom, fearful of his political acumen. I was anxious, irritable and, although I didn’t want to admit it, lonely.

Before I could answer anyone’s questions, I needed sometime to untangle my thoughts and emotions. Following a few Google searches, my self-diagnosis was a mild case of social anxiety with a twist of lost identity, caught somewhere in the Kübler-Ross cycle of grief. It dealt me spats of denial, anger, and bargaining, which evoked insecurities that were once disguised by my rank and perceived importance in Iraq. I was suspicious of everyone I met, pinned down by anticipated rhetorical attacks and the ubiquitous subject of a 20/20 interview.

A year after I arrived home, and once I accepted the eternal smudges on my self-esteem, my symptoms receded, revealing the affable demeanor of the high school senior of my past. Kübler-Ross’s final stage of acceptance had finally emerged. I found myself entertaining questions like, “Is it really that bad over there?” with short-but-somehow insightful paragraphs that left my lips with a smirk of contentment. Soon thereafter, I was nudging into conversations at dinner parties to explain how traumatic brain injury occurred in Iraq, and as I did, I felt my own synaptic realignment hasten its pace.


Armed with a new and optimistic outlook, I pontificated why we had invaded, where we went wrong, and how it all could be corrected; and in each case, I shared an anecdote that supported my assertions. I spoke with the uncanny cadence of a down-south drawl and stood with a straight back. It was the first time in a long time that my life outside a uniform and in my own skin was a happy one.

The torrent of my expression swept me into unexamined happiness. My stories streamed like montages from CNN and Fox News; they were cogent upon witness yet they remained single snapshots in time, certainly not indicative of the whole Iraqi tale. My narratives had succumbed to entertainment, and this acknowledgement returned a feeble inner voice. My tongue again knotted and my spine again sagged -- a year and a half of healing for naught.

Through all of this, I discovered that life often leads back to familiar quandaries; problems that re-emerge dissembled, baffling us again. Maybe in the coming months, I will speak openly about Iraq again. Maybe I’ll stop attempting to elucidate thoughts that I know will take years to dismantle. Or perhaps, in the luckiest case, a bolt of clairvoyance will change my life for the better. Until then, all I can do is embrace my family, enjoy a few drinks with friends, and court a new love. Indeed, I don’t feel my best and probably never will, but I’m no longer in Iraq. It is good to be home.

Former Army Captain John Ryan was honorably discharged in 2008 after five years of service. He served in Iraq in 2004 and 2006 and was awarded the Bronze Star for his actions. He graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point in 2003.

Letter From Beijing

By Susan Chen

Ni men hao~

Greetings from Beijing! As I write this update on my life abroad, away from the comforts of Stanford University, I cannot help but comment on the white "snow" floating outside my window: pollen from the nearby poplar and willow trees. Welcome to Spring in Beijing!

I arrived here on March 30th, greeted warmly by faces familiar and new in a dorm that could easily be mistaken as a hotel. Over the next few days, I gradually adjusted to the unique Beijing way of life: weaving through speeding cars in a cars-before-passengers traffic system, always carrying napkins with me as these seem to be luxury items hardly available anywhere, applying never-too-much lotion to counter the dry and dusty weather. Speaking of dusty, Beijing's reputation as an ultra-polluted city is far from fiction.

Still, Beijing University (Bei Da) and the city itself have a lot to offer. Over the last couple of weeks, I have taken a variety of classes from outstanding Bei Da professors. The native students are extremely bright, hard-working, and modest in behavior and thought. Their educational careers are strict as it is very difficult to change majors and exams are frequent; some even take place on weekends. Student dorms are crowded and unpleasant. Outside the harsh academic environment, Bei Da is dotted by gorgeous magnolia flowers and cherry blossoms, and filled with historical and modern architecture alike. Small rivers and bridges weave through the city, which is animated by thesounds of students and frequent notable visitors.

Supposedly, the Prime Minister of Sweden presented a talk yesterday. Outside the campus, I have had the wonderful opportunity to explore the city in all its magnificence: I took Stanford-sponsored trips to the Summer Palace and Forbidden City, enjoyed a Peking Opera, and spoiled myself with a wealth of delicious cuisine and frequent trips to shopping districts. The 7-to-1 currency exchange rate can render one easily tempted to take out the wallet again and again, and again.

Certainly, Beijing (and most of China) is modernizing. The "New Beijing" is a hallmark of skyscrapers and materialism. The architecture is indeed aesthetically interesting but living in this city has made me more concerned with its psychological effects on people, in how modernizing efforts shape individual behavior and society. Whether urban development should be embraced is not a question with a simple answer. There is massive construction going up on every corner of Beijing (some were in preparation for the Olympics) but most for urbanization within the greater context. It is difficult to stare at brick ruins and hear the sounds of motors running without questioning what was there and what will be there. The displacement of innocent civilians and the overtime labor of construction workers are heavy prices to pay for the sake of a lofty goal to "modernize."

Beijing is changing the course of its history, for better or for worse. China is no longer the weak nation of the past but falls short of "greatness" as is commonly conceptualized. I am fortunate to be a part of this important historical era, knowing that what I see and hear today may not be here five or ten years from now. Conversely, I am very pleased to experience the source of China's pride in its rich history and culture. I eagerly anticipate my planned trips to the Great Wall, Inner Mongolia, Shanghai, Guangdong, and Hong Kong. A lot has changed since I left China more than a decade ago, and I am excited to reacquaint myself with my homeland, and get to know its priceless Chinese culture better!

Zai Jian!

Susan Chen is a junior at Stanford University, double majoring in International Relations and Asian American Studies. She immigrated to the U.S. from China at the age of seven and is very interested in US-China relations. This piece, written in April, 2008, is part of her "China Blog."

What Santa Brought Me

By Florin Ion Firimiţã

Christmas came early to me this year, on the evening Barack Obama was elected the next President of the United States. Suddenly, I experienced a miracle: after many years of doubt, I started believing again in Santa Claus.

My friend Paul, a New-Zealander turned Parisian, with whom I occasionally spend lazy summer mornings in a café in Southern France, emailed me right away: “Wow! Your adopted country has always intrigued me,” he said. “You guys have the best and the worst of everything.”

Coming from Romania, whose presidents kept reelecting themselves until they end up disheveled and unapologetic in front of makeshift firing squads, or they are replaced by other dictators-in-waiting, I am not a big fan of fake revolutions, and I am suspicious of any mélange of fantasy, politics and euphoria.

Back in the 80’s, in Romanian classrooms, we pledged allegiance to the Almighty Leader while listening to Bruce Springsteen on the banned short-waves of Radio Free Europe, furtively looking across the ocean: we had the worst, and the best came only from America. We were also suspicious of miracles. The official Santa Claus (or the more politically correct “Father Christmas”) was definitely a Communist (favorite color: red) on the payroll of the secret police. (I have always been suspicious of his gift for knowing both when we were sleeping and when we were awake, and also his ability of sliding up and down our chimneys without being detected.)

In 1981, when Ronald Reagan became the 40th President of the United States, in Romania we kept waiting for him to show up on a white horse and give us a lift. The dream didn’t last long. After a while, we feared that he could be just a B-actor with no interest in coming out of his movies and saving Eastern Europe from the dark basements of the Cold War. For us, the President of the United States existed mainly as a television myth, as unreachable and unreal as Santa Claus, or our own local dictator. The faith of our corner of the world had actually been decided way before the 80s’ when Stalin and the rest of the world powers sliced up our side of Europe like a tired, reluctant pizza. For decades, Romania has always been the poor Eastern-European girl hoping to marry the cultured, sophisticated New Yorker, but ending up with the bloody-handed KGB boy next door.

Why were we so disappointed that the Americans had failed to show up at our doorsteps? After years of waiting, it seemed that we had lost the battle. Except for its voyeuristic, slightly condescending attitude, the so-called “civilized” world stopped paying attention to our nightmares. Eastern Europe with its gypsies, gymnasts, and dictators couldn’t have been more than an exotic spice at the table of the rich Westerners.

The real Santa, rumors went, had defected to America.

I moved to the United States in 1990 and enthusiastically became a citizen in 1995. Still, American politics left me pretty much cold. I lived, like most of us, in my own bubble as an artist and a writer. Democracy was a given, politics was not my turf.

Over the past eight years, however, I have gradually started to feel both guilty and angry. My growing sense is that we’ve become increasingly trapped under the soft parentheses of our iPods; we are distracted by fresh scandals here and there, we are preoccupied by our endless quest for individual happiness (more, bigger, better), numbed by our designer cell phones, blinded by Britney Spears’ shaved head, and stuck on the soothing mediocrity of “Dancing with the Stars” and “American Idol.”

We had forgotten that democracy is an active, participatory venture.

All the while our soldiers died in Iraq and Afghanistan, and bodies decomposed for days under the New Orleans sun, we kept buying Hummers and stuck Chinese-made yellow ribbon magnets on them, calling ourselves patriots.

In my adopted country, where capitalism cleverly has been able to transform I want it into I need it, where we use nature as a backdrop to sell SUVs, antidepressants and investment plans, where competitive eating has become a sport, and losing weight has become a form of entertainment (I bet no one tunes in to those shows in Rwanda), I have a feeling that we have not learned much from the tragic lessons of September 11.

Last Christmas, when recession was only a laughable rumor spread by liberals, I found myself in a store on Madison Avenue. There I saw a $38,000 Roger Dubuis wrist watch and a pair of shiny Gucci crocodile pumps for $4,200. With all due respect to capitalism, I felt a latent Commie breeding inside me, quietly raging against all the Carrie Bradshaw wannabees taking the “Sex and the City” bus tour around Manhattan.

Measuring our life goals by the ever-increasing size of our flat-screen TVs, mesmerized by the promises of bigger and better toys designed to make us forget, our fingers glued to the buttons of our shiny electronic devices, wearing the masks of “compassionate conservatism” and greed disguised as patriotism, we have been watching our ideals turn into addictions. Santa might have once defected to the United States, only to have ended up on “Celebrity Rehab.”

What happened to my Promised Land? What happened to Democracy? What happened to the Politician as the Servant of the Nation? Where were our moral, spiritual and political leaders? Why have both wealth and poverty become nests of civic impotence? And when was the last time we had a truly presidential President? In a country that emphasizes so much competitiveness, creativity and achievement, why were we stuck with a leader whose ideas and actions, instead of uniting a nation, ended up inspiring endless comic skits on SNL?

On the evening Barack Obama was elected the 44th President of the United States, I was at a friend’s home, glued to the TV until one o’clock in the morning. I wasn't really willing to believe he was winning. I remember feeling that maybe I should start pursuing that European passport I have been entitled to since Romania became a part of the European Union. I will never forget that night, because I stopped waiting for miracles, and became my own Santa Claus, by enjoying the fruit of my vote.

Obama's victory restored everything I believed in when I came to this country. It’s true, our new President faces enormous challenges. With more than 10 million Americans out of work, and an economy in free fall, maybe this is not the right time for that $300 showoff bottle of Dom Perignon champagne, but we could restart on a smaller scale. I have always been suspicious of any mélange of fantasy, politics and euphoria, but this December, please allow me to believe that the best is yet to come.

I emailed back my friend Paul, reminding him that, in a sense, he was right: we create our own best and worst in this country. One of the givens of living in a democracy is that we have to live with the mistakes we make, but fortunately, while presidents come and go, the country remains.

Obama’s election brought back my old belief in democracy not as a collective numbing, but rather as a form of elitism for all. Time is as an equal sieve for rock stars and writers, Presidents, artists and athletes, but I believe we all he have a role in a democracy. I also know for sure that, if in charge, either Joe Six-Pack or Jerry Springer would definitely have lost the Cuban Missile Crisis. Could you blame me that I feel more comfortable with a confidence-exuding, articulate, brilliant African-American holding Columbia University and Harvard Law School degrees to represent me at home and in the international arena? And while an unlicensed plumber is perfectly entitled to get an agent (!) and a book deal for irrelevant opinions someone else helped him express, I feel quite free (and relieved) to stick to the classics. Welcome back, Santa! Because of you, democracy has been proven one more time, a very effective way of taking out the trash.

Florin Ion Firimiţã is a Romanian-American visual artist, teacher and author who splits his time between Southern France and the United States.

Giving thanks, even when it seems impossible...

All of us know challenging days, when life seems to turn us inside out and upside down. Maybe you or a family member falls seriously ill. Or you lose your job, or the place you live. Perhaps a long-time relationship sours, or you lose a loved one. Or maybe you are forced to make a change you aren't ready to make, or to go somewhere you don't want to go.

So how can we possibly give thanks at moments like those?

It's not easy. At all. But those moments of challenge offer opportunities for real spiritual growth, if only we can turn a switch inside and heed the call to relinquish our will.

Carolyn Myss speaks often of these opportunities. The worst moments she calls "the dark night of the soul." Often, at those moments, life seems to lose all meaning and purpose.

But it is those very moments, Myss says, that can serve as a wake-up call, drawing us into a spiritual life devoted to mindfulness, and to a reverence for life in all its wonder. It's a call to cherish the present moment. As Myss says, it's easy to be grateful at a banquet. What is challenging is to live in gratitude when that banquet table is empty, when we feel lost, or alone, or desperately without resources, physical, emotional or spiritual, to go on.

At those moments, the answer lies inside. The answer is not to give up, but to give in. To yield to a higher power. To say, "OK, have it your way. Show me what to do. Show me how to live." It involves slowing down, to find more clarity, more quiet space, more time just to be. More time to breathe. More time to sit peacefully by a fire, sipping a cup of tea. More time to take walks, to notice the birds, and the texture and feel of grey tree bark, and the exact shade of the blue sky.

Thich Nhat Hanh says sometimes we smile because we are happy. And sometimes we are happy because we smile.

On this, Thanksgiving Day, may we all find time to smile. May we all have gratitude, to the extent that is possible, and some measure of peace. Even if we face challenges that seem way beyond our power, challenges that we aren't sure we can face, may we realize that those challenges humble us into a far deeper reverence for life, and for the power of the spirit.

Here is a toast, to all of you readers, on Thanksgiving Day, 2008. Savor every moment. Every breath. Every bite of food. The turkey, the stuffing, the sweet potatoes and yams. The pumpkin pie, the cream.

And every person whose company you share. Cherish it all.

Amen.

One wrong step and....

By Claudia Ricci

A couple weeks back, my 82-year old mom was just about to get into a taxicab on Lexington Ave., right outside Grand Central Station in New York, when she stepped into a pothole. She collapsed in a heap, fracturing one ankle and seriously spraining the other. In minutes my sister had whisked her over to the ER at NYU hospital, where Mom spent an excruciatingly long seven hours having her ankle positioned (think pulling and tugging the bone). The young orthopedic resident set the bone, placed the cast, and then Xrayed the leg. Nope, it wasn't straight enough. The doctor repeated this painful procedure five times, yes, FIVE times, before she was satisfied that she'd gotten my mom's leg "right."

The next day, my sister and my Dad and my mother took a six or seven hour ride in a very bumpy cabulance, in a snowstorm, to reach their home in Massachusetts. My mother's leg, cradled in my sister's lap, bounced the whole way.

It is difficult to put into words how much pain and trauma and suffering this accident has caused my poor mother, and how much angst and stress and up-in-the-middle-of-the night worry it has caused the rest of the family.

But let me just say that today I am lying here in bed. I think all the stress of the last two and a half weeks has finally caught up to me. Oh, I suppose I could say it was that bad bowl of cream of spinach soup I ate yesterday afternoon that caused my stomach to turn volcanic last night. But honestly, I think the volcano that erupted really has a far wider core.

I know I've never worried more about my mom than I did on Monday night. Monday was the day she was discharged from the hospital where she had surgery a week ago to pin her ankle, which had four breaks. The doctor, in discharging her, insisted that she needed to go to a nursing home, so we selected the one we had been told by a trusted friend, had the best reputation.

Well, OK, I guess that reputation must have been earned one way or another. But when I got to the nursing home Monday afternoon, I had all I could do not to turn around and run out the door. The smell was overpowering. The lines of wheelchairs and reclining chairs, occupied by semi-comatose white-haired old folks, staring idly into walls and ceilings, gave me a feeling of dread I can hardly describe. I steeled myself and headed quickly for Mom's room, where I found her in tears.

The air in her room was so hot she could hardly breathe (and she's asthmatic.) Her bed was covered by a three-inch air mattress into which Mom had sunk like a hotdog in a roll. The lighting overhead was so dim you could't possibly read. There was no telephone in the room, and no TV or radio, and the woman in the next bed, a three-and-a-half year resident of the nursing home, was hardly able to communicate.

Mom told me she had repeatedly pushed the buzzer for the nurse, but nobody responded. So I got her up to go to the bathroom, using the walker. It was so frigging hot in the bathroom that I felt dizzy. Mom broke down crying, and I had all I could do not to join her. Here was my mother, a perfectly healthy woman just two weeks before, imprisoned in a nursing home where she couldn't even catch her breath.

Shortly afterward, I asked the nurse to check my mom's blood oxygen level. It was below 90 percent, which isn't good at all. I told the nurse my mom had been on oxygen in the hospital, and that the air there in the nursing home was making it hard for her to breathe.

The nurse replied, saying that my mom had no order for oxygen, which shocked me. (As it turned out my mom DID have an order, but the nurse either didn't know that or didn't CHOOSE to know that.)

What shocked me even more was what the nurse said next. "I know the air quality in here is awful, it's really stagnant." The male aide joined in to say how bad the air was.

Shudders passed through me. The nurse then left the room and came back with a fan. They set up that damn fan on my mother's nighttable and proceeded to blow the dusty stagnant hot air at the back of my mom's head. Wonderful therapy for an asthmatic!

Leaving my mother in that nursing home that night was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. But what could I do? She had a huge cast on her leg, and she could not even negotiate her way into my car, let alone the long walk up the leaf-covered sidewalk to the door of my old farmhouse.

So I had no choice. I worried about her all night, and as it turned out, I had reason to worry. An aide came in to give Mom a bedpan in the middle of the night and because of that ridiculous air mattress, the bedpan spilled. My mom woke up to find herself and her bedsheets soaked in pee. She bawled for who knows how long, until some kind young aide discovered her in the morning and cleaned her up.

Yesterday, I got on the phone and started making calls. I found a rehab center, checked on it with some contacts in the area, and discovered it had an excellent reputation. Miraculously, they had a bed. Within a few hours, my dad and I had transferred Mom out of the nursing home, and into what appears to be a top-notch rehab center.

I spent six or seven hours there yesterday and I am delighted to say the air is good, and the nurses and aides very attentive. The other patients in my mom's wing are all, like her, short-term residents anxious to get back home and into their lives (before her accident, mom was attending an exercise class three times a week.) They have phones and a TV. But even more importantly, they have a fabulous occupational and physical therapist and they do four hours of each therapy every day!The physician who checked in on mom last night was so compassionate, so insightful, so sharp, that I just sat there smiling, and thinking, ah here at last we have an all around bright light.

So there is good reason for hope.

About four o'clock yesterday, I took a break from my mom's bedside and went out to get some food with my cousin, who was kind enough to help give me moral support as I made my mom's transfer.

"You can relax now," Pat said over our bowls of soup. "Your mom is in a good place. She even smiled and joked this afternoon."

Yes, my cousin was right. Things seemed so much better. And yet, my stomach was still very literally in knots. My heart was still in such turmoil.

"It's hard to let go of worrying," I said. "I just so much want to fix everything for her."

And of course, I can't. It's going to take time.

So like I said, it might have been that bowl of cream of spinach soup that brought me to my knees in the middle of the night. But I'm thinking that there is a better, but scarier, explanation. The last couple of weeks have brought me to my knees in worry. They have brought me to the totally terrifying reality that life can go screwy at a moment's notice. Just take one wrong step. Just make the unfortunate mistake of placing your foot down three or four inches in the wrong direction on a city street, and you may face weeks, months, or even more of agony and distress.

And there is an even scarier reality too: all of us face the real possibility of landing our parents, or ourselves, in a nursing home that is horrific. I've told my sisters and my husband that if that happens to me, I want a way out, as in, a bottle of pills. Will I feel differently at some point in the future? I'm not sure, but right now, I don't know how to wrap my head around the things I saw this week.

Mom's ankle will heal. We will weather this storm. But there is such terror in seeing a beloved parent drop precipitously into an invalid condition, and have to face such pain and indignity, indignity visited routinely on elderly people in nursing homes.

I sit here and my stomach feels shredded. It rumbles and aches and I take a moment to breathe and I think, life is just so incredibly fragile. And the thought of that, honestly, is so overwhelming today that I will just stop writing now, and take a nap.