Storytelling

For Esther Bernstein – A Beautiful Soul

Today, we celebrate a woman that shined, to honor a woman whose presence was a quiet miracle in each of our lives. She was not simply kind—she lived kindness. It wasn’t a virtue she chose, but rather one that chose her, something she carried effortlessly, like breath or light.

She treated everyone she met with genuine respect—whether stranger or friend, whether their path was smooth or troubled. There was something in the way she looked at people, in the way she listened, that reminded you that you mattered. You always felt seen, and more than that, you felt safe.

Her generosity was never showy. It was a warm and constant hand on your shoulder in times of doubt, a call when you least expected it but needed it most, a presence that felt like home. She gave without condition, with a grace that asked nothing in return.

Music was her companion, her sanctuary, and her celebration. She loved musicians not just for the sounds they created, but for the courage it took to bare their souls through melody. She found beauty in every note and joy in the ones who played them. She didn’t just listen to music—she felt it, and through that love, she helped others feel it too.

But perhaps the most extraordinary thing about her was the way she radiated. Not with grand gestures or loud declarations, but from something deep inside—a quiet glow that reached us all. She was a healing force in this world. A balm. A light in dark corners. A friend who reminded us who we are when we’d forgotten.

Her absence leaves an ache, yes. But more than that, her life leaves a legacy. One of compassion, joy, and quiet strength. She taught us how to care better, listen deeper, and live more generously.

She was a friend to all, and her spirit will echo in the laughter she sparked, the music she adored, and the love she gave so freely.

We miss her deeply. But we carry her always.

Why Memorial Day Still Matters

Every year, as the last Monday in May approaches, Americans gather in parks, around grills, and beside headstones. For some, it’s the unofficial start of summer; for others, it’s a day of solemn remembrance. But behind the barbecues and parades, Memorial Day holds a sacred place in our national conscience—a day not just of memory, but of meaning. It remains as vital today as it was when first observed in the aftermath of the Civil War.

At its heart, Memorial Day is about honoring sacrifice. It’s a day to remember those who gave their lives not for glory or reward, but to protect an ideal: democracy. These men and women wore the uniform of our country and carried its burdens into battlefields both near and far. Their courage didn’t just preserve borders—it preserved freedoms: the right to vote, to speak, to worship, and to dissent.

But Memorial Day isn’t only about distant wars and fallen heroes in foreign lands. It’s also about those who have defended democracy here at home. Throughout our history, from civil rights marches to courtroom battles, Americans have stood against injustice to ensure that the promise of freedom reaches every citizen. Some of them, too, paid the ultimate price—not with rifles, but with resolve.

In a world that often feels fractured and uncertain, the sacrifices we honor on Memorial Day ground us. They remind us that democracy isn’t inherited—it’s defended. Not once, but continually, by those willing to serve and, if necessary, to fall.

So we remember—not just to mourn, but to reaffirm our commitment to the values that those we honor believed were worth dying for. Memorial Day asks us not just to look back, but to look within and ask what we’re doing to keep the flame of liberty alive.

Because freedom endures not by chance, but by choice. And remembrance is part of that choice.

The Unsung Heroes of the Theater

Theater reviews are like magic tricks: they make you look in a certain direction and applaud the obvious. “Stunning performance by the lead actor!” They gush. “A moving portrayal of grief, joy, and indigestion!” Yes, the actor cried on cue and remembered all their lines. Bravo. Meanwhile, the director—the sorcerer who stitched the show together with mood boards, unpaid overtime, acted as Mom and pychologist and spilt tears of pure aesthetic anguish—gets all the credit of a coat rack.

And the stage manager? Ha! They get less attention than the fog machine. Which, incidentally, they also had to fix, cue, and explain to the fire marshal.

Let’s break it down. The actor appears onstage, speaks words someone else wrote, moves in ways someone else blocked, wears clothes someone else designed and constructed, and gets a standing ovation. The director spent six weeks preventing the show from becoming a very expensive interpretive dance about emotional confusion and/or awkwardly performed comedic timing. They wield vision, psychology, and a truly disturbing protocol as to how to stay calm and patient when they are about to implode.  They are the puppet master—only, instead of strings, they’re manipulating egos, schedules, and a cast that insists on “finding their truth” by rewriting the blocking during tech week.

And the stage manager? Oh, you mean the caffeine-fueled deity wearing all black who knows the entire script, blocking, prop list, and cast’s food allergies by heart? The person who keeps the show running when the lead accidentally enters in Act I dressed for Act III and the fog machine won’t stop coughing like a Victorian child? The person who, by sheer willpower and a Google Sheet, ensures that this chaotic, live spectacle actually happens at the correct time, in the correct order, without someone tripping over stage furniture or face-planting into a Christmas tree?

Theater critics, I beg you: diversify your praise. If a show is brilliant, it is not solely because an actor emoted with the intensity of a method-trained avocado. It’s because a director made bold choices and a stage manager executed them with battlefield precision while also double-checking whether the fake blood had stained a borrowed costume. You do seem able to mention the director and the stage manager in volumes if the production is a flop.

Actors are the frosting. But the director is the recipe, and the stage manager is the oven. No one thanks the recipe or the oven. But without them, you just have raw eggs and good intentions.

So next time you’re moved to tears by a production, remember: Someone called that lighting cue. Someone told that actor where and when to cry (or laugh). Someone made sure the swords were “theater standard” and not, say, a real katana from one of the actor’s college “samurai phase.” Neither of those people who made those things happen are barely mentioned (if at all) in the review.

Applaud accordingly. Or at the very least, bring them snacks and wine.

Remembering My Mother on Mother’s Da



You were more than a mother. You were the steady heartbeat of our home, the gentle force that held everything together, making sure each day was full of warmth, love, and purpose. Your hands, which I remember so well, weren’t just skilled at comforting or cooking—they were magic in their own right, capable of making the world feel safe, no matter what the day had brought.


There were countless lessons you gave me, ones that weren’t always spoken, but instead woven into the fabric of everyday life. In the small acts of patience, kindness, and understanding, you taught me the true meaning of love, and how it isn’t always loud or dramatic, but often soft and enduring, much like the breeze that carries memories of you when I need them the most.


Your love is still the compass that guides me, and even though you are no longer here in the way I wish, your spirit still wraps itself around me like the comforting hug I so often seek.


I carry you in everything I do, and on this day, I honor you—my first friend, my greatest teacher, and my forever mother. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You are loved beyond words, forever and always.
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.
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.
 
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