What Kind of Light Can I Provide?

In times of deep darkness, we not only need light—we need to BE light for one another. 
That's a message we must take to heart as we find ourselves lost once again
in the all-too-familiar darkness of America's culture of violence.

~Parker Palmer

Somehow I managed to make it until Friday evening before learning about the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. I had opted to listen to The Be Good Tanyas and Leonard Cohen in the car that day rather than NPR. But when I got home and opened Facebook, I was instantly overwhelmed by a flood of posts about this tragic incident, a flood that I quickly got swept up in. It seemed that none of us knew what to do other than share articles and statistics, express outrage with political memes, sadness with Rumi quotes. But soon enough all this posting and sharing began to feel like binge eating. We could stuff ourselves with information and opinions, but it would not diminish the loss and pain.

When I could finally read and post no more, I turned off the computer feeling numb. I was overwhelmed by too many words when there were really no words that could possibly express the sadness, anger, helplessness, and grief I was feeling. On Saturday I threw myself into pulling weeds, sweeping the yard, vacuuming the living room, moving Christmas boxes to the garage. The more physical and mindless the work, the better. You know that if I start cleaning with that kind of fervor, something is up.  Perhaps this was a more honest expression of my feelings, a physical release of some of that emotion. 

I did not cry until Sunday. The children's production of "The Latke That Wouldn't Stop Screaming" continued as planned at church. We needed to see children in cardboard costumes. We needed to hear a story that reminds us that everyone belongs somewhere. We needed to be reminded that there is still plenty of love and light, joy and laughter in the world. 

This is not what made me cry, however.

Aaron and Julia, the ministers at my Unitarian church knew people would need someplace to go with the stew of feelings this tragedy left them with. They provided such a place in the second service Sunday morning, beginning with 26 minutes of silent meditation or prayer, interrupted only by the sound of a bell each minute—one clear, resonant ring for each person who died in the shooting. There were a few words, but not too many. There would be plenty of time for words in the weeks and months to come. 

I had a hard time settling my mind during the silence and I simply could not process any more words. The music that morning touched me deeply, but what broke me open and made me cry was the rending of cloth. The rending of garments, or Keriah, is an ancient Jewish mourning ritual, a sanctioned and ritualized act of destruction in the face of grief. One description I read suggested that the rent garment represents the torn heart of the mourner. 

We did not rend our garments. But Julia and Aaron gave us white muslin and asked us to tear strips when the cloth was passed to us. The growing sound of fabric tearing was the sound of hearts being torn open. It was the sound of anguish and grief. The resistance of the muslin as I tore my strips released my anger and my tears. That was when I finally cried for those children and their teachers.

We tied strips of muslin around each other's arms to wear that day in honor of those who died. I am still wearing mine. Frankly, I am afraid to take it off. I know how easy it is to get caught up in the business of day to day life, to "forget" how important this is. Christmas is a week away. I need to finish shopping. I want to share holiday traditions with my family and sing with my choir on Christmas Eve. December is all about the promise of light out of darkness. Hanukkah, the winter solstice, Christmas are all about the promise of light. And I want to remember that promise. But I do NOT want to forget this tragedy. 

So I'm going to keep wearing this small piece of cloth around my arm until after the holidays so I will remember. Because we simply cannot go back to sleep until the next horrible shooting. If we do, then we are as guilty as the next shooter. What we can do is listen deeply to each other, even when we disagree (especially when we disagree). We can sign petitions, write letters, march in the streets, make some noise. And we can start building a culture of respect and kindness, one act at a time, one day at a time. We can choose to be part of the promise of light out of this darkness. As author Parker Palmer posted on Facebook this morning, everyday we can ask ourselves, "What kind of light can I provide today?" 

Grace and the Christmas Fish

"Christmas is for children. But it is for grownups too. 
Even if it is a headache, a chore, and nightmare, 

it is a period of necessary defrosting 

of chill and hide-bound hearts." 

~ Lenora Weber, writer

'Tis the season for sentimentality and cynicism. Christmas comes rolling in like a giant out-of-control snowball before we've even finished washing the Thanksgiving dishes and keeps picking up speed as it crashes through December. I can be grumpy, frantic, joyful, tearful, pissed off, or peaceful, sometimes all in the same day during the Christmas season. With luck, I usually recover sometime mid January.

I married Ebeneezer Scrooge. It may say Paul Kretschmer on our marriage license, but that's just an alias. Paul would probably choose dental surgery over most Christmas activities, so the bulk of the Christmas chores land on my To Do list. Today he surprised me though. He told me he likes our Christmas mornings. He likes watching the kids open presents, he thinks Santa makes good choices for them, he appreciates that they are grateful for what they receive. Part of me thought, isn't that nice. A much larger part wanted to say, you DO know Santa isn't real, don't you? Somebody has to actually shop for and wrap those presents, the same somebody who considers putting coal in your stocking every year.

I like Christmas. Really I do. But I'm feeling a little blue this December. I'm missing my children. I've sort of gotten used to Scrooge. But what happened to the two people who have given me the most holiday joy over the years?  At twelve and (almost) fifteen, Miles and Frances are suddenly jaded and apathetic about the whole thing, well everything but the gifts. They showed about as much enthusiasm for decorating the tree last weekend as they do for clearing the dinner table. Yet, it wasn't that long ago that their excitement over holiday traditions and their giddy anticipation of Santa's arrival were what kept me going this time of year. And it wasn't that long ago that there was a little magic in our Christmas.

When Frances was nine years old, she and Miles sat down to write letters to Santa Claus. This was not something we did every year, but that year Frances was beginning to question the whole Santa operation. I thought a letter might help keep Mr. Claus around awhile longer. I wasn't ready to let Santa out of the bag yet, so I kept silent as Frances pondered questions like, how does Santa manage to cover all that territory in a single night, and why do the presents look like they come from stores if the elves are making them? I would reply with something like, Christmas is all about magic, and then feel twinges of guilt for outright lying to this smart, inquisitive child. Or I might throw the whole inquiry back at her by asking, what do you think?  And then quickly turn up the Christmas music and offer her another cookie.

So letters to Santa were written. Among other things, Frances asked for a fish and some chocolate. We addressed the envelope to Santa Claus at the North Pole, put it in the mailbox and went about our decorating, baking, and nightly reading of our many Christmas books. Frances continued to pose questions about Santa's existence. I artfully evaded direct answers. Just one more year, I hoped. Besides, I didn't want her to ruin the magic for Miles. I'm a firm believer in childhood magic. There's plenty of time for reality when you grow up.  As Katrina Kenison writes in her book, Mitten Strings For God, "The realm of enchantment is open to us all, if we are willing to step over the threshold." I wanted Santa to hang around awhile longer, for the kids and for me too.

One afternoon, a little more than a week after the letters to Santa were mailed, the postman knocked on our front door. He handed me a small package addressed to Frances. The return address said, The North Pole. What could this be? The postmark was from a town about 100 miles north of us. It made no sense. With nervous anticipation, I called Frances into the room. You got a package from Santa, I said. She could tell the surprise and wonder in my voice were genuine. She opened the package. There was a copy of her letter and a small wrapped gift. Go ahead, I said. Open it. She carefully tore the paper as Miles and I watched. Inside were several squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, a small fish ornament, and a gift card to Petco. Wow, I said. That's amazing! Santa sent you an early present! That small package of kindness was the highlight of Christmas for us that year.

To this day, we have no idea who that gift was from. I like to imagine an elderly woman with white hair and sensible shoes choosing Frances' letter out of a mailbag full of letters to Santa. I've named her Grace. I can picture her shopping for the chocolates and coming up with a clever way to give Frances a fish. (We exchanged the Petco gift card for a Beta fish named Harry Water. Harry was part of the family for several years.) And even though I had to quickly scramble for an explanation for why Frances got an early present and Miles didn't (I think I said something about a random drawing, sort of like in The Polar Express), it was worth it. Grace gave us one more year with Santa Claus.

May you find a little magic and grace in your holidays this year.

A Broken Hallelujah

"It’s not a cry you can hear at night

It’s not somebody who has seen the light

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah"

~Leonard Cohen

I arrived at church at 5:30 Sunday evening, potluck dish in hand, to meet some friends. We were planning to car pool to our choir holiday party at the beautiful home of one of our members. It had been raining steadily all day and we hurried to climb into the car, carefully trying to keep our food and our party clothes dry. There was a bit of good-humored grousing about the weather as we sat waiting for a couple of others to arrive.

There were other people at church that evening too. Lined up around one of our community halls were maybe forty homeless men and women waiting for a hot meal and a place to sleep. Our church, along with a handful of other churches in town, takes turns hosting the Freedom Warming Center on nights when it is raining or dangerously cold. The warming center staff provides bedding and and runs a well-organized and compassionate operation, Doctors Without Walls offer medical care, and church volunteers make and serve a hot meal. 

Last winter I prepared and served a few casseroles at the warming center with some friends and my kids. And we will do it again this winter. It is hard to put into words the impact this experience had on me. I have both nothing and everything in common with these hungry, cold people seeking a meal and a bed. My life seems embarrassingly rich, my problems so trivial compared to what fate has dealt these brothers and sisters of mine. I can give them a meal, but I am not equipped to solved the myriad problems that accompany them to that shelter on a rainy night: Homelessness, unemployment, addiction, mental illness, a safety net of family and friends that is damaged or missing entirely. 

But there is something I can give them that is at least as important as a meal. I can ask their names and listen to their stories if they want to tell them. In this way I can give them a small measure of dignity. Last winter I met a man who had ridden his bike from Oregon pulling his dog in a baby trailer. He was not a young man and he clearly grappled with some mental health issues. He was making his way the best he could. He showed me some of the repairs he had managed on his bike, outdoing  MacGyver with his resourcefulness. And he told me he thanked God everyday for what he had. He thanked me for the simple meal I had prepared as if it were at feast. His gratitude for life was genuine and immense. And though his was surely a a broken hallelujah, it was beautiful. 

But then, don't we all sing a broken hallelujah? Life is tragic and beautiful, sometimes in the same moment. Troubles are not distributed evenly among us by a long shot, but we all feel pain. And even the most desperate among us see at least glimpses of grace. It is that beautiful, broken humanity that I share with the guests of the warming center. In our brief connection on those evenings, it does not matter what I do for work, where I live, what clothes I wear, what books I've read. All that matters is that we are fellow travelers on this big blue ship. I only hope I showed that man from Oregon half as much dignity as he showed me.

Grace. It is woven throughout our connections with other people, nearly any time we are truly present with another. The other day I was walking with a young woman I work with. She has autism. She is not very verbal, though she does burst into song frequently. She likes it when I sing too. She was agitated on this day as she sometimes is. I cannot imagine how overwhelming the world must seem to her at times. As we were walking, she sang the word hallelujah a couple of times. I did not recognize her melody so I started singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" to her, just the chorus, just the hallelujah. She looked at me and her whole body quieted down. Mine did too! I touched her arm and sang it again. And we walked that way back to the car. 

At the choir holiday party we held hands and sang "Silent Night." I felt grateful for this evening with these people I love. I thought of the people at the warming center, grateful they were being fed and given a warm place to sleep, wishing we could somehow take away all of their pain and suffering. When I got back to the church to pick up my car it was quiet. People were sleeping, some outside. The warming center staff watched over them. They would welcome people in and offer them food and a dry place to sleep all night. I am beginning to think that, paradoxically, it is our brokenness that can make us whole, make us fully human, allow us to reach out to another and find dignity and grace in our connections. And for this, we should sing hallelujah.

Jeff Buckley singing "Hallelujah," by Leonard Cohen. Be prepared to weep.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WIF4_Sm-rgQ

My Dad and I Could Teach Congress a Thing or Two

“I have wondered at times what the Ten Commandments would have looked like
if Moses had run them through the US Congress.” 

~Ronald Reagan

"We need not think alike to love alike."

~Francis David

My father was a Santa Barbara County Sheriff's officer on the night of February 25, 1970 when war protesters burned down the Isla Vista branch of the Bank of America. He was in the thick of it, trying to maintain some semblance of order in the chaos of that night.

I was seven years old. The Vietnam War was the soundtrack to my childhood, something that hummed along in the background but did not capture my attention much. I did not connect the protests and riots going on in Isla Vista with Vietnam. The war was something that happened on TV. The riots, however, were in my backyard. And my dad was there. When he put on his Sheriff's uniform or went under cover and headed into Isla Vista for work at night, I was afraid. My dad was not popular there. A flyer had been made and posted around IV with his picture and a caption that read "Not Wanted." We had to change our phone number when we started receiving threatening phone calls. And my mom slept with a loaded gun while my dad was at work. My parents protected my little sister and me from most of these details, but I was old enough to know my dad was in danger, old enough to be afraid.

My dad may have been a tough cop, but he was putty in my hands. I learned early on that if my mom said no to dessert or an extra half hour of TV, my dad would say yes. At a time when lots of fathers left most of the parenting to mothers, my dad was hands on. He was playful and affectionate and I worshiped him. He built me a beautiful playhouse in the backyard. He took me for rides on his motorcycle (no helmet, of course). He made sure we got hot fudge sundaes at Foster's Freeze on Friday nights, even if I hadn't eaten my vegetables. He was the parent I ran to when I was upset. When my parents divorced when I was nine, I was devastated. With undying loyalty and devotion to my dad, I blamed the entire thing on my mother (who took my wrath with selfless grace). In my adoring eyes, my dad could do no wrong. 

In my freshman year of high school, I had a student teacher for Social Studies who had been a UCSB student during those Vietnam protests in Isla Vista. For the first time, as he told stories of sit-ins and other peaceful protests he'd been involved in, I had a face to attach to those war protesters. I liked this teacher and the more he taught us about Vietnam, the more I found myself sympathizing with the protesters. My world began to shift off its axis as I found myself questioning my father's role during those turbulent times. For the first time in my life, I wasn't sure I agreed with my dad.  Of course, I was young and was looking at this issue through a very black and white lens. Years later I would realize that my dad's job was to defend order regardless of his feelings about the war. But when I was 14, the possibility that I might not agree with my dad rocked my world.

Little did I know this was only the beginning. As the years went by I migrated farther to the political left as my dad became more conservative. My dad loved Ronald Reagan, something I just could not comprehend. While still with the Sheriff's Department, he headed a security detail when Reagan was at his Santa Barbara ranch. He has a glowing letter from Reagan himself commending him for his fine work. I, on the other hand, supported Jerry Brown in one of his bids for the presidency. My dad and I have never once voted for the same presidential candidate. Yet, earlier this month, when Barack Obama won his second term on my birthday, my dad posted on my Facebook page, "I'm glad your candidate won just for your birthday."

And you know what? He meant it. Because here's the thing: My dad and I have always looked past our differences and straight at the love that binds us together. On one level, we have very different values. He's is a Christian and a conservative Republican. I am an Agnostic Unitarian and a liberal Democrat. But we have never let these differences knock us off the common ground we stand on. My dad is still one of my heroes. He's a good man who fiercely looks out for the people he loves and cares about the world. He has accepted and loved me without question, no matter how nuts he may think my politics or religion are. 

We do not try to change each other, my dad and I. We know in our bones that we can disagree with each other AND love each other. We will always have each other's backs and pull together for the important things. Because we know that what binds us together is much greater than what divides us. My dad and I could teach congress a thing or two, don't you think?

Happy Birthday, Dad

I love you

Oh Yeah, Gratitude

"Let us be grateful when we are able to give,

for many do not have that privilege.

Let us be grateful for those who share their gifts with us,

for we are enriched by their giving.

Let us be grateful even for our needs,

So that we may learn from the generosity of others."

~Unitarian affirmation of gratitude and giving

I have written about gratitude as a spiritual practice before. Allow me to demystify my "practice" a bit. I am not climbing to any mountain tops, I assure you. All I do is write down at least three things I am grateful for (most) everyday. And in order to have something to write down, I keep my eye out for the good stuff as I go through the day, the big juicy sunsets, a long walk, or the fact that my friend Alison picked up my kids from school and saved my butt once again. The really cool thing is the unexpected gift this simple practice has given me. I was a glass half empty kind of person for most of my life. Now I hoist a glass that is at least half full most of the time. It's like spiritual jogging. If I do it regularly, I can really feel those gratitude muscles getting stronger. If I get lazy, well then it's a slippery slope straight down to whiny complaining and self pity. Spiritual flab begins to replace good muscle tone.

Well, I've gotten lazy the past couple of months. And I am having trouble mustering up genuine feelings of gratitude. Thanksgiving, the Superbowl of Gratitude, is upon us and I find myself out of shape and unprepared for the game. I may be benched. How embarrassing is that?  Lately, when I do remember to write down three things I am grateful for, it feels sort of forced. The words are there, but not the feelings. Instead of focusing on what is good and plentiful in my life, the things that sustain me and give me strength to do the heavy lifting, I'm mucking around in longing, resentment, blame, focusing on scarcity, complaining about what I don't have. 

My husband, the Buddhist, reminds me that attachment is what causes suffering. When I cling to desire, I suffer. He's right of course. True gratitude is about opening myself up to all that I have right now and feeling that it's enough. But that's not where I've been hanging out these days. I've been wanting what I don't have. It's like I'm bypassing Thanksgiving and going straight to Black Friday, getting sucked into the false promise that if I just get what I think I want, I'll be content. 

What DO I want? I want my children to get off the computer and go for a walk with me. I want more laughter with my husband, less arguing over petty things. I want more time for singing and being with my friends, less time spent racing around. And these are the more noble desires. I want actual things too. I want an iPad, a flat screen TV, a smart phone (if you ask my kids they will tell you that we are practically Luddites). I want to earn more money. I want someone to come and clean my house, blah, blah, blah.

So what is the antidote for this poisoning of gratitude with desire? Well, I think it's giving. Last week I bought a homeless man a sandwich and chatted with him for a minute. I hope he liked the sandwich. Giving it to him and taking the time to connect with him sure warmed me. I volunteered to be a food team leader for the warming shelters that are beginning to open up at local churches too. You might think, oh isn't that generous. Well, actually, it's a little selfish. Last winter when I prepared food for the guests of the warming centers, I was so moved by their gratitude, that it set a fire under my own. And maybe if I want my children to go for a walk with me and my husband to laugh with me, I should look at what I can give them to show them that I love and appreciate them. Giving, like prayer, like practicing gratitude, makes me pay attention, frees me from my head and opens my heart to something much bigger than just me, me, me.

And then there's my daily practice, the spiritual exercise program that keeps me strong. It's time to get off the couch and get back to it. So what are three things I feel gratitude for RIGHT NOW? I am grateful for the sweet text message I received from my minister this morning. I am grateful that my husband is planning a belated birthday "surprise" for me right now. I am grateful for five days to slow down, be with family and friends, eat good food, hike and walk, and look for the good stuff.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Why Pray?

photo by Michelle Bednash

"Instructions for life: 

Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it."

― Mary Oliver

“Here are the two best prayers I know: 

'Help me, help me, help me' and 'Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

― Anne Lamott

When I was child I intermittently attended my grandparents' Foursquare Gospel church. My grandpa was an usher and my nana was in the choir, so we always arrived early on Sunday morning. I can remember standing in the church kitchen watching my nana cut up white bread and pour tiny glasses of purple grape juice on communion Sundays. I remember the little hand-held counter my grandpa ticked off as people entered the sanctuary, trying to get an accurate count of worshipers. I remember my nana's choir robe and the hard candies my grandpa kept in his pocket for me and my sister.

There was a lot of talk about the Holy Spirit in that church, a lot of swaying with arms stretched Heavenward during worship services. People did not sit quietly listening to the preacher. They moaned and thanked Jesus a lot. It was rumored that some people had the gift of speaking in tongues which, frankly, was fascinating and a little creepy to me as a child. In fact the whole idea of the Holy Spirit suddenly possessing my body was both thrilling and terrifying. I stayed on my toes. As instructed by the minister, I was forever inviting Jesus into my heart. I kept waiting to feel some kind of sign that he was in there. Couldn't he RSVP so I would know he was coming? Nothing. I must have had the wrong address.

There were many things about that church that mystified and scared me as a child. (Don't get me started on the sermons I heard about the Apocalypse.) But there was one thing I learned there that really helped me: The power of prayer. One of my Sunday School teachers, an elderly woman whose name I've long since forgotten, taught me that prayer was nothing more than having a conversation with God. She said I could talk to God anywhere and that I could do it out loud or silently in my head. Well, this was great news to me. I had a lot to talk about with God. Mostly I had a lot of questions for him about why my parents were getting a divorce. I was prepared to cut deals with him too if he would do something about that.

I made a lot of deals with God and gave him lots of deadlines which he let pass without so much as a note. I knew he was busy, but was it too much to ask to have a return receipt so I would know he had at least heard my prayer? But the deals he wouldn't accept and the deadlines he let slip by weren't really that important. What saved me was just expressing my needs, my fears, my sadness. I was a shy kid. I kept a lot of feelings inside. Prayer, those ongoing (albeit one sided) conversations I had with God helped me articulate my feelings and gave me somewhere to put them. When I prayed I did not feel so alone. And when I sent my fear or sadness out there in the form of a prayer, it lost a little of its hold on me. It wasn't perfect, but prayer helped get me through some rough times as a kid.

I don't believe in God now, at least not the way I did as a child. Gone is the old man with the white beard who ignored my bribes, but saved me a little bit anyway. Today I am a seeker who is comfortable knowing I will probably find more questions than answers in this life, more mystery than certainty. I believe the journey is the important part. The destination is out of my hands. I still believe in the power of prayer but don't do it much anymore. I've been spending far too much time inside my needy, judgmental, controlling head of late. It's a nice place to visit, but I don't want to live there. It may be time to try prayer again.

Earlier today I thought of the serenity prayer used in twelve-step programs. It's a great prayer, one I should start every day with.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

I don't think it really matters to whom or what you pray. For me, prayer is about letting my needs, my fears, my hopes, my desires out of that cramped, claustrophobic space inside my skull. It's about paying attention. It's about letting go. It's about admitting I'm not the boss of, well, anything. It's about asking for help. It's about saying thank you. It's about opening up to something bigger than myself. It's about allowing awe and wonder in. And ultimately it's about letting love in and sending love out.

Walk The Walk

"The alternative to cynicism is to become more involved in politics.

Help create a progressive force in this nation that grows into a movement 

that can’t be stopped."

--Robert Reich

I am not the best person to write this post. The truth is I have not been much of a political activist thus far in my life. I have marched in a couple of pro-choice and marriage equality marches, worked the occasional table for these issues, donated a few bucks here and there, and been part of a few other random political actions over the years. But I have not really dug my hands into the dirt of any of the issues I care about and really worked hard. In my young adulthood, I'm ashamed to say, I didn't even always vote. 

Tuesday's election restored some of my faith in my fellow Americans. By and large, we are good people. But the nastiness leading up to the election really started to get to me. And I'm not talking about the nastiness of the politicians and the Media. I'm talking about the nastiness that my friends and I propagated, largely through social media outlets like Facebook and Twitter. At first I laughed at the mean-spirited jokes and memes that appeared with alarming regularity in my Facebook news feed. I even shared some. But then I stopped finding them funny. It occurred to me that the politicians didn't need to pay for attack ads anymore because we were willingly and freely doing it for them. We all claim to be disgusted by the negativity and mean spirited nature of political campaigns, but there we were, participating in the negativity gleefully. As Pogo so famously said, "We have met the enemy and he is us."

So what does this have to do with my political activism (or lack there of)? Well, I started to wonder how many of my friends were like me. How many of us were joking and complaining but not doing much else? Some of my friends have been working hard for years. Sarah and Wayne did their part this election by logging hours of phone banking. Chuck is genetically programmed for political activism. Natalie has worked tirelessly for the homeless for years. And Katie recently took her passion for environmental issues to a new level by participating in a training with Al Gore. Now she is out there giving public presentations about global warming.

But what about the rest of us? What about me? What should I do? I've started following Robert Reich on Facebook. For the few who might not know who he is, Robert Reich is a Professor of Public Policy at the University of California at Berkeley and was Secretary of Labor in the Clinton administration. He's smart and down to earth, realistic and optimistic. And he doesn't just inform. He says, here's what YOU can do. So the first thing I did was join Common Cause www.commoncause.org, a non-partisan, non-profit advocacy group that Robert Reich currently chairs. Common Cause is a good place to start for people like me who want to do something, but aren't sure what.

That's only a first step though. Writing this is another. What I would really like is a mentor and a team. I need help focusing my limited time and energy, and I know I am more motivated and inspired when working with others. Some of the issues I am most passionate about include marriage equality, gun control, education, homelessness, reproductive rights, environmental protection and, well, lots more. I want to invite those of you who are out there working for change to share your good works with the rest of us. Right here. Leave a comment on this post telling us what you're doing and how we can help. I promise to read all of them and see where I might best use my time and talents. How about the rest of you? As Robert Reich says, "It won’t happen if you wallow in the comfort of your cynicism. But it will happen if you and others like you get fired up."