A fashion show, a bike helmet, a confrontation on an elevator
Everything begins in mysticism and ends in politics.
The View From Here
The phone rings, I answer it, and the world collapses. I’m staring into space, hearing over and over again the receptionist’s words: “The doctor wants you to come in this afternoon to discuss some lab results. . . . And bring someone with you.”
The Long Road Turns To Joy
Walking in mindfulness brings us peace and joy, and makes our lives real. Why rush? Our final destination is only the graveyard. Why not walk in the direction of life, enjoying peace in each moment, with every step? There is no need to hurry. Enjoy each step. We have already arrived.
Finding Peace After A Lifetime of War
From the day I was born, I was trained to be a soldier, encouraged in the way I was brought up to hunt, kill, dominate, rule, and control my environment. My family life was a form of war, filled with anger and violence, which made it no different from that in most of the houses around mine.
My father, though, seemed unaware of my contempt, and in June, as my high-school-graduation gift, he took me to Torremolinos, on the coast of Spain. He’d booked us a room at a midpriced, touristy hotel through some educator’s discount travel plan. We saw a bullfight. We swam.
Time, Attachment, Hair
It is the morning of February 1, 1969, my wedding day, and the Riverside Salon is awash in panic. I should be at the church already, but my long hair simply will not dry. Hairdressers are coming at me from every angle with blow-dryers and curling irons, holding clips in their mouths, cursing.
One Man, One Vote
Clinton knew that the federal government was the last line of defense for millions of poor people against the predatory forces of the free market. He signed the bill anyway. Clinton understood that there could be no meaningful welfare reform without a guarantee of decent jobs. He signed the bill anyway.
We were standing at the edge of the blacktop at Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Grade School, as far away from the recess monitor as we could get. It was 1978, and we were in eighth grade — though Ralph would have been in high school already if he hadn’t failed both the third and the fifth grades.
Jayne, my hairdresser, has just had her eyebrows tattooed. Two black scabs arch across her forehead. “I don’t dare frown,” she says, “or they might bleed. But, oh, when the scabs fall off, my eyebrows will be deep gold, to match my new hair. And even when I go swimming, I won’t lose my face.”