Lessons

Of Angels, Miracles and Open Hearts – 12/15/25

This Christmas season has found me standing still in gratitude. As I continue to heal from open-heart surgery, I cannot help but look back in awe at the generosity, compassion, and steadfast love that carried me through. I was humbled—truly overwhelmed—by the outpouring of care I received. It reminded me, powerfully and tenderly, of the goodness that lives in people: the quiet kindness of family, the unwavering presence of friends, the grace of those who showed up without being asked.
Charles Dickens captured this truth so beautifully in A Christmas Carol: “But I have always thought of Christmas as a kind, charitable time. The only time when men open their shut-up hearts and think of all people as fellow travelers to the grave and not some other race of creatures bound on other journeys.” In my own way, I have seen this to be true. I have learned that angels are everywhere, if only we care to look for them—appearing in ordinary moments, in small mercies, in the simple but profound kindness of others. Miracles, too, live quietly among us, woven into everyday acts of love.
It is easy to lose sight of this truth amid the relentless noise of an often unkind media, which so frequently paints our world as cruel, fractured, and devoid of hope. Yet I still believe in the magic of this season. I believe in its light, and I long to learn how to carry it with me throughout the year, long after the decorations are packed away.
This year, above all else, I am thankful simply to be alive. And as the new year approaches, I will endeavor—imperfectly, and with humility—to be a better sister, a better friend, a better aunt, a better cousin, a better version of myself. I know I will stumble. I know I will fail at times. But I will keep trying.
My hope for you is this: that you find the wonder and joy that still exist in this world, you hold them close, and you keep your inner light shining—even when the world feels dark. May this season be filled with peace, love, and quiet miracles.
A very blessed Christmas to all—“God bless us, every one.”

Threads of a Human Heart

As I prepare for open-heart surgery, I find myself both sobered and profoundly grateful. Reviewing my end-of-life papers has a way of bringing life into sharp focus—each choice, each joy, each person who has walked beside me. What I see, looking back, is not fear or regret, but an extraordinary abundance of blessings.

A beautiful daughter and two wonderful grandsons who fill my life with pride and laughter. Six beloved sisters—ages 72 to 84—still vibrant, still here. In all our years together, we have never allowed a quarrel to wound the bond we share. Ours is a family stitched together with old Italian traditions, music flowing through every gathering, song and laughter rising like prayer.

I have been lifted and sustained by a big, loving, extended family who have stood beside me through every chapter—including the dark ones, when cancer came close but did not claim me.

My life has been shaped and defined by the performing arts. Theater and music are not simply what I do—they are who I am. The thrill of collaboration, the quiet exchange between performer and audience, the alchemy of directing, producing, and coaching—it has all been sacred work.

And beyond the stage, I have found joy and purpose in service: in my church, in my neighborhood, in my art communities, and through years of volunteering—from AIDS Action Committee (1981–1995) to AIDS Worcester, and later at the pediatric oncology hospice with my beloved therapy dog, Ella, for ten precious years.

Who could ask for a more rewarding 40-year career in high tech—traveling the world, experiencing new cultures, learning new languages. Realizing, with every encounter, that our humanness is what binds us. How small this world truly is, and how deep the yearning runs to save each other—and this earth that continues to love us, even when we do not love her back.

So, as I face this next step, I am not afraid. My heart—literally and figuratively—has been full to overflowing. I have lived richly, loved deeply, and been loved in return. For all that I have, and all that I have done, I am profoundly grateful.

Remembering 9/11: Twenty-four Years Later

Twenty-four years have passed since that September morning when the sky was impossibly blue, and then turned to smoke and ash. In the days and weeks that followed, we were broken, but we were together. Neighbors reached across fences, strangers held one another in crowded vigils, firefighters became our heroes, and compassion rose like a second flag over ground zero. Our grief was immense, but so was our unity.

Today, that spirit feels far away. We are no longer a people who instinctively lean toward one another in times of pain, but a nation divided against itself—sharpened by anger, weaponized by politics. Violence has become routine, and each new act of bloodshed is not met with collective resolve but with polarization. Gun violence, once unthinkable at this scale, has been politicized into endless arguments, and the blame is always placed elsewhere—never on us, never on our unwillingness to act.

America was once known, however imperfectly, for its compassion, its courage, and its sense of social justice. On 9/11, the world watched a nation gather its wounded heart and hold it tenderly, refusing to be defined only by tragedy. Now, we seem defined by division. The ashes of ground zero remind us not only of lives lost but of a unity that has itself turned to ash.

If this anniversary means anything, it must be to remember that in our darkest hour we found one another—and to ask if we are still capable of that kind of grace.

Woodstock – August 16

Woodstock

We came barefoot into the fields,
the sky dripping music and rain,
our bodies pressed close in the mud,
hearts warm as the campfires
we believed could burn away
the old world.

We thought love was a weapon
that could dismantle empires,
that every guitar chord
was a law rewritten,
that every sunrise
was the first day of the new earth.

We shouted peace until our throats bled,
until the flags frayed in our hands.
We thought we would inherit
the halls of Congress,
reshape the courts,
turn power into a public trust
for everyone,
not just for a fortunate few.

But the years are long and merciless.
We have lived to see
the gap between mansion and shelter
widen until it swallows the horizon.
Social justice is a banner
faded by wind and rain,
while politics is wielded
for grift,
for empire,
for the quiet corruption
of men in robes and women in power suits
who bow only to the wealthiest one percent.

I still hear the music sometimes,
faint, behind the static.
It smells of wet grass and patchouli,
of hope before the fever broke.
We were so young.
We were so certain.
And now,
the mud has dried to dust.

When Silence Screams: The Hubris and Apathy of a Broken Leadership

In the aftermath of the tragic shootings that claimed the lives of members of the Hortman and Hoffman families, what should have been a solemn moment of collective grief and unity was instead met with a telling void—no statement, no gesture, no condolences from the White House. Not even the minimal decency of recognizing innocent lives lost. In place of empathy, there was deflection. From the GOP, we witnessed what has become a familiar routine: politicized finger-pointing and bad-faith rhetoric that serve only to deepen divides and avoid responsibility.

This absence of compassion, this gross indifference, is not just morally staggering—it’s emblematic of the rot that has metastasized in our political leadership. Under Donald Trump’s influence, cruelty has not only become policy—it has become performance. Hubris has eclipsed humility, and political gain has all but extinguished our national conscience. The failure to even pretend to care speaks volumes about how desensitized and broken this administration is, and how far we’ve drifted from any recognizable moral compass.

We are watching, in real time, the normalization of violence—not merely as a societal ill, but as a partisan tool. When the lives of American citizens are reduced to narrative pawns in a culture war, when leaders refuse to grieve with their people because it doesn’t serve their agenda, we lose more than just lives. We lose a piece of our shared humanity. And when silence is all that comes from the top, it becomes deafeningly clear: the message is that some lives are unworthy of acknowledgment, depending on whose grief is politically convenient.

What kind of country have we become when our government cannot deliver even the most basic human response—sympathy? How is it possible that in the face of senseless violence, our leaders offer not unity, but opportunism? It is grossly, dangerously unacceptable.

This isn’t just a failure of leadership. It is a deliberate choice—a choice to divide, to deflect, and to harden the national heart. That choice diminishes us all.

I am deeply saddened—though no longer surprised—that this country has once again reached an all-time low. Under this administration, “lowest” has become a consistent signature, an evolving standard by which tragedy is not mourned but manipulated. We must not accept this as normal. We must not allow apathy to replace accountability, or arrogance to replace empathy. Because if we do, the silence will only grow louder, and the violence more routine.

We are better than this. We must demand better than this.

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.

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.

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