make your art your life.

  I am very, very excited about this. I hope you will be too. If you are an artist or craftsperson, I hope you’ll read about this new venture–I would love to have you involved, if it’s of interest....

in the book of life, may your name be written in the adventure section.

In 2008 around this time, I went to Madison, Wisconsin, to stand in a beautiful bookstore and weep like a river, like a weeping willow, like a woman who is reading a story aloud for the first time and realizing how very much it means to her. A man named Paul Wesselman came from the very back row silently to the front to offer me a tissue and it was a woman named Jodi Cohen, who invited me there in the first place, who came to where I was at the podium and held my hand. Jodi had taken me that afternoon to a Jewish senior citizen home where she leads the elders in song every Friday. I sat and listened as dozens of old, old people sang from a deep place of ritual we all urge toward. Heavy and resonant, guttural, felt. And then someone spoke these words that I will never forget: “We are in the Jewish High Holidays,” she said, “in the 10 Days of Awe. And in the 10 Days of Awe, we remember that the first time something extraordinary happens, we call it a miracle. But when it happens over and over again, we just call it ordinary.” Yes. The first time, extraordinary. This is what 37days is all about: reclaiming what is extraordinary in the ordinary. And so as we begin the 10 Days of Awe with Rosh Hashanah this evening, it is only fitting that it was Jodi herself who sent me this beautiful photograph of a magical butterfly apple today with a note that included this beautiful sentiment: “shana tovah. may...

remember.

  I am not interested in political statements or warnings or diatribes on this eleventh anniversary of 9/11. I’m not inclined to write a post about how we’ve lost our way in these past 11 years, about how the terrorists have won if their goal was to irretrievably break this country apart and allow fundamentalism to take root in the gaps left by horror. No. All those American flags after 9/11. On cars, doors, houses, mailboxes, buildings, lapels. I don’t see them so much anymore. Our hatred of the enemy has been turned into hatred of ourselves, our outrage turned to complacency, something we swore would never happen, but it did. It surely did. I see division and hateful speech and an insularity that excludes so many. I see radicalism and ignorance and a polarized nation. I see meanness, pure and simple. This is no appropriate legacy, no adequate tribute to those thousands flying home to see their families or working on a vital business report on 9/11 and then suddenly, shockingly dead, but not dead before horror made their heart race in their chest. It is no appropriate response from those of us left behind. No, it is not. The word is shameful. What I do, and have done for the past few years, is spend 9/11 in meditation on what it is to be alive–fully alive. Alive in such a way that when the plane hits, I’m shocked and scared and panicked at leaving my loved ones behind, but also satisfied, sated, knowing I have said what I wanted to say, have lived the life I wanted,...