Hearts Everywhere

There is a process.

2009-10-03T17:15:00.002-04:00

I've often re-posted my daily Kabbalah Tune-ups. Sometimes they seem to hit the spot when the spot needs hitting. Here are two recent ones that ring loud and clear:

Snakes shed their skin 4-8 times a year. It doesn't happen over night.

There is a process.

When we are ready to shed our darker desires, our depression, our limited thinking, we will shed it. But it wont happen with the snap of your fingers.

You don't just snap out of it. There is a process.

Today, be patient with yourself if you are not where you want to be.

Remember, there is a process.

---------

To live a fulfilling life, we must appreciate every bit of what is happening right now. Because this moment, now, will never happen again. Appreciation wakes us up, gets us out of victimhood and shows us the opportunities all around.

Today, live in the moment. Trust your impulses. What are they telling you do? Do it now because this is the only time you can be sure to make a shift in your life. Don't put off to tomorrow what you can do today.

Wymoming Explosion Haven

2009-10-01T16:12:00.008-04:00

This summer I went on a 10-day road trip through 9 states in the North / Midwest. All new to me -- this piece of the country was laden with gorgeous serene landscapes that left this city girl hungry for more air. I sat in the car staring out the window for hours; never tiring of the passing grass, hay, barns, life outside my window.

The air in Montana and Wyoming was the among the sweetest I had ever tasted; I'm convinced the oxygen factor is way higher there. (Then again, maybe it's just substantially lower in New York; I do live above a taxi idling block...)

I've been meaning to blog about this life-altering, memorable trip where we spent upwards of 8 hours in a car each day. It wasn't anything like we did growing up in this neck of the woods. (I was a New York City borough girl; road trip was to New Jersey.)

I chronicled the journey in over 4,000 snapshots and countless words that are typed on pages in my mind and scribbled in fragments in a tiny notebook buried in a stored-away luggage. But the task of going through the photos, editing them down and organizing them into a publishable format was so collosal in my mind, I put it off or almost two months.

My sister, on the contrary, went on a 6 week trip to Europe and has all thousands of her photos up on facebook flickr blog. I hung my head in shame.

Luckily a few hours to myself and the laptop this morning allowed me to do some editing. I don't think I'll post the hundreds of pictures to the blog, but slowly I'll populate the blog with images of the northwest. .

In the meantime, these random group of photos were taken in a Fireworks Warehouse store in Cody, Wyoming. While I love watching fireworks, I just learned not to be scared of lighting a match a few years back. I'm just not cut out for lighting things that explode.

When I walked into this explosion haven, my head didn't know where to turn. This was, as my 7-year-old now says, "off the hook!"

There was a blow up-able for any taste. Lady bugs, cobras, even Osama bin Laden exploding heads. The best part was that we ended up flying home and had to somehow send these under in our luggage. So we checked our luggage thinking if they find the explosive devices, they would just remove them. Well, luckily security let the fireworks right through and they didn't accidentally blow up in our luggage causing our entire plane to crash.

Moral of the story is that you can probably smuggle fireworks in your luggage but don't tell them I said to do so.

You.Propelled to Life Amplified

2009-09-26T14:24:00.002-04:00

It wasn't my fault because I finally committed to something and it fell apart despite my dedication.

Last month, I was approached and agreed to partner with Divine Caroline and Propel Water to drive traffic to their You.Propelled community concept. All about moving your life forward.

With over 12,000 proclamations, participation in the You.Propelled community exceeded PepsiCo’s expectations. However, unrelated to this initial success, Pepsi has informed us that it is withdrawing its entire online advertising budget from its roster of agencies for the remainder of the year.

This means FAIL on my attempt at blog sponsorship money making.

Nonetheless, they are upholding their promise and are maintaining a similar community called Life Amplified. Same concept, less money.

I probably won't be making my life statements anymore - but I still applaud the theme...and who knows, maybe I'll win the $5,000 to pursue my dreams. Stranger things have happened.

Hearts Beyond the Potato

2009-09-26T13:54:00.006-04:00

The Internet allows us to find people we would never otherwise would have met. After I blogged about the heart potato lady (Mary Apple) from Letterman, her daughter, Claire emailed me to share her love of hearts with me. I found someone whose love of hearts may trump mine. She was lovely enough to share personal photos of her home with me.

Claire is an army wife with three little boys. She needed to impart some femininity to her y-dominated house. Her "patient, understanding and good humored" husband agreed to a PINK kitchen and bathroom laden with hearts.

(Of course she also works at Victoria's Secret - where she's surrounded with pink heart boxes daily.)

Here are some snapshots of her heart ... and LOVE-filled home:

Obama Hearts a Heart Potato

2009-09-22T14:00:00.008-04:00

For those that didn't catch our President on the David Letterman show last night, I was pleased to see that the 44th President of the United States appreciates the value of a heart.

Mary Apple was the woman (who will find my Website one day) who found the heart spud. She had apparently visited the Letterman show two years ago and brought her prize possession. Cold-hearted Letterman, however, didn't realize her value.

The President, full of logic and appreciation, said, "This is remarkable. Thank you. What's your name? Mary? Is your real name Mary Apple? And you carry heart shaped potatoes around? Well, thank you so much for sharing."

So who said finding hearts everywhere would get you nowhere. For Mary Apple, it got her one degree separation to the leader of the free world. It might also get her into the Smithsonian. No biggy.

I heart Mary Apple.

Without further ado, I re-present: Obama and the Potato Heart from David Letterman:

I made home-made pancakes for my 7-yr-old. I also washed the dishes & cleaned the living room. All before 7am. (Then I went back to bed).

2009-09-21T12:14:00.002-04:00

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Today we visited my grandparents and made them happy. At least I hope we did.

2009-09-19T19:35:00.002-04:00

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I will try to usher in this new year with sweetness & positivity; ready & eager to welcome a new wave of light into our lives.

2009-09-18T14:32:00.002-04:00

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Focusing on creating light in my life: Today I lightened my living room by painting my dark coffee table white.

2009-09-15T13:33:00.002-04:00

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I organized our entire tool collection. Every screw, nail, tool sorted. Inspired by "clutter in your house is clutter in your life."

2009-09-14T11:29:00.002-04:00

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Randomisms...On Anger, Writing, Divorce, Fear ...

2009-09-13T15:05:00.001-04:00

Recently I went on a computer scavenger hunt to find some old writing pieces. On my way to the X-Marks the Spot, I found some random G-isms that I wrote here and there along the way. Most fall under the category of life and emotions. Here I spew:

ON ANGER:

Don’t give in to the anger. Some pattern of behavior causes you to be mad all the time for the same reasons. Instead of letting the anger win – take the upper hand. Understand why you’re feeling angry – and try to figure out WHY you’re feeling this way. What’s the underlying cause of the anger? If you realize you won’t be mad/angry – you just won’t be. It’s up to you to feel what you want to feel. If you don’t want to feel angry – then choose to feel something else.

But you have to truly do it and then it works.

ON WRITING:

I just want to keep on writing. It’s like all my life I’ve been walking around with thoughts in my head – just sentences dancing around a Bingo wheel – spinning and spinning and then popping once in a while to get called. Rarely will you get a ‘Bingo!’

But words just keep spilling from me and I want to write them down. I finally got a minute. I’ve been writing for 27 years in my head and I just feel like I want to get them all out. The thoughts, the realizations, the memories – all those stories.

My boyfriend told me that comedians believe that you have to write everything twice. Write it once and throw it away. If it’s good, it will come back. Well I guess now I’m waiting for them all to flow out. All those circling words.

*****

It wasn't until a few years ago that I realized that I could quell my insanity by writing. Once I started doing it regularly, I realized it was bringing my anxious soul to rest. All the words and sentences that dance around in my mind finally freed onto paper. So yay for me - writing helps me not be a crazy lunatic.

So why do I ever stop?

ON DIVORCE:

It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been divorced – when that wedding anniversary date roles up, you take note. Positively or negatively or nonchalantly, you take note. Wednesday would have been my 8th anniversary – but I cut out at 4. The vows broken and dowry divided. When you get married your families combine. Your friends, your households, your money, your stuff. All that fucking stuff that you have to go through and divide.

I went full circle – mine and yours – to ours – to mine and yours again.

ON FEAR (of happiness and success):

Fear of happiness – why do we have it? It comes from the same place in our minds that fosters fear of success. It’s what keeps you from trying, but not truly pursuing your dreams. You may not recognize this as fear – but it often pops up as “what-ifs” to every scenario. “What-ifs” that function to produce doubt and instability – negatives to any happiness equation.

Fear of success … what if you can’t live up to what you promise? What if you don’t believe in yourself? All these what-ifs are nothing more than fear.

I spent an hour convincing myself not to worry about what-if's. Then I spent an hour playing imagine-if's. It seemed more positive. But I wonder.

2009-09-12T12:14:00.002-04:00

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Eight Years Ago, Our Lives Changed Forever

2009-09-11T11:16:00.001-04:00

9/11 as a number, when spoken out loud, has become redefined. For most Americans, visually 9-1-1 has always symbolized emergency. After September 11th, 2001, 9/11 represented a day that surpassed emergency.

It became a day I wouldn’t forget as it happened in real time. Soon it evolved into my generation’s JFK question: “Where were you on 9/11?”

I remember the day in bits of pieces, blurred by the tears. I cried for the victims, for the city, for the country, for the state of human race, for our future. I remember being afraid, as if it was hyper-real and I was watching it from above.

I walked across town to work beneath a sun-filled sky. I stopped at Starbucks for my decaf and my cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese. I never tasted the bagel that morning.

I barely started clicking through my morning emails when my co-worker started gasping and shouting out loud about the first plane. Her ex-husband had worked at Cantor Fitzgerald.

We tried to keep up with the alerts on the computer but this was before streaming video was good enough. We tried calling those at home for TV updates. We tried to tune the radios into something audible. The sirens wailed outside. The phones were unusable – a constant busy sound. There was panic even in the dial tone.

I was living through an exaggerated action movie. The first tower fell. The second tower fell. They were closing all the bridges and tunnels; all the airports. A plane crashes in Pennsylvania. We sat afraid of the next announcement – what was going to be next?

I didn’t trust anything I was hearing and like most of the world, I hovered in a state of disbelief, shock and sadness. Carrying a 10-week pregnancy that no one knew about, I wondered about the new world my child would now know.

Everyone has their version of the morning’s perfect weather, where they were headed, what they ate for breakfast, where they were glued to the TVs. Images that have become immortalized onto our brains. Planes crashing, towers falling, epic rescues. The uniformed officers, the unnamed victims, the unexpected heroes.

At work we huddled; a family forced together by a funeral. We bonded by virtue of experiencing the event together; watching a historic tragedy unfold before our eyes. We abandoned the office by mid-morning after all of the planes stopped crashing.

Six of my co-workers and I went to a local bar to watch the day’s events unfold. We were frozen; some of us were stuck in the city, some of us were stuck from getting out of the city. Some wanted to give blood, some wanted to go downtown, we all wanted to do something.

It was about 5pm when my group decided to split up and try to get home. It was easy for me – I had to walk from 40th street and 9th avenue to 27th street and 3rd avenue. My only concern was that I had to walk by the Empire State Building. I remember that being a valid concern. I was afraid that they might target it next. I remember waiting until enough time had gone by for them to land all the airplanes.

I lived across the street from the Park Avenue Armory, where people were directed to report so that they could register their missing relatives and family. They were ordered to bring in hairbrushes, toothbrushes; anything from which they could pull DNA. In the days that followed I would come downstairs to news trucks with satellite dishes on their roofs. I used to walk the dog around the corner and see the countless screaming, crying, disbelieving, hopeful souls.

There were posters, pictures, flyers, signs everywhere. On brick buildings, on glass buildings, in store fronts, on lamp posts, on fences, on street signs. The signs were silent but they pled to us. “Did you see my dad? Have you seen my mom? Last seen in Tower 2 … ”

I had resigned to their deaths but the sign hangers were still thinking they would find loved ones wandering around confused in the streets of Manhattan. The sheer hope they felt was the polar opposite from anything I was feeling. Like magnets on either sides, the more they hoped, the sadder I got.

This surreal experience would warrant an arduous healing process. A city in mourning, we had lost so many and had left countless others grieving. New Yorkers are all connected, we all knew someone or knew someone who knew someone that was in the Towers, or in the area, or on their way to the area. It could have been any of us. We all replayed in our minds the last time we were there. Downtown. In the Towers. We all thanked any higher power that it wasn’t us.

New York City was understandably different after 9/11.

The volume had changed; people were whispering over the hush of death in the air.

Our appearance had changed; the face of our city was broken. We lit candles and made impromptu tributes out of pictures, flags, pins, flowers. Every firehouse became a memorial.

We felt different. We were kinder. We were more humble and more giving. We volunteered. We were more nationalistic and more understanding. We had a common enemy, a common anger, a shared pain. We became both more aware and more apprehensive of the world around us. More fearful and more educated.

Fear is a weakening thought; without it the terrorists wouldn’t have had a playing field. By instilling fear in us, they have trumped us – converted their terrorizing bishops into kings – because we gave them the power to do so.

Two years later I found myself at a new job in a high rise building in midtown, not far from the United Nations Building. I had a windowed office looking out onto 42nd Street. Since we were close to the East River, I saw my share of airplanes from my window. I never understood why they allowed planes to fly over the city again, but by the same token I didn’t want the city to become a slave to terrorist fears. Nonetheless, every time I saw a plane coming too low, too close, too fast … my heart skipped a beat and I held my breath.

It was about one in the afternoon when the fire alarm went off. We waited for the announcement that usually followed. Instead of the typical “please ignore the testing of the fire alarm system,” we got “PLEASE EVACUATE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY!” No one questioned it. We gathered our bags as fast as we could and galloped our way down 14 flights of steps, each flight increasing our heartbeats, each flight closer to safety. The fear was palpable, like a thickness in the air. We exited the building through a side entrance and sprinted as far as possible from the building.

It turned out to be an unattended attaché case with an ipod wire sticking out. They thought bomb. I don’t mind how many times they have to cry wolf, I was running out each and every time.

*********

I lie in Central Park, my body sinking deeper and deeper in the late summer thick grass. My eyes are closed tightly but I’m staring into the sun to see the psychedelic patterns and colors. I hear the hum of an airplane, and then feel the shadow of the plane over the sun. I squint my eyes open and see the plane flying overhead. I take a breath and hold it until it passes.

I don’t think that I have post-9/11 syndrome. It’s not exactly a post-traumatic syndrome.

Life is traumatic and after any such experience we live differently. Like a child who discovers for the first time that their parents are fallible, we discovered as a nation that our country wasn’t perfect.

There are many countries whose citizens exist with a consistent overwhelming dread of war over their heads. Americans, however, are born with our freedom. We don’t know or expect anything else. It’s our right, our privilege, something we often take for granted.

To some, 9/11 created a new way of existence. My mother does not leave the house on 9/11; it’s her personal way of remembering the day. For me, 9/11 was like a vaccine. Every year I go directly to the site of the accident and remember what was there; visit the grave that doesn’t formally exist. I am not afraid of the day, for I feel that I have gotten my little dose – my immunization from the terror.

But it’s just as well; we are growing a new post-9/11 generation. A generation that isn’t ingrained with that fear. A generation that will look at the gaping hole in the ground and not see it as a grave, but as a construction zone. This generation will know a new skyline of Manhattan – with a soaring new Freedom Tower. They do not miss the skyline that was – the skyline that became celebrated in countless movies and pictures.

Remembering the day still feels like watching a succession of tragic images through a virtual View-Master. We were forced together as New Yorkers, as Americans, as victims, as survivors – and we bonded over a shared human pain. Together we watched as our city (and our country) took a beating.

But rock-by-rock, person-by-person, steel beam by steal beam, we cleaned out the death and replaced it with promise, with hope, with future.

There are days in our lives that are extraordinary to all of us. Monumental days like the day we met the love of our live; the day our children were born; the day we finally got to wear the cap and gown. But 9/11 became a collective memory. A day when everyone knew someone … and everyone was someone to you. The day American united.

I wrote about someone who inspired me then I shared it made them cry. The power to use words to stir people is a beautiful privilege.

2009-09-10T16:49:00.002-04:00

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Me.Propelling

2009-09-09T18:33:00.004-04:00

A month or so back, someone from Divine Caroline (a site I had been contributing to for a while) contacted me about participating in a promotion with Propel water. I didn't know much about the product (H2O is usually H2O) but I loved the idea they proposed: an interactive online community devoted to supporting and stimulating moving your life forward - You.Propelled.

The overall concept revolves around a contest that encourages users to proclaim what they did each day to enhance or streamline their life. An opportunity to declare to yourself (and the community) something that earns a public check mark. The contest also has a sweet reward: $5,000 to pursue your dreams.

The You.Propel promotion came in a very transitional point in my life. If nothing else, this micro-community will force me to proclaim what I do each day to move my life one small step into a better direction. Not up or forward - just better. Me - Propelling forward. .

Through the end of November, you'll see me tweeting my proclamations and they'll show up on Facebook and HeartsEverywhere as well. It will be awesome as a micro-blog type experience to document how much I did in three months, in little steps, to better my life. One proclamation at a time.

I crossed off 10 things from today's To-Do list. (OK, so one of them was an appointment that canceled) PS: I'm still not unpacked.

2009-09-09T16:45:00.002-04:00

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I chose to wake up happy and move my life one step closer to creating a routine it so desperately craves.

2009-09-08T14:24:00.002-04:00

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Birthday Wishes Welcome - But Save the Whistle

2009-08-03T13:01:00.005-04:00

August birthdays are complicated. In fact, to date I've had no more than 3 birthday parties (mostly because no one was ever around). When I was a kid - like many of my 80s-raised cronies - there was none of the crazy birthday parties New York City parents are famous for throwing. Ironically, I was OK with it (yes I still very much a Leo). I was much better at throwing parties than being the center of them; much better at giving gifts than faking that I liked them.

My adult way of handling birthdays is to leave home -- and I have been choosing this avoidance route for over a decade. I like to be off the radar and let it just slip by - the day - without much hoopla. The upcoming 35th year of celebrating my life is no exception; I'm off on a two-week road trip (Chicago to Yellowstone).

I was in no hurry to have a new box to check off - 35 and over.

As a woman with one child, 35 was also that pivotal age that I was worried would send my biological clock into cuckoo overdrive. I've snoozed the clock, but the 3 and a half decades are still visible. The crow's feet, the forehead lines, the life experiences.

I went into Sephora today today for a quick purchase and they looked up my special number for points. As she validates my identity with my birthday - less than two short weeks away - her face looked like she won a Bingo game. In a swift motion, she excitedly pulled out a lime green circus whistle out of her black Sephora apron. She puffed her cheeks, turned a shade of magenta and blew an most obnoxious squeal across the Upper East Side make up store.

People turned my way and watched my face slowly develop a gradient of pink to red.

"Oh, please put that away," I begged, motioning at the small piercing whistle maker.

"You qualify for the free gift," she screamed and pulled out a tiny black box that says Happy Birthday on it in Sephora font. Inside were 3 lip glosses. Score!

I thanked her politely for the gift, smiled and made my way to pick up a prescription at the doctor's office.

While there, I noticed a sign on the wall that said, "Life is a near-death experience, so enjoy it."

Nicely reminded ...

Maximizing Every (Toilet) Moment

2009-08-01T14:17:00.006-04:00

I pull down my pants and begin the squat for the toilet in one fluid motion. As the pee starts flowing, I turn to the right and automatically notice that I only have one square of toilet paper left. In a movement that seems to come instinctively to those born with two X chromosomes, I pull off the remaining swathe of toilet paper and as if choreographed, put on the replacement roll of toilet paper, neatly waiting for its turn from under the sink.

I’m wiping and within seconds, I’m standing and flushing and buttoning my pants. This is also done in a fluid motion – the ballet of taking a piss. (I tried to say this in a more feminine way but apparently failed.)

I realized I was not in a hurry – but nonetheless, somehow I found an opportunity to multi-task.

The double-Xers -- we multi-task.

Designed by biology, mandated by life, and the cornerstone to parenting: the woman’s ability to multitask is essential to the survival of our species. We need to do it all – and must find pockets of time. Taking a piss is no exception.

This realization dominoed into the revelation that perhaps men do not change the toilet paper roll not because they’re lazy – but simply because they focus exclusively on the task at hand. (And we’re thankful for the tunnel-vision problem solvers in the world.)

I thought about the men in my life – the 30-something and the 7-year-old. Both genetically engineered as hunter/gatherers. When they are releasing themselves, neither one of them put themselves on restocking duty – they focus on the task at hand.

I’ve witnessed a routine that usually follows this protocol:

Light on (optional), seat up, unzip, pull it out, let it flow, tuck it back in, zip it up. Seat down. (rarely).

Dudes don’t stand around looking for another task with which to occupy their time while they’re excreting. Eyes focus straight or down, hands at 6 o’clock.

I guess that’s why they created bathroom graffiti …

I've Been Busy ... But I'm Back

2009-08-01T13:28:00.005-04:00

So I've been busy the last two months.

I've moved - apartment, job, neighborhood ... life rearranged, really. I have been the living epitome of TRANSITION and the last two months, instead of fostering my anxiety, stress, and worry into words on my blog ... I didn't.

So the blog has been lonely and my soul has been carrying a load heavier than it needed.

But alas a writer is a writer, and the words are always formulating into sentences, into stories, into emotions, into clarity, into sanity. I'M BACK.

The longer I stayed away from the blog, the more pressure I put on the Welcome-Back-Me post. I decided to let it go. The "What's Been Up ... I've Moved" (way-too lengthy) post is in fact coming ... but first ...

I found something I wrote a while ago that made me chuckle and decided it was perfect for the first post back. I apologize for its graphic nature, but anyone who knows me, will understand that I have zero qualms about discussing bathroom habits. In fact, I relish in it.

Consider yourself warned ...

Train Uptown: Diverted

2009-06-23T06:24:00.004-04:00

She was buxom, plump – altogether about 100 pounds too heavy. She wore faded black leggings and a black fitted t-shirt. Her softness spilled out despite the black spandex trying to hold in her body. She sat with her arms crossed on the uptown train to somewhere. Her blonde frizzy curls were piled sloppily into a lazy bun on the top of her hair. She wore thick-rimmed black and white cat-shaped glasses which minimized her blue eyes. Black flip-flops revealed toes that never saw a pedicure. A simple gold band adorned her left hand. I tried to picture her other half.

Two stops later, like a choreographed dance, a Mexican man enters the subway in the door closest to her. She slides over to make room for him. He is simple but carries a heavier load. He sits down next to her stone-faced. He places a white plastic bag in between his feet on the dirty gray subway floor.

He wears dark over-sized jeans and a black promotional t-shirt. He has a prominent black mole on his chin and a butchered Asian tattoo on his neck. His ring finger has a matching wedding band.

She puts her arms around his neck and starts to tenderly stroke his neck and hair. She says, “Well you better get in a better mood before dance class later today!”

He whispers something to her. She seems to understand and loudly proclaims, “Well you can tell me anything.” He seems somber and looks down. She gingerly links her arm through his, which sits folded loosely on his lap. He continues to say something quietly.

"I can’t even believe you’re saying this right now," she shouts. "You should just go home, then! I don’t even want to be on the same train with you!"

She grabs the white plastic bag from between his legs and pushes through the crowd to get out of the closing subway door. The door bounces off her as she stumbles onto the platform at 59th Street. Fancy NYC women zoom by her on their way to Bloomingdales. She looks lost and confused as she stares at the subway signs around her searching for salvation.

He continues to stare down, emotionless. He doesn’t look over his shoulder; his eyes gaze nowhere in her direction. He sits lifeless for three more stops and gets off.

US Holocaust Memorial Museum

2009-06-10T17:23:00.007-04:00

In light of today's horrific shooting at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, I am re-posting this -- originally posted 6 weeks ago -- originally written in 1995.

I wrote Three Years Later: Survivors Reflect on the [US Holocaust Memorial] Museum when I was a senior at NYU.

It is magazine feature length so these are just some clips. Read the full article here.

----------

Three Years Later, Survivors Reflect on the Museum
December 1995

The steel doors are framed by thick bolts and when they slam shut with a loud thud, everyone in the elevator gasps for air. The passengers fall silent as we ascend. Anticipating something brutal, I plant my feet firmly on the floor; if I brace myself, maybe it will lessen the shock.

Suddenly a back and white image flickers to life on the television monitor above my head. I look up to see stock footage of a World War II solider standing in front of a liberated concentration camp 50 years ago. He gives the warning: what he saw – and what I am about to see, is like nothing I have ever seen in my life.

The elevator doors open on the permanent exhibition of the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. The display winds its way down – not unlike Dante’s Inferno. I walk through the stories of hell told by those who lived through it.

Although the initial publicity around the museum’s opening has died down, the museum’s focus on remembrance and contemplation requires it to remain in the public eye to fulfill its mission. More than just a collection of artifacts or the preservation of history, it was intended as an educational instrument. It is not enough to be a national memorial to the 12 million murdered if the lessons of history it imparts are not learned.

In the death camps – and on their way to the gas chambers, the victims were forced into isolation from their entire world. It was their last wish that the world know what they went through. A direct verbal account is the only way that the truth – and the accuracy of the terror – can be conveyed.

Nesse Godin, a Holocaust survivor, remembers:

“’Maybe you young girls will survive,’ they told us. ‘Promise us you will make them remember. Don’t let them forget. Zieg der verld (Tell the world)’, they cried.”

Godin was 13 in June 1941 when Germans marched into Lithuania. Soldiers rounded up Jewish men and boys to “clean up war damage.” They were taken from their native town of Siauliai and taken deep into the forest. There they were ordered to strip under gunpoint. Then they were forced to dig their own graves. Finally they were shot. Farmers nearby said that the ground shook from the sound of bullets and falling bodies. The rest of the Jews were herded into a few blocks and that became the Siauliai Ghetto. In 1944, the Ghetto was emptied. Godin survived several labor camps and a forced march. In 1945, she was liberated by the advancing Soviet army. She was 17 years old.

“What kind of criminal was I? I was one of the lucky ones; I survived. So when I look at the people at the museum, I remember the cries of 'Zieg der verld’ and I see the world,” says Godin, 67, a museum volunteer. We need this museum. It preserves history and it teaches. Being memorialized is not enough. We cannot bring back the dead.”

Death preoccupies my thoughts as I stare at the blue-and-white striped prisoner uniforms hanging limply in a two-story column in front of me. They are frayed, torn, tattered, missing buttons. I recognize this uniform on thousands of emaciated bodies in the black and white photographs surrounding me. I see a gray-haired, short man two feet away from me; he has a tear rolling down his face. I wonder if he wore one of those uniforms. The air feels thicker; each breath is harder to take.

Before the Holocaust, there were nine million Jews in Continental Europe; within a dozen years, two-thirds of European Jews had perished. You watch the video footage from the television monitors above and stare deeply into the eyes of the Holocaust victims who are captured on the black and white film. All the eyes convey signals of death; even the faintest glimmer of life was quickly shattered by a Nazi’s boot.

I gaze at the display of a Nazi uniform. The brown assaults my eyes, but what sears all my senses are the red armbands with their piercing black swastikas. I picture that uniform from the view of a concentration camp victim who’s lying on the floor being stomped on by those tall, black, powerful boots.

I am just a visitor to the museum and will probably never understand. Not even the most imaginative description of the Holocaust can truly reflect the horror and the carefully planned savagery. No account can re-enact the emotions of the victims – and the survivors. And still, even survivors who emphasize the inability of any narrative to fully portray their suffering, even they want the story to be told.

Ann Shore is the President of the Hidden Child Foundation, an organization within the Anti-Defamation League. Children who hid their Jewish identities to survive the war comprise this 6,000-member organization. Shore was 12 years old in 1942 when the police in Zabno stuck a gun to her and asked her where her father was. She told them she didn’t know. They ran to the basement, where he was hiding, and shot him dead. Shore, her mother, and sister fled to a farming village and hid in a small farm until the end of the war.

“The museum is very meaningful to the Holocaust survivors,” Shore says. “We feel deeply moved by it because it’s our lives they’re showing. But the museum is not for us. We are the story. The museum transcends the story.”

There is a family photo – everyone is smiling; the father seems proud. Their table is adorned by rolls and wines and smiles; a depiction of life before the war. A mother and her young son sit on a hammock together. Two grandmothers are photographed wearing polka-dotted dresses and holding canvas bags. Another pictures reveals twin sisters with matching bows in their hair.

She was four years old when the killing began. “I realized that Jews died a double death,” Eliach says. “The first was the horrible murder by the Nazis and the second was that their memory was being obliterated. I wanted to rescue this one town from oblivion. I was determined that these Jews would not be remembered only as victims. When I stood on the massive grave in Eishishok, I saw it not as skulls and bones but as people begging to be remembered the way they were.”

Eliach’s exhibit in the museum aims to give the murdered people back their faces and their identities. “I want people to go away from the museum and think. Not just about the emotional reaction, but I want them to think about preserving democracy and what happens when democracy fails. I want people to make a commitment to safeguard democracy. I want them to walk out to the streets of Washington with a message, with knowledge, and hopefully, encouraged to think.”

When the museum opened in April 1993, the ones who lived through the horror could finally tell their stories to the world.

“We are the last survivors to tell our story and you are the last ones to hear it,” Shore says. “Just remember that so much more is gained by love than by hate. Because hate can become self destructive.”

The museum’s concerted effort is to educate children. Godin speaks to students in inner city schools in Washington D.C. She tells them:

“You wonderful people, look at each other. Don’t see a religion or a color. See a person. be a little kinder, be a better human being. Treat each other a little better. Learn to tolerate each other and live.”

Happiness is Finding Your Place...

2009-06-08T00:38:00.004-04:00

It wasn’t until my third summer in my apartment that I really started enjoying the luxury of a New York City balcony. By balcony I mean fire escape. But it’s a special fire escape – it has a concrete base so no tightrope maneuver necessary to stand outside my window.

Nonetheless, perched above 97th street on my very own outdoor space, I get high as my senses happily drive into overload. The sound of Reggae music competes with the birds’ choir. The sun sets beyond Central Park on the West Side as scrubs-wearing hospital employees meander home. The perfect temperature warms my shoulders while a cool breeze blows the hair off my face. The smell of the Mexican restaurant’s fajitas outweighs the smell of detergent escaping through the Laundromat vents.

I spy a small boy blowing bubbles, some of which drift my way – they hover just out of grasp; little haloes that float about in this little bit of heaven.

Happiness is finding a place that’s your little accessible heaven on earth and being able to go back there. Anytime.

Me vs. the Public Toilet

2009-06-03T10:58:00.001-04:00

My shit stinks too – just not in someone else’s bathroom – mostly because I won’t drop my load there. How ironic for those who know me since I won’t blink an eye at a two-hour conversation discussing the merits and different kinds of bowel movements. I’ll tell anyone who listens how my nerves send me to the bowl; tests in college, a work review, my wedding day … nothing is too scared for my stomach – or its rapid release into the porcelain god.

But ever since I was young, I cannot go on public toilets. I can go number one, but not number two. When I pee on a public toilet, I always squat and never sit. It amazes me how people can just sit down, barely a wipe of the filthy seat, and unload their bowels. Instead, I’ll hold it in for a day until I get to a familiar toilet.

Ironically I’ll pee anywhere. The hesitation is in reference to poop only. I’ll pee in anyone’s bathroom, a parking lot, in the middle of Third Avenue in Manhattan (OK so sometimes the Manhattan peeing has to do with booze).

At my old job, I found a bathroom in the hallway, near the elevator where the regular people didn’t go. We called it the ‘Executive’ as if only for the privileged few. Once in the Executive, there was a lining procedure. Using paper towels, I would double line the seat. If there were no thick paper, there would be a triple layer of toilet paper.

I blame my mother – as always – for creating this neurosis. First of all, she potty trained me too young. In Russia, it was just the thing to do. I was so anxious to please the potty, the anecdote is that at 10 months, I pulled a pot out of the kitchen cupboard and took a crap in it. My mother carried a potty with us everywhere we went through immigration. Russia, Italy, Vienna, America – Galina’s toilet habits span oceans and cultures. She never let me sit on a toilet seat. She would lift me up over any public toilet seat to pee until I was too heavy to hold with my legs perched open over a toilet.

So now 30 years later I battle the toilet demons with my 7-year-old son. “Don’t touch anything!” I yell whenever we go into a public toilet. Recently he stopped coming into the women’s bathroom with me and wants to go big-boy style into the men’s room. I let him go and cross my fingers he flushes with his foot.

Incidentally, according to Australian health specialists, there is such a thing as the perfect pee.

Flowers in Riverdale

2009-06-02T09:16:00.001-04:00

Surrounding the fancy private school were some flowers the morning after the rain. I take photos of too many flowers but it's my blog and I'll post flowers if I want to ...