“Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much,” Helen Keller once said. I’ve been thinking a lot about those words lately. I don’t know about you, but sometimes when I look at the state of things, especially in the United States, I feel powerless. Things are unraveling before our eyes, and it sometimes feels, I admit, like there isn’t much we can do about it, except worry.

But then I think of Helen Keller — against terrible odds, she overcame her deafness and blindness to become an author and an activist who inspired all of us. She did it by her own sheer courage — and yet, here she is seemingly acknolwedging the opposite: alone, we can accomplish a lot, for sure, but together we can do so much more. It’s important to remember that as we approach the mid-term elections. Vote by vote — we can each make a difference. People have the power, as Patti Smith sings so often — and we do, when we collaborate magical things can happen.

In August that idea played out before my eyes in the most incongruous of places: Kefalonia, a Greek island in the Ionian Sea. It is my happy place — I go there every summer, usually in August. We are blessed because my best friend/soul sister has a beach house there, located only a few feet from the crystal clear Ionian. A wooden set of stairs at the end of the property’s back yard takes us right to the water’s edge directly below. The last couple of years, a gravel path led to the stairway.

I liked the crunch of the gravel, but admitted in the height of the heat of August, the grass around it dried out, making it hard to differentiate sometimes between the grass and the gravel. I had an idea: why not frame the path with larger stones. I made it my summer project and slowly began gathering a stone or two every time I went down to the beach for a swim. Even though the beach is sandy, stones are plentiful. Slowly, I started laying them down to frame the path. It started to take shape, but the process was slow. I realized at that pace, one stone at a time, by myself, the project would take much longer than a month, meaning I was unlikely to finish it by the time I had to leave the island.

To my good fortune, we have many friends on Kefalonia — many of them descend on the island in the summer like us, others live there. And because of our proximity to the beach, lots of them came by regularly to take a swim with us. This past summer, as a result, the backyard turned into a beehive. We all would gather every afternoon—some of us under the umbrellas on the beach chairs, others in the wooden gazebo at the end of the property, and still others under the mulberry tree near the house in the shade. Every day, we’d gather, some would bring water, others ice cream, some fruit, others snacks. We’d gather, we’d laugh, we’d talk about this, that, and everything — and it was wonderful. One afternoon, I told our gang what I wanted to do — I wanted to build a path to the beach. I joked that our fee for using our stairs to the beach and enjoying the shade of our mulberry tree was to bring one rock for the path each time they went down for a swim. They laughed — and to my delight, embraced the idea. Everyone, young and old, got into the project, sometimes bringing two or three stones up at a time— and some even brought stones from other beaches they visited. My friend Monica, who is also my doctor, brought two beautiful white stones from Antisami, an incredible beach on the other side of the island — and Niki’s brother, Haris and his wife, Litsa, brought stones from all over the island. One morning, I laughed, my friend, Connie, called and told me to come open the gate so she could pull in and unload the car. She had three bags full of stones in the trunk. We took them out to the path and placed them near the gazebo.

I was so pleased — the path was clearly taking shape. Slowly, one stone at a time, we — all of us together — finished the path. Every time I looked at it, I smiled.

Making a path, of course, is a far cry from producing a meaningful change in the current state of affairs. I get that. And some of you out there are rolling your eyes at my lame comparison. But there is a place we can start, all of us together: the Nov. 3 midterms. We must vote. Make a plan now. I live in Broward County Florida and took advantage of early voting and cast my vote this morning. It was laughably easy — no excuse not to go. Of course, if you can’t vote early, show up on Nov. 3. We cannot complain about the high cost of gas and groceries or the state of our democracy if we do not vote! If enough of us go to the polls to have our voices heard, it can, and will, make a difference. Think of it as your contribution to the path toward a better future for all of us.

A personal note: I strayed from my own path these past couple months. I put the Purple Pen on hiatus to clear my head, out of laziness, and just to take a much needed break. Forgive me.

Some criticize it for not being faithful to the original, but with this movie, director Christopher Nolan introduces a whole new generation to the story — and perhaps, it will even inspire many to read the original

Let me just say this: I loved Christopher Nolan’s “The Odyssey.” The movie in theaters now is action-packed and visually stunning, and it is difficult to take your eyes away from the screen. Three hours flew by and I barely fidgeted. The IMAX screen and experience made me feel that I was in the middle of the action — I almost ducked when the giant armored Laestrygonians flung their heavy swords through the air (OK in the movie they wield swords not boulders, but who cares?). It’s been a long time since a movie maker has made me feel like I was at a movie-going event. So, I tip my hat to Nolan for creating movie magic and rekindling that feeling.

I know that many Greeks and Greek Americans, and many here in the United States, believe that this movie is dismissive of Greece’s cultural significance, history, and plays loose with Homer’s original. I don’t agree. In fact, I’d argue this: thanks to this film, many filmgoers in the US and overseas who may have never known anything about the Odyssey, let alone read it in its entirety, now know about it. That’s a huge thing, in my view. And just maybe, it’ll inspire some of them to pick up the original and actually read it.

Now for some specifics (spoiler alert!): I’ve heard some out there call the movie as too “woke” because they say it is historically inaccurate. Really? I had to remind one friend that the film is based on an ancient poem that tells the story of a mythical ancient Greek king and his torturous journey home after the Trojan War. It has a historical context, for sure, but it’s a story above all. And a great one at that. But no one knows for sure if Odysseus was even real.

But let me not beat around the bush: many critics zero in on Nolan’s decision to cast black actresses in the roles of Helen of Troy (Lupita Nyong’o ) and the goddess Athena (Zendaya). Besides the obvious racism implicit in this criticism, the point is also ignorant. Who is to say, as one well-read friend of mine (Miriam thank you!) pointed out, that seafaring Greeks who travelled the world did not have contact with people of different ethnicities and races. On top of this, Lupita Nyong’o is hardly on the screen for more than 5 minutes or so. And Zendaya’s Athena drifts in and out of the film as a mystical presence seen only by Odysseus. Who is to say he didn’t imagine her like that? My point: this is hardly a reason to boycott the film.

To be sure, Nolan changes some details (spoiler alert here), but I chock this down to the creative license of anyone who adapts a story told in one medium to a different one. Pick any film based on a classic book and you’ll find details that have changed, maybe even part of the narrative. The late Italian director Franco Zefferelli, for example, was criticized by many (praised by others) for casting young actors as Romeo and Juliet in his 1968 film. A decision, I’d argue, that made the movie highly accessible to a younger audience.

I think some of Nolan’s creative choices stemmed from this motive: to make the film more accessible to modern audiences, to stir them with awe about the complexity of the story and not let them stumble over classical details that might have bored them. He sped some things up, skipped over others. . For example, in the movie, Calypso (played by Charlize Theron) feeds Odysseus (played by Matt Damon) lotus flowers to make him forget his past. In Homer’s poem, she holds him hostage for 7 years but does not feed him the flower. Nolan blends this detail with an earlier episode when Odysseus and his men land on the Island of the Lotus Eaters. Why did he do this? We can only speculate. To not bog down the plot perhaps or maybe to explain how Odysseus lasted so long away from his family.

In the movie, Odysseus suffers from memories of the trauma of war, of the atrocities he committed, of men he lost — horrors the lotus helps him bury. He can’t come to terms with his past and struggles with it as he tries to make his way home. How many of us lose our way as human beings — isn’t this what The Odyssey is really about. Maybe that was Nolan’s point.

Nolan’s Odysseus is vulnerable, lost emotionally, confused, by where he is and for how long he’s been there. He’s still brave, don’t get me wrong. But he is different than the Odysseus that Homer wrote about. In the epic poem, Odysseus is more cunning, clever, and prideful, maybe even foolishly so sometimes (like when he shoots an arrow into the Cyclops’ single eye and identifies himself — a detail thankfully Nolan includes). Homer’s Odysseus oozed charisma, Nolan’s take of the hero is admittedly a bit flatter and less colorful. But I’d argue Nolan’s approach make him seem more human and relatable to today’s audiences.

On the other hand, lots of Greeks are upset, perhaps rightfully so, that no Greeks were cast in the film even though the film was partially filmed in Greece (in Corinth and in Methoni). It certainly would have been a gesture of good faith and appreciation if Nolan had included a few Greeks in the cast and crew. But here’s one thing that many Greeks don’t mention at all: there is one scene where Odysseus asks a local about the journey ahead. The man tells him, in Greek: “Μπορείtε να πατε εκεί, αλλά δεν θα σας αρέσει αυτό που θα βρειτε.” (You can go there, but you won’t like what you find.” ) Token Greek phrase, a throwaway, maybe, but at least it’s there. Give him some credit.

No matter the criticism, the most important thing about this movie to me is that a new generation now knows the story of the Odyssey. It is a universal tale — perhaps one of the greatest tales of all. But it belongs to all of us not just Greeks — and this movie nails that point with passion, even as it makes its own contemporary adjustments. Go see it — and judge for yourself.

When I was teaching graduate journalism students at Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism at City University of New York and at Columbia, I would always try to break the ice on the first day of class with a game: I’d ask students to tell me their pet peeve. We’d go around the room, one at a time. Some students would complain about sidewalk etiquette, others crowded subway cars. Keeping track of passwords and bureaucratic paperwork often came up, as did messy bathrooms or sloppy roommates. And on and on. The exercise worked — by the time we got around the room, the students felt more comfortable with each other, and with me. First day anxiety, as a result, dissipated.

I’ve been feeling surly lately for umpteen reasons I won’t bore you with — and thought of this exercise. Maybe if I vented a bit, I thought, I could ease my own anxiety and irritation. Maybe not. But it’s worth a try. Here goes: my top five pet peeves.

№1 — Whenever anyone tells me — “I’ll pencil you in”

Consider this: Someone you haven’t talked to in months, checks in — via Messenger or text, or even a phone call. You both agree that a get together is long overdue, so you pull out your agendas and find a mutually convenient date. All good so far. Then your friend says, “Great. I’ll pencil you in.”

Can you hear me growling? What does that even mean? Are you implying that if you can’t, or if something better comes along, you can erase the date, and me by extension. After all, we wrote it on our agendas with a pencil, not a pen. If it were in ink, it would be more permanent and harder to change. Crossing out is too messy. So we say, “let’s pencil it in.” Ugh.

I’m a pretty flexible person, or at least, I try to be. And of course, I understand that things come up and sometimes plans have to change. But saying, “let’s pencil it in” just feels so non-committal, and dare I say it, it even rude. If I get a better offer, I’ll just simply erase you. If you’re my friend, please don’t use that term when we try to make a plan.

№2 — “Listen carefully, as our menu options have changed”

Voicemail and chat bots can be so irritating. I don’t want to be one of those who hark back to earlier days when you simply got a real, live person on the other end of the line who actually helped you. Today, you get a recording. Ugh. Triple ugh.

I ask you: when was the last time you listened to one of those recordings when you did not have the urge to throw your phone against the wall.

First of all, the options you are offered never seem to fit your situation. Now, why couldn’t one of the options simply be: “It’s complicated. Please get me a person.” It would be so much simpler than getting to the point where you are yelling into the phone: REP-RE-SEN-TA-TIVE.

Second, that irritating ever present recording — “Please listen carefully, as our menu options have changed.” Really? Do you remember the options from your cable company the last time you called six months ago? Oh yes, I wrote them down next to the phone number in my address book. Some of you might actually do that, and all power to you. But pu-leeze. I certainly don’t remember the options — and always find myself barking, why are you even saying this, get me a person, please.

Third, chat bots and voicemail bots have a series of questions that they ask so they can “help.” How often do you go through the motions only to end up where you started? Then, invariably, the chat bot will ask you, “Was I able to resolve your problem?” Uhhh, no.

№3- “Let’s make memories”. Let’s not. Let’s just live the moment

This phrase drives me crazy. It implies that we need to deliberately plan an event or a moment so that we will be able to remember it, “make a memory.” Doesn’t that undercut the meaning of a memory?

We remember moments because they are special. They mean something. We live the moment, then we remember it. It becomes a memory in the living, not because we planned it to be one.

Planning that process seems to me impossible. Yes, we plan a birthday dinner or a reunion party and hope it will be fun, be trouble free, and that it will be something we will all remember. But you don’t plan these things, or at least I don’t, with the intention of making a memory. If it all goes smoothly, and is indeed memorable, it will become a memory because it was a noteworthy and special moment, not because we stamped it with the word, “Memory” so we could remember it. If we worry so much about making a memory, we risk spending all our energy on the preparations and don’t live the moment so we can remember it.

Of course, some of you are rolling your eyes. This is an expression nothing more, what is the big deal? I guess from my point of view it is because I want to remember moments that I have experienced. I do not consciously go into those moments to remember them. That is not my purpose. It is to live the moment — then if it is something special, my brain, my heart will record the memory. I don’t want to cheapen it — by deliberately starting out — ok, let’s make a memory. It is a semantic issue, I admit. But when someone says or write this, I still roll my eyes.

№ 4 — When someone says, “I’m living my best life”

OK so you’re happy. Good for you. But I ask: Is there such a thing as a best life? A worse life? A so-so life? How do you know if this moment is your best yet?

Other expressions are so much more expressive: “We’re living a good life.” That’s accurate. “We’re blessed.” Even better. That’s a statement full of gratitude. But living my best life?

We live one life — sometimes it’s grand; sometimes, not so much. All of it — the good, the bad, and the ugly defines our life. Even someone who is constantly boasting that they are living their “best” life hits road bumps. It is life. Plain and simple. We live ONE life, not many. So, the next time you say this, or hear someone else say it, remind them, or yourself, that it is important to remember that we only have one life to live — it isn’t a matter of best or worst, it just is.

№ 5— When someone says, “I can’t”

I can’t bear people that say, “I can’t.” It is such a pessimistic statement. If you say you can’t, you won’t. It’s that simple. By the way, this was the pet peeve I shared with my students on that first day of class. Of course, we all hit roadblocks and sometimes things we want to do, or try to do, don’t happen. And sometimes, things are just too difficult and challenging, physically or otherwise. But if you set yourself up by saying, “I can’t,” you are setting the stage for failure.

I learned this lesson the hard way. When I was a reporter at Newsweek, the editor of the business section that I was assigned to would come to me to look for the numbers to put together the week’s graphics. I was the head reporter, and I took over that task, basically because no one else wanted to do it. He’d always have some elaborate idea of what he wanted. I knew, as I listened, that what he wanted very often would not be “gettable” — i.e. the statistics were unavailable or impossible to find. I’d say so. One day, he shook his head, and said, “Please stop saying you can’t,” he said. “Just try to find it.”

I took his words to heart, and I would buckle down to find the rare set of stats he was seeking. Sometimes, lo and behold, I’d get lucky and I’d find something. Not very often, to be fair. Most of the time, however, my instincts were right. The numbers requested were simply not out there.

But instead of saying “I can’t” right out of the starting block, I would nod. And I would give the search a good old college try. If I couldn’t find anything, I’d change course and look for a comparable set of figures. Then, I’d present my solution to him. More often than not, he’d respond, “OK. That’s fine.”

Moral of the story: Don’t ever say, “you can’t.” Try first. And if you hit a wall, find another way. Another example: once, a student wanted to approach a famous film director for an interview to round out a profile she was writing about someone he had worked with on a film. I encouraged her to reach out to him. “He’ll just say, no,” she responded. My retort: “You won’t know unless you ask.” She did. And he said, yes. So much for “I can’t” or “I won’t.”

Ooof. Thank you for letting me vent. I feel better. Try it. If you think I’m nuts, feel free to tell me so. Do you have any pet peeves? Please share them in the comments. Let out some steam. Believe me, it helps.

The Purple Pen: Pet Peeve Therapy was originally published in Tiny House Big Mind on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

On the eve of the 250th birthday of American independence, I feel compelled to express what being American means to me — I am proud of my country — and of my heritage. But I fear the principles that America is built upon are in danger.

I am the child of immigrants. Though my mother was born in the United States of Greek parents, she grew up in Greece and spoke accented English. She came back to the U.S., the land of her birth, in her 20s after World War 2. My father was born and raised in Greece. So even though, technically, I am a second generation American, I identify as a first generation hyphenated American. I am proud of my heritage (I am also a Greek citizen), but I am equally proud that I am a citizen of the United States.

With that in mind, the Supreme Court’s June 30th decision to strike down President Trump’s executive order limiting birthright citizenship resonates deep down in my soul. It matters a lot to me, and millions of others who were born here of foreign parents.

In an effort to deprive US citizenship to children of more recently arrived undocumented immigrants, President Trump, in my view, diluted the very meaning of what it means to be an American. When I read the headline a few moments ago, I can’t help but think about that question. It’s especially important, as we are about to celebrate our country’s 250th anniversary of independence.

Like many Americans, I believe America has lost its way. Let me try to explain why so many Americans believe this.

We are a nation founded on a single principle: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Those words are so telling, especially the first part — “all men are created equal.” What does that phrase really mean? I’m not a lawyer, but in my humble view, it means that all of us, all Americans — no matter our creed, race, gender—are entitled to the same rights as every other American. Our country, in theory at least, is built on that fundamental principle.

Sadly, our history is full of moments where that has not been true — many Americans have endured racism for centuries. We cannot erase that fact. Through the years, many Americans have fought for civil rights to ensure and challenge our nation to stay true to the values that our country promised to uphold. In many ways, it has — and in other ways, sadly, it hasn’t. Blacks and women have won the right to vote, to be sure. But waves of social inequality and racial hatred still simmer beneath the surface of our society today. Our country should not tolerate this — hate is not what America is about. We cannot let our principles slip away because it is now okay to verbalize our insecurities and our biases. Hate should never be acceptable in the America that our founding fathers laid the groundwork for 250 years ago.

Even though I was born in this country, I still sometimes feel an “otherness” when interacting with some people. I was challenged once about a week after the presidential election in 2016 on a New York City bus when an elderly female passenger snarled at me when I politely asked her to pull her coat off the seat next to her so I could sit down. “What language are you speaking?” she hissed. I was startled. “English, m’am,” I replied. “Oh,” she said, pulling her coat off the seat. “How refreshing.” I still think about this moment in disbelief — how could this exchange even have happened in America, in New York City of all places — probably the most diverse city in the United States.

I live in Washington, DC now for part of the year (Fort Lauderdale the rest, and in Greece most summers). Last night, as the sun was setting, I walked over to the Washington Monument to scope out how the celebrations for the 250th birthday were shaping up. The sunset was glorious across the sky, but the landscape in front of me was dotted with fences, white tents, construction cranes, huge screens, and viewing stands for a select few (or maybe folks who are driven enough and lucky enough to get to the grounds early on July 4th). Instead of feeling expansive, celebratory, and inspired, though, I felt deflated. The fenced-in area around the Washington Monument felt so unwelcoming and insular. Who exactly was all this meant for?

As an American — and as a Greek especially — I believe in the fundamentals of democracy with every ounce of my being. The voice of the people must rule — and yes, sadly, that sometimes means those that will rule will be placed in that position by a majority of its citizens. All of us may not fundamentally agree with one another, but our system is built on a pillar of belief that despite our differences, we must respect those with opposite views from ourselves. That is what democracy is all about. It is not about, alas, a sentiment which seems to be so prevalent today in our proud country: if you aren’t with us, you are against us.

Unfortunately, divisiveness has taken over our society. Respect has almost disappeared — and hate and vitriolic rhetoric have taken over. I don’t want to point fingers — many of us are to blame. So, I don’t get accused of wimping out here — the current president and his loyalists encourage what is happening, and indeed, fuel it. No question about that. But they are not to blame that it exists. The division is so entrenched — that a lot of us, on both sides, have lost our way.

We as a country can do better. We must do better. We have to stand up to what is happening — and remind each other of what is important: We, the people, are created equal and are entitled to certain inalienable rights: to Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…however we define it.

On this, the 250th anniversary of the United States, the division that exists in our country saddens me deeply. We should be feeling proud of our country — yet, I think, many of us are feeling a bit of shame — the fundamental principles of our nation are at risk of being undermined. We can’t let that happen.

The fourth of July usually moves me and inspires me — when I saw the tall ships sail down the East River on the morning of July 4th in 1986, tears filled my eyes. The night before, on assignment from The Washington Post, I covered a swearing in ceremony of new American citizens on Ellis Island in the shadow of the newly renovated Statue of Liberty. I was in awe.

The next day, I experienced one of the biggest thrills of my life, as my story about that event appeared on the next day’s front page, dated July 4, 1986, right under a glorious photo of the statue, the very statue that my 23-year-old grandfather saw on an August morning in 1916 when he sailed into New York’s harbor full of hopes and dreams of a future he hoped to build here.

In my eyes, the Statue of Liberty underscores everything that it means to be an American — a person who is free to say what she wants, to worship the way he wants, and to live the way we want without scorn, without hate just for being different. The statue stands at the entrance to the harbor, where throughout our history it has welcomed millions of immigrants before us, like my Greek grandfather, with a promise that they too could become Americans. As President Ronald Reagan said in his last speech as president, quoting a letter he had received: “You can go to live in France, but you cannot become a Frenchman. You can go to live in Germany or Turkey or Japan, but you cannot become a German, a Turk, or a Japanese. But anyone, from any corner of the Earth, can come to live in America and become an American.”

On this 250th birthday, I hope with my heart that we remember those words. Our ideals are too important to forget— and they are in danger of disappearing. We must remember, as November approaches — that the United States stands on pillars of democracy, freedom, and equality. And ultimately, respect for our differences. We can never forget that.

I am an American…and a Greek was originally published in Tiny House Big Mind on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Admit it, the photo of me and my new beau caught your attention. Did it not? You’re probably asking: Is it possible Dody met Brad Pitt, much less got him to pose with her? Of course, it’s possible, but it sure isn’t likely. Can you see me winking? As you’ve probably surmised, the photo was created with artificial intelligence. Brad (we’re on a first name basis now, you see,) is in Greece filming a movie. And Greek social media is afire with similar posts of people with their arms around Brad, serving him souvlaki, drinking ouzo with him, showing him a fish they’d caught, etc. etc. One of my friends, Vaggelis Martsakis, could not resist the temptation, so he played around with one of the apps. He sent me one of his creations. I have to admit, I got a good laugh out of it — but it also gave me the idea for this column.

A.I. can’t be escaped. It is everywhere — even in places where we don’t expect to find it, and it has become difficult to discern what’s real and what’s fake. The dangerous ramifications of AI gone wild is also downright scary. But when I looked at that photo of me and Brad, it also seems kind of harmless. It’s just for a laugh, after all. Isn’t it? Does it matter in the long run scheme of things that I just posted a fake image of me with Brad Pitt?

The questions are serious, though. If you can manipulate anything, you can confuse people between what is real and what isn’t, and that can be dangerous. We don’t know where it will stop. The responsibility kind of falls on us — to pay attention and not swallow everything we see or hear or read and assume it is true. It very well may not be.

But is stuff like this harmful or not? Consider the latest AI flap: the emergence of pop artist (ahem) Tilly Norwood, a completely AI- generated singer whose music video “Take the Lead” is making waves. You have to wonder, why the bother to create a virtual pop star? Just to prove it can be done, I guess. Maybe just to make headlines. In any event, Tilly’s creators defend the effort by trying to encourage listeners to look for the human connection to the technology. “AI’s not the enemy here,” sings Tilly, “it’s the key.” OK. So, let’s think about this for a minute: the creators argue that because this AI singer is a creation of humans, it is defensible to put her out into the public domain and pretend she is real (though arguably they don’t ever say that she is.) Not sure I buy that completely. Yes, technology can do amazing things. But this is different.

It’s one thing to put AI images out there as a joke — i.e. my photo of me and Brad. But what is the purpose behind creating videos of a singer who isn’t real? What does the idea of a virtual pop singer add to anything? It doesn’t really except maybe floating the idea out there that it can be done. It’s a gotcha phenomenon: “Look what we created ma? Fooled you, didn’t we?” If you buy Tilly’s creator’s argument you may even be able to persuade some people that this is a form of art? I’d argue it is not since it undercuts the real thing. Why listen or watch an AI singer perform instead of seeking out talented real humans, who sing and dance. I’m not convinced, but others clearly relish this stuff.

Some people, maybe some with way too much time on their hands, have even created, among other items, social media posts advertising new movies coming up the pipeline. I got all excited a couple of days ago when I saw a post advertising that

a new version of “The Thorn Birds” starring Irish-actress Saoirse Ronan in Rachel Ward’s role. A little digging, and I discovered it was fake. Pray tell, what is the purpose of those kinds of posts, except to see how many people you can fool.

It is starting to piss me off. I have to confess that part of my irritation, however, comes from being a tad resentful lately because I have been duped by…a social media guru, a Buddhist monk, no less. 2026 is proving challenging on so many levels so in the last couple of months, I have been seeking out, online, ways to calm my anxiety, relax, and make sense out of things. I made a discovery which made me happy —Yang Mun, a Buddhist monk (handle: @yangmunus). I found him on Instagram and I looked forward to his posts in my feed every morning: They were wise, comforting, and spoke to me. Little did I know.

Yang Mun, a bald older gentleman dressed in robes, appears in different settings — in a garden, a temple courtyard, but most often sitting cross-legged at a low table adorned with lit candles inside a temple. In front of him is an open book with crinkly pages and ancient text written on it. In a soft, gentle voice and with a steady gaze, he offers up wise and sensible advice. His English is impeccable, if accented. I guessed the background was AI, and I found myself wondering which monk at the monastery was tech savvy enough to pull Yang Mun’s posts off so professionally. But I didn’t pay attention to anything else. His words resonated with me, so I didn’t question anything, least of all, whether he was real or not.

What kinds of things did he say that ensnared me? Let me share a few. One morning, for example, he talked about how the only thing you can control is how you react to things. Marcus Aurelius wrote the same thing thousands of years ago. Classic stoic wisdom, but oh so wise. Another example: Lately, I have been waking up in the middle of the night and have had difficulty getting back to sleep. So, when he offered a tip on how to get back to sleep, I paid attention. He suggested lying on my back, putting one hand on my chest, another on my belly, and breathing slowly, taking longer to exhale then inhale. I tried it. It worked. I calmed down and slowly I fell back asleep. Mission accomplished.

I couldn’t help myself and I eagerly sought out his posts every morning wondering what wisdom he’d share with me to start my day. I even forwarded some of his posts to other friends. And fool that I am, I forked over $10 to get a digital copy of his book (which has tons of good advice, truth be told). He made sense. Plain and simple. Never once did it occur to me that he was fake, until one day I noticed a post by another monk, named “masterlishen.” He urged viewers to always remember to express gratitude when they awoke and to remember that what happened yesterday cannot change and it stays in the past, focus on today instead.

As I listened to him, I noticed he looked a little like my friend, Yang Mun (yes he now felt like a friend) . This monk reminded me of Yang Mun: he had a roundish face, high forehead, soft eyes, and his voice had a similar cadence. He looked the same, but was different too in a way that I could not quite pinpoint. In the days that followed, I noticed other guru-like posts popping up on my feed — a bearded Icelandic shepherd, for example, with a colorful sweater and a wool cap, leaning on a wooden walking stick and offering up advice to get outdoors to feel better (@Icelandicwisdom). His gaze was similar to Yang Mun’s, but his features were more angular and his eyes looked grey-bluish. Next up: a kerchief-clad Italian “nonna” squatting in a field of veggies, sharing secrets in Italian accented English. For a rural villager, @naturenonna spoke amazing English. Her gaze, like the Icelandic shepherd’s and Yang Mun’s, was direct, but the eyes were flat, almost expressionless and without warmth. The wheels in my mind started churning, something odd was happening here.

It finally dawned on me. My monk was not real. It took me long enough, but ever the fact checker that I was trained to be — I turned to ChatGPT. Kind of ironic, I admit, turning to artificial intelligence to ask a question about whether a character was generated by A.I. Or not. I got my answer. I had been duped — Yang Munu was a fake. I was embarrassed, disappointed, and angry at myself. How could I be so stupid? I even paid money for his e-book. How did I not pick up on this sooner?

Ever since, a cloud of skepticism hangs over my social media scrolling. I find myself doubting everything. Every time my old friend the monk now appears on my Instagram feed, I move right past him. I don’t bother to listen to him any more. Though, I sometimes think, why shouldn’t I listen to him? His words once made sense to me, whether he was real or not. They gave me comfort, ideas, helped soothe my anxiety. So, what was the sin here, really? Is there any? I gained from the exchange — I got tips that made me feel better. Is that not a good thing? Did it really matter that the gentleman offering up the tips was not real?

In the end, though, I discovered that I don’t like the idea that I fell into the embrace of AI without being aware of it, even though the benefit was real. I thought to myself: Let me pick up an actual ancient text — the Bible, perhaps, or the Bhagavad Gita, or Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Let me seek out sage advice the old-fashioned way —by reading, the way it has been done for centuries. Turns out that’s easier said than done. Reading requires a commitment. You have to make a decision to sit down and open up the book, take the time to do so.

Scrolling social media on your telephone is much easier, even mindless. You’re not doing anything for a few miniutes, so you pick up your phone, the next thing you know you’re scrolling through social media posts on Facebook, Instagram, Tik Tok, whatever. Truth be told, it is far easier, more relaxing even, to just scroll, stopping every now and then to read a post or listen to voices, even fake ones, like my friend, Yang Mun’s, the Buddhist monk. It’s easier to pause for 30 seconds, read or listen, and walk away with a tidbit of sage advice or a tip on how to bake better brownies, or whatever, and then move on to the next post, and then the next one. It becomes part of my daily routine, relaxing me for a little while. What is the harm in that?

I kind of miss the bite-size pieces of wisdom my Buddhist monk imparted in his soft, comforting voice on my telephone screen every morning from some temple up in the mountains of Bhutan or wherever it was Yang Mun is supposed to be. Will my realization, as late as I have come to this party, change my ways or my attitude towards social media or Yang Mun, for that matter. I’m not sure. I haven’t unfollowed him yet. Perhaps, I sheepishly admit — dare I say it — I kind of miss my Buddhist friend.

In the meantime, though, at least, I have Brad to keep me company.

Women’s Day is important but I feel that every day should celebrate women not just one day a year. I understand the need to recognize the continued injustice and cruelty subjected on women and girls around the world — and admire the need to hold up inspirational women as role models. But we should do that each and every day.

That said, the day got me thinking about various women who inspire me — and I pinpointed five, mostly women who I follow on social media and whose posts I look forward to reading. I want to tip my hat to them and say thanks for giving me hope and making me smile.

Here are my five, in alphabetical order. Who are yours?

Heather Cox-Richardson

I love reading this American historian’s take on what is happening in our country. This Boston College history professor nails it every time on her podcasts on Youtube, her written work on Substack “Letters from an American”, and her Instagram (@heathercoxrichardson) and Facebook posts. I admire her courage, her directness, and her insight — she calls what is happening as it is, pulling no punches. “Democracies die,” she has written, “more often through the ballot box than at gunpoint.” Her book, “Democracy Awakeing: Notes on the State of America” has become a classic. Her insights about the state of our democracy depress me because they point out the dangers we face. But, at the same time, she is hopeful that societies that recognize what is happening and actively engage in politics are the path forward. She echoes the sentiment: we are resilient — and therefore, we can survive this, we can shape the future, but we have to fight for it and participate in our democracy by voting, showing up, and speaking out. A hopeful note from a brave and brilliant woman at a critical time in American history.

Annie Lennox

Annie Lennox is a voice from the 80s, known to my generation for her haunting voice and the hits she sang with the Eurythmics. I loved her then — and love her even more now. Known for her songs, she is equally celebrated for her eloquence, kindness of spirit, and her outspokenness. Her almost daily posts on Instagram capture the indignities, the injustice, and atrocities of war. She has spoken out on what’s happening in Gaza — and today, International Women’s Day, she pointed out that one in three women globally will face sexual or physical violence in their lifetime. “Let that stay with you,” she urges, as she reminds us that we should not forget that stark fact, even for a second. With her enchanting Scottish accent and her colorful sweaters and t shirts, she imparts wisdom in her almost daily Instagram posts (@officialannielennox) and reminds us that we have to remember the difficulties in our world and encourages us to join her efforts and do something about it, even in small ways. And she’s sexy to boot — I challenge anyone to watch and listen to her rendition of “Under Pressure” with David Bowie (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLC6tkg38K8&list=RDNLC6tkg38K8&start_radio=1), and not be wowed by her voice, her theatrics, the wild make-up, and that shiny top and long black tafetta skirt. Sweet dreams are made of this.

Helen Mirren

What a classy lady, and a sexy one. She celebrates her sexuality and her attractiveness with ebuillience and charm, even at the age of 80. That’s what appeals to me most about her. In a playful way, she demonstrates that aging is a joyful thing, something to appreciate not fear. “It’s much better to age disgracefully!” she has said. “Take it on the chin, and roll with it. You die young, or you get older. There is nothing in between! You may as well enjoy it.” And she clearly does — at the Cannes Film Festival in 2023, she showed up on the red carpet with her hair dyed blue — and she sprinted joyfully down the runway at “L’Oreal Paris” in 2019, barefoot. How can you not love this woman? (I wanted to use both images, but I didn’t want to violate copyright, so this post has no image.) The moments are worth Googling though — they are that much fun! My son met her years ago as a college student when he was an intern at The David Letterman Show — and told me she was his favorite celebrity that he met that summer — and he met many. “She is a goddess, mom, so friendly, so elegant,” he told me with a wry smile, “and so sexy.” I agree with him. Go for it, Helen. Like you, let’s always remember that age is just a number. Live our life with zest.

Isabella Rossellini

Talking about aging gracefully. At age 73, Rosselini unabashedly celebrates her age and her appearance. With her wide smile and crinkled crows’ feet emanating from her warm eyes, this Italian actress, model, and filmmaker, known for her roles in David Lynch’s “Blue Velvet” and more recently as the quiet but forceful Sister Agnes, in “Conclave”, is still beautiful. Yes, her face is rounder, maybe even puffy, and her wrinkles are clearly visible. And, sheoften appears on her Instagram feed without any make up at all, large glasses balancing on her nose. She holds out her camera and films herself collecting eggs from her chickens on her Connecticut farm or picking out patterns for a line of socially conscious and sustainable wool products made from wool from her own sheep. She is funny, joyful, self-effacing, charming, and captivating. “I’m always a little worried when people meet me in person,” she said once, “because I’m worried they’ll be disapppointed.” She doesn’t disappoint; I am willing to bet that. She often reminds us of her glamorous and iconic past , as an actress, the daughter of another glamorous actress, Ingrid Bergman. She relishes her past, don’t get me wrong, but she’s also equally proud of who she is now. She still models for Lancome, ever the breathtaking beauty. And refreshingly, she admits in interviews that she is feeling more accomplished now than she did when she was a young actress in her 30s. “True elegance for me is the manifestation of an independent mind,” she has said. And she is both — elegant and independently minded. But what really strikes me about her is her authentic and ebullient persona. Here is a woman who is happy with herself, content with her life, and celebrates every moment. What a dose of humanity and hope every morning when I see her on my feed. Add her to yours. (@Isabellarossellini)

Patti Smith

For me, this grungy, disheveled songwriter and poet who turns 80 this month, embodies ebullience, as contrarian as that statement might be. Her persona back then was gritty, unpolished — she had a reputation for spitting when she performed for god’s sake. I wasn’t a big fan, I have to admit. Still, I loved “Because the Night” — one of my favorite songs, one that she co-wrote with Bruce Springsteen.

But I have had a mind shift. These days, I find her anthem, “People have the Power (1988),” moving. And in the last decade or so, since I have joyfully discovered her writing, I look at her in a completely different light. She is lyrical, poetic, and her words, wise. Each sentence is carefully and deliberately crafted and I inhale them. Sentences like this from her latest book, “Bread of Angels” — “We all harbor our set of scales. The checks and balances of life is every human’s secret.” I could go on and on. I have bought almost every title — “Just Kids,” “The Year of the Monkey,” “Woolgathering.” A mark of how much I love these books — I don’t even own them any more. I’ve given them all away to my son, my daughter-in-law, and scattered friends. I keep telling myself I’ll buy them again. I haven’t yet, but I will.

Not that her writing isn’t flawed — she is so self-aware, it’s almost annoying and conspicuous sometimes. She name drops shamelessly. But because she is genuine about it and her self consciousness is so intertwined with her identity that I don’t find it cloying at all. Indeed, I admire her deep confidence and her ability to express herself unabashedly with sheer joy in the creation of her work and simply in just living. I eagerly look for her posts in her Instagram feed, @ThisisPattiSmith because of her thoughtful words and the upbeat, though sometimes melancholy, mood they invoke. I appreciate her total disinterest in her appeareance—her hair is scraggly and gray, often tied in incongruous youthful braids that contrast with her wrinkled visage — she looks her age, but she couldn’t care less. Age does not matter to Patti Smith — living with joy does. And that’s why Patti Smith is on my list.

What do you think of my choices? Please share your own. Let’s start a dialogue.

Do you remember the Blockbuster slogan — Be Kind, Rewind? It referred to rewinding video tapes for the next customer of course. More a request for courtesy than anything else, but still, the word, “kind” resonates with me these days. Lately, I feel like shouting the slogan loudly so someone might hear, anyone. Does anyone else feel that incivility and rudeness have taken over our lives these days?

The reasons are plentiful, painful, and complex: political divisiveness, social isolation, a not-so-subtle message from the higher echelons of power that it is ok to be racist, rude, brusque, and well, downright mean in some instances. And of course, that is putting it mildly given what recently happened in places like Minnesota.

It’s more than just politics though. Social media and the powerful pull of our phones don’t help either — we immerse ourselves on our handheld screens and don’t even notice sometimes what is happening directly in front of us.

I could even argue that the pandemic made this phenomenon worse. Living in our isolated bubbles, we think, walk, and move differently. We learned to keep our distance and glare at others that violated our space. That undercurrent is still palpable, I think, even six years later. (Did Covid really emerge six years ago?) I see it daily in the way people drive, how they push past you on the sidewalk oblivious that you’re even there — seemingly small things, but powerful signals that illustrate how so many people are simply just not considerate any more.

Be kind, bah, humbug. We don’t need to be kind, or even courteous, goes the underlying mood, no one notices any way. The Age of Incivility is undeniably upon us. It’s probably been with us for a long while, bubbling just under the surface of our lives, but now it is has fully erupted like lava, enveloping us with hostility and unpleasantness.

How do we battle this phenomenon? Platitudes can only take you so far, I admit. Kindness isn’t necessarily an inherent trait. We must cultivate it and always remember that it costs nothing to be kind. A few weeks ago, I was in a waiting room when a woman sitting next to me started chatting. I could tell she needed to talk to someone. She explained her daughter was very ill, her eyes tearing up. I didn’t know what to say, so I just listened. When I got up to go to my appointment, I bent over and gave the woman a hug. She smiled. It cost me nothing — and maybe my kindness in just listening made her day a bit more hopeful.

Whenever I think about kindness, I hear my mother’s voice. Be kind to everyone, every single person you meet, she’d say, you’re no better than anyone else. She walked the talk — smiling and chatting with nearly everyone that crossed her path. She even knew the cashiers at the grocery store and the ladies behind the cosmetics counter at Macy’s, by name. Probably even knew the names of their kids.

I worked hard to instill the same value in my son when he was a little boy. As we’d leave for school in New York City where we lived, I’d remind him to say good morning to the doormen in our building. And he dutifully did, every morning — with a big smile on his face. The doorman on duty would smile back and wish him a good morning. A simple gesture, but it went such a long way.

Often, as we rode the elevator down from our apartment, we would share the space with a neighbor taking his two kids to school. I’d always say ‘Good morning’ even though he’d look at me blankly, as if my greeting did not even register. His kids stared at the floor. As we’d leave the elevator, he’d lean over and whisper something to the kids and they’d dart out the door and rush to the garage so they could get their car before we got ours. Those kids have now grown up and probably don’t say good morning to anyone. Not so with my once little guy — he still says, ‘Good morning’, to everyone.

As corny as it sounds, kindness can be contagious, even on a small scale. You do something nice for someone, you often get something in return: usually, a smile. And maybe, just maybe that person will pass on a little kindness to someone else when she remembers that you were kind to her. If it became a national habit, think of how different things would be. A simple smile and a good morning can take us a long way. Multiply it by a dozen, then a hundred, then a thousand.

Of course, you could argue being nice isn’t exactly the same thing as being kind. But the two are arguably intertwined. I’ve never seen a kind person who wasn’t also nice. Have you?

My point, I suppose, is that yes, life is troubling — and in our distress we sometimes forget to be kind, or even friendly. People irritate us; none of us are immune. But we should remember, always, that we all have problems, carry our own burdens that distract us. But a simple hello can help make the world better, even if it is admittedly a baby step.

You never know too — that person you said good morning to may become a friend. Hell, they may even end up helping you in some way. I often used to share this story with my graduate journalism students: in the early 80s, I worked at The Washington Post’s New York bureau located in the Newsweek building at 444 Madison Avenue, right next to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. As the junior reporter/assistant in the office, I would arrive first, opening the bureau every day at 9:30 a.m. Almost daily, I’d be at the elevator at the same time as a bearded impeccably dressed gentleman. I knew nothing about him except that he looked like he had walked out of the pages of GQ and that he worked for Newsweek. We casually began an elevator friendship, talking about the headlines, world, the company. The Washington Post owned Newsweek at the time. Every morning, the same routine — and we didn’t even know each other’s name. In retrospect, he was so different than the unfriendly father taking his kids to school that I would share an elevator with years later.

About two years into my job, I applied for a position at Newsweek as a business reporter. I went into the interview nervous. I had zero business background. What the hell did I think I was doing? The receptionist led me into the office to meet the editor. Lo and behold, the editor of the section, to my surprise, was my elevator buddy. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You? You are the one applying for the job? Close the door.” Once I shut the door behind me, he said, “You’re hired.” He didn’t even interview me. He said he knew everything he needed to know from our conversations every morning.

In the end, you just never know. Kindness and being friendly can even pay off on a personal level — not to mention that in its own small way, it will make the world a kinder, gentler place.

As the song goes:

“Think of your fellow man.
Lend him a helping hand
Put a little love in your heart— and the world will be a better place.

For you. And me.

You just wait and see.”

Naïve? Maybe. But ….I’d much prefer a smile, or a helping hand, to a scowl and a shove any day. So remember the next time someone irritates you, please be kind, rewind.

When I was growing up in the sixties, I had a sticker on my blue notebook binder with a cartoon like figure with oversized shoes walking with big, wide strides. Above him was the phrase, “Keep on…” and below his shoes, “Keeping on.” The catchall phrase became part of the vernacular urging us to hang in there, to carry on, to persevere. When I was about to say, “I’ve had enough, seeing the sticker encouraged me to keep going.

The image flashed before me the other day. I’m not sure why I thought of it all of a sudden. I think it’s my motto: keep on keepin’ on, no matter what, no matter how distressing things are around me. There are moments when I feel wobbly, like a mound of Jell-O, and I want to bury my head in the sand and pretend that all is just fine — the weather, society, the country. But things aren’t just fine — we all know that. Somehow, though, we have to keep going, one foot in front of the other. Ever onward.

To keep moving forward though, it helps to find a space, a real one or a mental one, where you can Zen-out, breathe deeply, and feel the ground beneath your feet. In the fall during a fun lunch, a college chum (you know who you are?) how I Zen-out. I immediately responded: I go on door hunts. For those of you who don’t know me, your reaction is probably — Huh? Door hunts? Those of you that do know me, though, know that I love taking photos of doors, so the answer probably doesn’t surprise you. It’s my way of escaping reality and forgetting for just a few minutes anything that is troubling me.

What do I mean by a door hunt? It means when I am out exploring a new neighborhood, or a familiar one, a new city, village, or town, and looking around on foot in search of beautiful and interesting doors to photograph. On door hunt after hunt, I get lost in my mission to discover new doors. Cellphone in hand, I walk along street after street, looking left and right, darting across the street and back again, turning a corner, and then another, and then realizing I am at the top of a hill and I have no clue where I am. I have thousands of photos of doors on my phone’s camera roll, I am almost embarrased to admit. Invariably, my obsession does not make me the best travel companion. I wander off, often.

I can’t stop, though. It is not so much about building my collection, though I like doing that. It is more about what I will discover, what I will notice. My door hunts have become a need: they fill me with purpose and peace. I have to ‘keep on keeping on’ simply because it soothes me. My door hunts have also taught me the value of going just a little bit further, not giving up, because you just don’t know what you will find around the next bend.

Last year during the dog days of August on the Greek island of Kefalonia where we spend the summer, I had the itch to go on a door hunt. As much as I love sitting on the beach reading or looking out at the glistening sea in the sunshine, sometimes I just need a change of pace. My friend, Marietta, who owned the canteen on the beach beneath my best friend’s house, sensed my restlessness and one morning she walked over to me and handed me her car key. “Go,” she told me, “you need an escape.” I smiled and tucked the key in my pocket.

An hour or so later, I got behind the wheel of her new car and off I went into the hills above Lixouri, a colorful town on the southern shore of the island of Kefalonia. I would drive into village after village, park the car, and walk — one village after another, Rifi, Monopolata, Damoulianata, and on and on. The air felt different in the hills that morning, cool and dry. The aroma of jasmine surrounded me — I could almost feel, for the first time that summer, that fall was approaching. I was in my own version of heaven. I found door after door, one little cul de sac in particular was filled with several colorful doors, numerous potted flowers, and picturesque trinkets — ceramic gnomes, a miniature bicycle, a rusty horse shoe, dried out wreaths, and strands of garlic bulbs strung together. After a few hours, and dozens of new photos on my phone, I had my fill. Smiling, I drove back down the hill and gave Marietta her keys, thanking her profusely.

The next morning, a much hotter one than the day earlier, Marietta came up to the house and gave me the keys again. This time I went off in a different direction, to the south west to the villages of Kaminarata, Chavdata, Chavriata, Mantzavinata — still in the hills above Lixouri, but a little closer to the southern shore of the island. You’re probably wondering why the names of the villages are so odd. I don’t know why but most villages on this island in the Ionian Sea end with the letters, “ata.” Surnames have a singsong sameness too, ending with the letters, “atou.” These patterns are part of the island’s charming idiosyncrasies.

In village after village, on that seasonally uncomfortable day, I found lots of doors — blue ones, yellow ones, green ones, red ones. Old faded ones, intricately carved wooden ones. My heart was full. I even felt myself grinning. But it was hot and I was sweating, and I’d forgotten my hat, so after about an hour and a half, I realized that it was probably time to call it a day. I was in the village of Mantzavinata, about 10 minutes from home in Mega Lakos, a hamlet right on the seashore. The area is known for its incredible red-sand beach and its vineyards. I was ready to go home and plunge into the refreshing Ionian to cool off.

But something pulled at me. I figured I’d go one more block and then I’d get back in the car. I took a right off the main road. It was more a path filled with gravel than a road — and as my footsteps crunched the gravel, I saw a group of houses to the left just ahead. The first one, a grey house with an aluminum burgundy-colored door was just “meh.” More and more, sadly many Greek homeowners swap out their old carved wooden doors with more banal aluminum ones to give their house a modern feel, I presume. I don’t like them at all; they all look the same, no character.

The door to the next house, though, was set back from the path. I had to walk directly in front of the house to see it — and when I did, I gasped. Here were two twin doors, side by side, against an avocado green wall, one a bright Crayola green, the other gray. A khaki colored woven drape covered the gray one, another similarly colored drape adorned the green door, but this one was tied in a simple knot at the bottom, creating a pleasing symmetry. Above it: a swallow’s nest. In between the two doors stood a rickety straw chair. The composition was perfect. My hands shook as I took the photo. I knew this one was special — and it fast became my favorite photo of the summer of 2025.

As I walked back to the car, I felt content, pleased with myself. I also wondered — What if I had folded up my tent that day and driven home? I would have missed those doors completely. I was so happy that I had kept on keeping on. That I hadn’t give up. What a payoff.

Moral of the story, I guess: Keep going. Don’t give up on anything that means something to you — keep going. Knock on one more door, make one more phone call, attend one more protest, go that extra mile. Just don’t give up. Keep on keepin’ on. One foot in front of the other. No matter what. You never know what treasure you’ll find.

“You may trod me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I’ll rise.”

Maya Angelou

My 35-year-old son calls me Pollyanna, after a character in a 1960 Disney film, because I am always trying to see the positive in things. I don’t think of it as a slur, because it’s true. I do tend to do that. And here’s why.

The 1960 film “Pollyanna,” starring Hayley Mills, told the story of a young girl who always tried to see the good in things. An accident leaves her paralyzed and realizing she may never walk again, she understandably falls into a depression. But the people whose lives she has touched with her optimism tell her, one by one, not to give up. She doesn’t — and realizes that if it weren’t for her personal calamity, she may never have known the impact that she’d had on others.

Why mention a 1960 film now? Well, given everything going on around us — in Washington, Minneapolis, Greenland, Venezuela, and on and on, one baffling and frightening headline after an another, it’s easy to sink into a hole and fret that we can’t do anything but wait for everything to unravel. The prognosis is dismal, so why even try? Well, maybe it’s time for all of us to be a little more like Pollyanna and turn our pessimism on its head. All is not lost, not yet.

As the minister Mariann Budde has written and has said in sermons, “Hopelessness is not an option.” (https://mariannbudde.substack.com/p/hopelessness-is-not-an-option)

If we give in to hopelessness, it’s game over. And we can’t let ourselves fall into that trap. Is it too simplistic to think by simply hoping, we can make things better ? I don’t think so. By hoping, at least, we can envision a better tomorrow. We can speak out, we can stay aware, and most importantly, we can refuse to give in to despair.

Maya Angelou’s poem, “And Still I Rise” defiantly echoes that sentiment — and with certainty, delivers a message of hope — that no matter what, we will survive this.

“You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.”

((Want a moment of inspiration, watch the poet read the poem here: https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=837452669776226 Well worth two minutes of your time.)

I don’t pretend that I am as eloquent as either one of those extraordinary women, but in my simple way I want to draw your attention to what they are saying because it is that important: We are resilient, no matter what happens.

Am I seeing the world, and life, through rose-colored glasses, kind of like Pollyanna? Maybe. But I beg to differ. Tinted glasses disguise the ugliness. I know things are ugly. The world around us couldn’t be grimmer — and I understand that. I am not ignorant of the darkness of this moment in U.S. and world history. I acknowledge it. But here’s the rub: I refuse to give in to the negative, to dwell in the darkness. So I cling to hope — that blossoms will eventually rise up from the ashes, just like they do in the forest after a wildfire. We will come back — scarred for sure, but possibly we will be even stronger than before.

““You may trod me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I’ll rise.”

Like nature, life is resilient — and stay with me a bit to share an example. Back in October, after five months overseas, I returned to my house in Fort Lauderdale. I was crushed to find my beloved sweetheart roses in the back by the lake had dried out, shriveled. It looked like the plant was dead. Turned out, the sprinkler head placed under the plant had clogged up with dirt. The gardener, Francisco, almost as distraught as me, apologized and told me he’d bring me another bush. I told him to hold off. I wanted to try something first.

So for the next few weeks, I watered the dried up bush tenderly every morning and afternoon, I pruned it back a bit…and waited. After 10 days or so, I noticed little green leaves sprouting from the dead branches. About a week or so later, the bush was covered with deep green leaves. And lo and behold, buds appeared, and then, dozens of small pink blooms. A living metaphor of resilience, perhaps?

I didn’t give up. I could’ve simply thrown out the bush and bought a new one. But I didn’t; I took care of it. And I was rewarded: the roses came back, full and bright . A symbol of hope? Maybe. Or was I just being naive, seeing it all, through my rose-colored glasses, trying to extrapolate meaning from something irrelevant. For me though, the roses became a living metaphor of why we should not give up, no matter how hopeless things seem. Even after the worst storm, the sun will rise again. And maybe the roses will bloom again too. Go ahead. Call me Pollyanna. I can take it. Meanwhile, I’ll just put on my rose-colored glasses, cling to hope, and wait.

It’s easy to let the news and the state of things envelop us in depression. I am not immune, and, like many of you, fear that things are only going to get worse. However, this is not a political column; that is not my purpose. There are enough of those. I started this blog last week for a different reason: to cast a bright spot on our gloomy days. I firmly believe that if we look for it, we can see something hopeful, even beautiful in our surroundings, every day, no matter how stormy it is.

Here’s an example: In the winter of 2021 in the middle of the pandemic, when Covid had turned life as we knew it inside out, I lived in New York City, Covid’s Ground Zero. Time felt frozen, tomorrow, uncertain. To relieve my anxiety and to try to retain a little normalcy, I took daily walks around the Upper East Side of Manhattan where I lived. One cold morning, (February 21 to be exact) I found myself on East 83rd Street between York and East End Avenue close to the East River when I noticed something surprising: on nearly every tree on the block hung a whimsical, colorful birdhouse. I counted them, 22 in all. Each one, different. I asked a passerby what the birdhouses were about. “I have no idea,” he said, shrugging. “I live here but I never noticed them before.”

How sad, I thought. How could he not have noticed? There was a birdhouse on each tree along the block. But then I mused, how many of us go through our daily lives in our own bubbles not paying attention to what’s going on around us, not seeing anything beyond the tip of our noses? How many of us reach for our phones first thing when we wake up and don’t even notice whether the sun is shining or if it’s raining? How many of us get lost in the scrolling rabbit hole and forget what it was we were trying to find in the first place? I realized that I really wasn’t any different — it was so easy to walk around immersed in my thoughts without seeing anything.

I took my gloves off and removed my cellphone from my pocket—and methodically began taking a picture of every birdhouse on the block. When I got home, I opened my laptop to see if I could find anything more about those little structures . The birdhouses, I discovered were a neighborhood art project dating back to 2016. How could that passerby not have seen them. It stumped me. I posted the series of photos on Facebook and made a mental note to be more attentive to my surroundings.

That night we ordered Chinese food. At the end of the meal, I crumbled my fortune cookie and read the slip of paper that fell out: “Beauty will surround you — open your eyes to see it.” A signal? Maybe. For me, it marked my second Purple Pen moment — an epiphany of sorts that made me look at the world differently. The first one, scribbled in purple ink on a little notepad, happened in 2005 and helped me change the direction of my life. (See my first blog post, https://medium.com/@dody.tsiantar/the-purple-pen-74e4f25660f) I taped the slip of paper under my laptop keyboard next to the touch pad, so I would see it every day, and so I wouldn’t forget. It’s still there.

It made a difference. As I walked, I consciously tried not to get lost in my thoughts. Instead, I began to pay attention and notice things — the first buds of spring, a pudgy baby playing with its feet, small things, big things. I even incorporated the exercise into my teaching — I taught the fundamentals of reporting to graduate students at City University of New York’s Graduate School of Journalism and wanted to encourage them to observe and notice the details. To nail the point home, I assigned a drill: take three photos of something red, blue, or yellow. They all looked at me like I was crazy. But they dutifully did the assignment and I got some interesting photos — a blue mailbox, a yellow knob, a red pipe. I’d made my point — and at least, I hoped they now realized that their professor had not completely lost her marbles.

I followed my own advice every day, and in the process, I stumbled on something which has now become a life’s passion, or some might even call it, ahem, a personal obsession: I ritualistically take photographs of doors, every day objects which I find quite beautiful and even, metaphorical. Doors can block our way, of course. They can feel like obstacles. But, and here in lies the kernel of wisdom, they can also be opened. Who knows what lies behind that closed door— a new opportunity, a challenge, something we’d long forgotten. Isn’t there beauty in that?

I’ve taken this hobby seriously— and my cellphone now holds thousands of photos of doors. Last June, I even exhibited some of them in Thessaloniki, Greece’s second largest city, focusing only on doors I’d photographed in that magnificent city. During the exhibit, I was surprised at how many residents came up to me and thanked me. I asked them why. One after the other, dozens of them, said the same thing: We walk past many of these doors every day, but have not really looked at them or noticed how beautiful they are. You helped us see our city in a different way. It reminded me of that February afternoon on East 83rd Street when I discovered the birdhouses. By the way, they are still there—and in the spring, I’m told, they attract dozens of birds.

I still hunt for doors, and other surprising details, wherever I roam, and I religiously follow the wisdom found in my fortune cookie: Beauty is, indeed, everywhere. All you have to do is open your eyes, and look.