The Quiet Geometry of My Birthday

There is something oddly reverent about waking up on your birthday. The world doesn’t look different—no sudden shimmer in the air, no mystical alignment of clouds—but the day feels stitched with a quieter thread, as if time is whispering your name through the fabric of everything. I woke up today into that softness.

It’s not that I expect balloons or fanfare. In fact, as I grow older, I crave the opposite. The loud parties of childhood—frosted cake, torn wrapping paper, sugar highs—have faded into the background like the static of an old radio. Now I find myself drawn to the stillness between the moments, the subtle arithmetic of having lived another year. What did I learn? What did I let go of? Who did I become?

My birthday has become a kind of private ritual. A checking in. I notice things more keenly on this day: how the morning light folds gently through my window, how my face in the mirror carries traces of every version of me I’ve ever been. I smile at the child I was, the one who thought being an adult meant answers. I nod respectfully to the teenager who scribbled dreams into the margins of notebooks. I hold a kind of quiet companionship with the recent me, the one who survived some things I didn’t see coming.

This day no longer feels like it’s about celebration so much as it is about gratitude. Not the kind shouted in social media captions, but the private kind. Gratitude that I’m still here. That despite the jaggedness of time and the occasional loneliness that comes with living in a human body; living alone, I keep unfolding into myself. I keep arriving.

I’ve started a tradition. Each year on my birthday, I write a letter to myself. Not full of goals or resolutions, but reflections. What was I afraid of this year? What surprised me? Where did I feel most alive? These letters become time capsules of truth, written not for who I hope to become, but for the person I already am—worthy, unfinished, real.

Birthdays, I’ve come to believe, are less about marking time and more about inhabiting it. Today I don’t need a party. I just need a long walk, a cup of coffee, a moment to breathe and remember that life is not made of milestones alone, but of mornings like this—quiet, slow, brimming with meaning.

Another year. Another layer. Another unfolding. And for that, I am deeply, simply grateful.

The Blind Spot in Business Gratitude

In my 40-year career as a business leader, executive director and manager, the greatest and most sustainable lessons I learned is “thank you,” to a working team, can either light a fire of pride or smother morale within a company.  I am currently retired from the global companies for which I gratefully worked – with terrific colleagues and teams.  However, I decided to go back to work in a small, locally owned company and a memo from the new owner to “the staff,” reminded me of The Blind Spot in Business Gratitude. If you are a manager, I hope you find this of value.

Every manager knows to thank their sales team when revenue spikes. They might praise marketing after a successful campaign or applaud operations after a smooth product launch. But too often, recognition stops there.

What about the finance analyst who optimized the budget? The administrative department who meets, greets, answers phones and is the center of office communication? The IT specialist who kept systems running?

This tutorial will help you, as a thoughtful manager, develop a habit and strategy for thanking everyone—not just those in the spotlight. Because when gratitude is inclusive, engagement, retention, and morale rise across the board.

Lesson 1: Shift Your Perspective—Success is a Network, Not a Ladder

The Ladder Mindset
• Gratitude climbs up and down, focusing only on clear wins.
• Departments at the top (sales, marketing, leadership) get the bulk of the thanks.

The Network Mindset
• Every function is a node; success is shared through connections.
• No single win happens in isolation.

Action Tip: When reviewing a success story, ask: “Who else made this possible, indirectly or behind the scenes?”

Lesson 2: Build a Thank-You Map

Before the next all-hands or internal memo, take 15 minutes to do the following:

1. List the visible contributors. (e.g., product, sales)

2. Identify enabling roles.
o Who maintained the systems they used?
o Who processed the invoices?
o Who recruited and trained the staff?

3. Name the invisible champions.
o Culture builders
o Front desk, security, HR, compliance
o Cleaners, cafeteria workers, and vendors

Outcome: A holistic view of contributors that often go unrecognized.

Lesson 3: Use Language That Elevates Everyone

When expressing gratitude, avoid language that creates a hierarchy of importance. Instead of:
“Big thanks to the sales team for driving our success.”

Try:
“Our success was a team effort—from the sales team who closed the deals to the support teams who kept everything running behind the scenes.”

Bonus Phrases:
• “Thanks to every hand that touched this project.”
• “Appreciation goes to both the seen and unseen contributors.”
• “Your impact may not always be visible, but it’s always vital.”

Lesson 4: Create Rituals of Recognition

Make inclusive gratitude a habit—not a one-off.

• Monthly Gratitude Roundups: Ask teams to submit unsung heroes.
• Rotating Spotlights: Feature different departments in internal comms, regardless of headline wins.
• “Thank You Forward” Chains: Encourage team members to thank someone who helped them—and explain why.
• Meetings:
o If you are meeting consistently with a few teams, try to figure out a way to meet with all teams, even if it means to bring everyone up to speed/on the same page.
o No department/person appreciates being the last to know because they are never appropriately briefed on changes, updates or new directions taking place in the company.
o Administrative roles are as important to the business’ success as any other department
o Make everyone feel like a contributor of the business.

Key Rule: Every recognition ritual must be designed to reveal the invisible.

Lesson 5: Model It in Meetings and Messages

Managers set the tone. In your next leadership call or team meeting:
• Pause to name contributors from lesser-known departments.
• Share a brief story of someone who made a quiet, meaningful impact.
• Ask other leaders: “Who else made this possible?”

Remember: Gratitude expressed publicly builds culture. Gratitude expressed privately builds trust.

Conclusion: Thanking Widely Is Thinking Wisely

When you recognize all contributors—not just the headline-makers—you create a culture where everyone feels seen. This is not just good manners. It’s smart leadership. Because people repeat the work that gets recognized, and if you only see part of the picture, you’ll only inspire part of the effort.
So, next time you say, “thank you,” look beyond the obvious. The real engine of your business includes everyone.

Cinco de Mayo: A Completely Serious and Accurate Historical Account (Not Really)

Let me begin by saying that I love any holiday that justifies eating guacamole before noon and drinking margaritas the size of birdbaths. Naturally, Cinco de Mayo is high on my list of favorite holidays—right up there with National Pancake Day and whatever Wednesday my local pub decides to call “Trivia Night.”
Like most Americans, I used to think Cinco de Mayo was Mexico’s Independence Day. I believed this confidently and loudly, usually while wearing a sombrero I got from Party City and holding a beer imported no farther than St. Louis. As it turns out, Mexico’s actual Independence Day is September 16th. Oops. Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Mexican victory over the French at the Battle of Puebla in 1862.
Now, you may ask, “Why would the French invade Mexico?” Good question. Apparently, Napoleon III was bored, couldn’t get a Netflix subscription, and decided that Mexico would look fabulous with a little European flair. But the Mexicans weren’t having it. Despite being outnumbered and outgunned, they beat back the French like a mom slapping a spatula out of your hand before the cake cools. It was a wildly impressive underdog moment—Rocky Balboa but with bayonets and mustaches.
And yet, despite this dramatic military victory, Cinco de Mayo isn’t even a big holiday in most of Mexico. In fact, most Mexicans are like, “You guys are still doing that?” while watching gringos attempt salsa dancing like caffeinated giraffes.
In the United States, however, Cinco de Mayo has become a glorious, guac-fueled celebration of Mexican culture, music, and tortilla-based architecture. It is a day when we collectively remember that tequila has consequences and that wearing a poncho to the office might raise HR questions.
Now, let’s be clear—Cinco de Mayo is not just an excuse to drink margaritas at 11 a.m. on a weekday. It’s also an excuse to eat nachos the size of a futon while pretending you know what a mariachi band is. If you’re lucky, you’ll attend a street festival where toddlers in tiny sombreros throw confetti at your feet like you’re some kind of queso-coated monarch.
And yet, despite all the fun, Cinco de Mayo offers something deeper: the opportunity to celebrate resilience, culture, and the triumph of the underdog. Also, tacos. Lots of tacos.
So this Cinco de Mayo, raise a glass (or three), learn a little history, and try not to refer to your neighbor as “amigo” just because he’s wearing sandals. And remember: the real battle is not against the French—it’s trying to eat a burrito the size of your forearm without it disintegrating into your lap.
¡Viva el guacamole! ¡Viva Cinco de Mayo! And most importantly—viva nap time afterward.

Happy Beltane 2025

“Beltane Morning”
Mist drapes the hills like a forgotten veil,
and the first birds speak in soft, urgent syllables.
The air tastes of green things returning—
not just grass, but the memory of growth,
the promise of ripening.
At the forest’s edge, a fire waits to be born.
It remembers the hands that struck the flint,
the breath that urged it into being.
Women braid flowers into their hair,
not for beauty,
but for invocation—
as if petals could persuade the gods
to linger a little longer.
The men gather wood
not with silence,
but with laughter sharp as flint,
as if joy itself is kindling.
Somewhere, a drum begins—
steady, low,
older than language.
It calls to something beneath the skin,
something that once walked barefoot through dew
and knew the name of every bird
by the rhythm of its wings.
Beltane is not a date.
It is the body’s remembering—
of light before harvest,
of fire before shadow,
of touch before reason.
And in the darkening grass,
two figures step through the smoke
as if walking into a story
that has waited
a thousand years to be told again.

THE ZIPPER THAT ZAPPED ME

I once had a zipper, a zip-zappy zapper,
It zipped with a ZZZ like a zip-happy clapper.
It lived on my jacket, all shiny and snappy,
But boy, when it’s moody, it’s not very happy.
It zipped up with glee on a Tuesday at two,
Then stopped with a GLUNK! and refused to go through!
It wiggled, it jiggled, it jammed in a loop,
It gobbled my hoodie into a tight swoop!
I tugged it, I begged it, I gave it a pep—
It burped and it squeaked and it nibbled my step.
It sucked in my scarf and it nipped at my chin,
Then laughed a small laugh from its zippery grin.
It zipped itself backward, it zipped in a curl,
It zipped in a circle and tried to unfurl!
Then WHAM! in a moment, it zipped up my cat—
Poor Mr. McWhiskers got zipped in a hat!
“Now listen here, Zipper!” I gave it a glare,
“You’ve zipped half the hallway, the rugs, and my chair!
You zip without manners, you zip without care!
I’d send you to jail if I just had a spare!”
But Zippers, you see, are a strange little crew—
They’ll zip what they want and they’ll zip what they do.
You think that you wear them, but oh, it’s a trick—
The zipper’s the boss! And it zips you up quick.
So now I wear buttons. They’re slower, it’s true.
They don’t zip my cat or my sandwich or shoe.
They’re calm, they’re polite, and they won’t cause a scene…
Except when they pop off and bounce off my screen.
NATIONAL ZIPPER DAY – 4/29

A Farewell to Francis: by an Ex-Roman Catholic, Still Listening for Grace

I left the Church years ago—quietly, without ceremony. Not out of hatred, but weariness. The weight of doctrine, the fractures of scandal, the silence where I needed words. Still, when I heard that Pope Francis had passed, something stirred in me. Not guilt, not obligation. Something else. A sort of reverent grief.

Francis was not perfect—no pope is. But in a world roaring with division, he dared to whisper mercy. He reached for the hands others recoiled from. He spoke not just to the faithful, but to the wounded, the doubting, the wandering. People like me.

He washed the feet of prisoners. He kissed the faces of the disfigured. He reminded us—daily, stubbornly—that love does not ask for permission before it embraces. That compassion, real compassion, has no border.

I never went back to the Church, not in the formal sense. But I listened. I watched. And when he spoke—about climate, about poverty, about the sacredness of every single soul—I found myself leaning in.

Now he’s gone, and somehow, I feel it. Like the dimming of a soft but steady lamp in a long corridor. He may not have lit my path home, but he lit something in me that still burns.

Maybe sainthood is measured not in miracles, but in how much gentler the world becomes in your presence.

Pope Francis made the world gentler.

And for that, even from afar, I say: thank you. Go in peace, Holy Father. You were light.

Easter 2025

In this season of renewal and remembrance, we are reminded of two timeless stories—stories that stretch across centuries and traditions, but speak to one truth: that liberation is born of courage, faith, and relentless hope.

Passover tells of a people rising from bondage, defying a brutal empire with nothing but faith and determination. Easter proclaims that even in the face of betrayal, injustice, and death, life and truth cannot be buried for long. In both, we find the fierce reminder that darkness does not have the final word.

Today, we stand in a moment that tests our endurance. The weight of this administration’s policies and rhetoric may feel heavy. It may tempt us to retreat, to grow numb, to give in. But we are not alone—and we are not without power.

This season calls us not only to reflect, but to rise. To be the voices in the wilderness. The hands that reach for justice. The stubborn hearts that refuse to accept cruelty as normal. Like those before us, we persist not because it is easy—but because it is right.

So stand. Speak. Refuse to be silenced. Whether you light candles or lift hallelujahs, let your courage burn bright enough to show others the way. We are descendants of exodus and resurrection. Resistance is in our bones.

Freedom is not a distant promise—it is a daily choice. And we will choose it. Again and again.

April 18: The Ride of Paul Revere and Reflections on Today’s America

On the night of April 18, 1775, Paul Revere set out on his legendary midnight ride to warn the American colonies of the approaching British soldiers. His mission was a critical moment in the lead-up to the American Revolution, an act of defiance that galvanized colonial resistance and ultimately led to the birth of a new nation. As we reflect on Revere’s ride, it is worth considering not just the historical significance of that night, but also the broader context of today’s America—a country grappling with its own crises, divisions, and calls for change.

This moment, despite the many historical myths that have grown around it, embodies the spirit of resistance and a determination to defend one’s rights. The American Revolution was not merely a battle against an external enemy, but a fight for self-determination, liberty, and the right to govern oneself. It was a rejection of oppression, a demand for representation, and the belief that individual freedoms should be protected at all costs.

In some ways, this same spirit of resistance can be seen in the United States today.

Just as Revere’s ride marked the beginning of a fight for justice and self-governance, today’s movements signal an ongoing struggle for fairness and equity. The fight is no longer just against a foreign power or an external monarchy; it’s an internal struggle—one that seeks to address systemic injustices within the fabric of American society. However, much like the days leading up to the American Revolution, there are forces that seek to maintain the status quo. Whether it is political leaders who resist meaningful change, or institutions that perpetuate inequality, there is a tension between those calling for progress and those who fear the implications of such change.

This tension is evident in the national debates over everything from healthcare and climate change to voting rights and immigration reform. In these debates, one can hear echoes of the past—of Revere’s urgent call to arms, of the revolutionary impulse that drives people to take action when they believe their way of life is threatened. It’s important to recognize that the struggles for freedom, justice, and representation are ongoing. While our world is vastly different from the one Revere lived in, the core issues—inequality, division, and the fight for self-determination—remain deeply relevant today.

As we remember Revere’s ride, we should also ask ourselves: what is our responsibility in continuing the fight for justice in America? What are the causes that we must stand for, and how do we, like Revere, contribute to the preservation of liberty? The challenges may have changed, but the call to action is as loud as ever, and the need for courage, resilience, and determination remains paramount.

In many ways, Revere’s ride was not just a historical event—it was a symbol of what is possible when individuals rise to defend what they believe is right. Today, we must continue to heed that call, recognizing that the ride is far from over.

The Quiet Slide: Losing Democracy to Fascism

It doesn’t happen all at once.

We imagine the end of democracy as a great rupture—boots stomping, books burning, a single broadcast replacing the cacophony of free voices. But in truth, the decline is quieter. It is a slow erosion of norms and a steady dulling of public outrage. It is a normalization of cruelty, a reshaping of language, a rerouting of empathy. And perhaps most dangerously, it is a weary public turning its face away—tired, overworked, and convinced that nothing can really change.

Democracy, for all its flaws, is a radical idea: that the many can govern themselves with fairness, with shared power, with the rights of even the smallest voices protected. Fascism, in contrast, offers a dark kind of simplicity—one leader, one story, one enemy. It promises certainty, belonging, and safety in exchange for submission, exclusion, and obedience. And when a people are frightened, when they feel unseen or forgotten or betrayed, that bargain begins to look appealing.

We are living in such a moment. The warning signs are not subtle anymore. We see them in the demonization of the press, in the dehumanization of immigrants, in the rewriting of history, in the celebration of violence, and in the quiet compromises made by those who should know better. We see it in the way truth becomes negotiable, institutions are undermined, and compassion is reframed as weakness.

But still—many people do not feel alarmed. That, too, is part of the danger.

Authoritarianism rarely begins with a coup. It begins with fatigue. With confusion. With people laughing off what they should fear. It begins when civic engagement feels like an act of futility, and when politics becomes another form of entertainment, not a shared responsibility. It begins when neighbors stop talking, when trust fades, and when cynicism becomes easier than hope.

History offers too many examples. Germany. Italy. Chile. Hungary. The patterns are hauntingly familiar. And yet, what we often forget is that resistance, too, is possible. Democracy, even in its fragility, can endure. But only if we choose to see each other—not as enemies, but as fellow citizens, fallible and frightened and full of potential.

What might save us is not another policy or politician, though those matter. It is a reawakening of empathy. A radical recommitment to community. A refusal to abandon the idea that truth exists and that it matters. We must remember what it means to belong to each other.

Fascism feeds on isolation. Democracy breathes through connection.

So we must listen harder. Speak with more care. Call out cruelty. Defend the vulnerable. Vote like our lives depend on it—because for many, they do. And we must do it not just for ourselves, but for the ones who come after us, for whom history is not yet written.

We are not helpless. Not yet. But we must not wait any longer to act as if we are responsible.

Fading Away

When I was first diagnosed with cancer and was told that my time to live may be limited, I expected to feel despair or perhaps a kind of numbness, but instead, a deep sense of urgency flooded over me.

I wasn’t afraid of dying, but of what I had left to do, what I wanted to leave behind, and disheartened by the thought of being forgotten.

To me, being forgotten is dying twice.

Recently, an acquaintance of mine and an integral member of our local theater community suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Tony was renowned throughout Southern New England as a teacher, theatrical director, actor and reviewer to hundreds of artists, theaters and supporters of the arts.

For 47 years, he was a beloved fixture in our lives with a quick wit, an ever-present ear to listen and a distinctive, spontaneous laugh familiar to those who knew him.

Between the local TV news reports, countless social media posts and conversations with friends about Tony, it’s clear to me that our friend and colleague will sustain a long and much-loved legacy.

Tony’s passing alerted me of how being born inevitably launches our life clock. Time’s never on our side. That feeling caught me off guard, once again. The thought of slipping away from the memory of those I hold dear filled me with sorrow.

I’m not writing about a life void of achievement or accolades, travel and enrichment. I’ve been blessed to have experienced these. But I often contemplate if I’ve had a quiet impact on others.

Did I show kindness or love? How did I make people feel? The legacy we leave is in the small moments: the shared laughter, the comforting words, the strength we offer in times of need—all are more important to me than any award, plaque or trip to an exotic place.

I love my only child, Lauren, my six sisters, their kids and one very special niece, Trish. I hope they’ll remember the small, intimate moments that made up our lives—the ones often overlooked, but never forgotten by those who experience them.

I hope my daughter will remember the way I made chocolate chip pancakes in the morning for her and her friends. How I used to sing or play the piano when I thought no one was listening, just to fill the house with something beautiful. And how I always tried to be present, even when life was hectic.

In order to remember, I’m focused on creating my blog—not of goodbyes, but of memories. I pen stories of my youth, the moments that shaped me, and the quiet wisdom I’ve gathered from others. I write about love, about loss, and about the beauty of fleeting moments.

I’m not writing for an audience, but for the people who will remain—my family, friends, loved ones. I want to ensure the lessons learned and the love given to me and the love I gave to others isn’t forgotten.

What I leave behind is not simply a memory—it’s the essence of who I am woven into the fabric of those I love and those who love me.

There is a kind of immortality, quiet and humble yet infinitely powerful, in writing it down.

I believe the true measure of a life is in the ripples we create, in the change we inspire, and in the love we leave behind.

The good we do lives on, long after we’re gone, passed from one person to the next like a flame that never fades.

Even in death, there’s a profound beauty in knowing that our light, however small, will continue to shine in the hearts of others.

Poetry is not my forte. However, in the wake of Tony’s death, this one wrote itself. Flowing out of my pen without effort. Thank you, Tony, for the inspiration.

Fading Away

In the quiet hush of evening’s glow,
I feel the softest winds below—
A breath, a sigh, as shadows creep,
Whispering secrets that the heart must keep.
The world will turn, as it must do,
While I dissolve like morning dew,
A fading echo, a fleeting sound,
A thread of light no longer bound.
I’ll leave no mark, nor trace, nor scar,
But in the sky, I’ll be a star—
A shimmer soft, too far to hold,
Yet burning bright as I grow cold.
No tears will fall, no voice will rise,
Just quiet skies and silken sighs.
And when the earth forgets my name,
I’ll be the wind, untamed, untame.
In every leaf, in every breeze,
In every moment that you seize,
I’ll linger still, though far away,
In echoes of a distant day.
For life, like love, is meant to flow—
And fading is the way we grow.
So, I’ll vanish, soft, serene,
A fleeting shadow, yet unseen.

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