“I Do” did not start its life as a wedding song.

Thought I would tell you a little about the songs on our new album, The View From Here.

We all know that most wedding songs – with the possible of exception of “Chapel Of Love” — one of my personal all-time favorites — are kind of solemn, slow, and serious. But I was thinking about when Art and I got married. We were both so happy! I was positively giddy and almost burst out laughing, just out of sheer joy.
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The View From Here

This album was written over the course of ten years. In that time I have lost both my parents and have had two bouts with cancer. In addition, I found out I have a paralyzed vocal cord. So in that time, there have been seismic shifts, not only in the way that my voice responds – which necessitates changes in the way that I write – but also in my views of life and the way I think about purpose and meaning. I have been given the rare and precious gift of time. This is my personal offering in gratitude to the Universe and to all of the wonderful souls who have infused my life with love.

Now that I am of a “certain age” I have stopped caring about many things that once seemed important, like squeezing my writing into a pigeonhole. So I have allowed myself to write anything and everything that comes to me. All of the stories and characters come from some part of me – my 15 year-old self, my (ahem!) current self, and everything in between.

This album is dedicated to the memory of my parents, Phil and Lizi. To my two oldest and dearest friends, my sisters, Michele and Sherry. You have both given me so much – Words fail. To my “sister by another mother”– Lucie, who has been such a dear friend and unfailing support. To our favorite nomads, Jim and Marylou. To Carole, my very dear, multi-talented friend of 30 years. To Betty Blair and J.P. And la Belle Renée in Tennessee. To all of the Munson clan, and especially to Marjorie Munson who has been an enormous inspiration – She and Ed gave Art wings and roots. To our Yoga Blend family here in La-La Land. You’ve taught me so much. To all of the many people I love – You know who you are! And to our little tuxedo fur child, Le Petit Henri, who spent so many long hours in the studio co-producing from the couch.

A special thank you to Michele who provided the beautiful music for our song, “My Mother’s Eyes”. And thank you for singing it with me. The Bagelman Sisters ride again!

Finally, I have to express my undying love and deepest gratitude to my soul mate and genius musical guru, Honey Hands Munson. To Art, My Heart. (It pays to sleep with your producer!!!).

“All of the shadow and all of the light/All that is wrong and all that is right/All of this I give to you. /All of me loves all of you – I do!”

Senator Kennedy: Rest In Peace

Senator Kennedy: Rest In Peace

When I think of Senator Edward Kennedy, I will remember him as a powerful force for good. He has championed the rights of ordinary Americans for well over forty years. He was a devoted public servant.

I learned of his death this morning, and although we all knew of his illness over the past year, somehow, many of us hoped against hope that he would somehow summon all of his considerable strength and overpower this most fearsome enemy – the cancer that finally carried him off.

But one interesting detail of his story had been buried so deep within my memory that I was actually jolted when it came up this morning: Returning home one night from a party, a young woman who was a passenger in his car was drowned when his car plunged into the river. Ted Kennedy swam to safety.

In 1969, when I heard this news, I was angry, even outraged, at his behavior. I was quick to speculate on his relationship with Mary Jo Kopekne and the alcohol level in his blood at the time of the accident. I wrote him off as a “light-weight”.

But now, 40 years later, all of that has faded into ancient history. His work in the senate on behalf of the American people has been stellar. His impassioned oratory has been inspiring to millions of us. Even his political enemies have had to bestow a grudging respect for the “Lion of the Senate”.

So here is the take-away for me: redemption. No matter what our mistakes, our failings, our shortcomings, even our sins, there is always the possibility of redemption. We can not go back and fix the past, but in the present, we can at least atone and move on. Where there is life, there is always the possibility of redemption of the soul. It may or may not come from a personal God. And whether or not it can come after we’ve left this earth, it is certainly within our grasp while we are here.

Bravo, Ted Kennedy. Thank you for reminding me that there is always hope for Amazing Grace. Rest in peace.

Health Care Reform: The Time is (Still) Now

What can I say about health care reform that hasn’t been said by millions of other people millions of times over the past hundred years? Plenty.

The thing I am definitely not hearing, not from the politicians, not from the pundits, is that this issue is not about the doctors, not about the economy, not about the accountants and their number crunching, not about the federal debt, although I know that all of these considerations will help to shape the ultimate bill should it be passed in Congress. No, this issue is about health care, and especially about the people who need it.

Why don’t I hear a great hue and cry coming out of the electorate? We should be outraged that once more, the people we voted in to office, our senators and congressmen, are following in that time-honored tradition of their forebears who diddled around while millions upon millions of people were denied access to even the most rudimentary health care coverage.

If the argument were made that public schools were just too expensive and that ultimately, they would bring our financial system to its knees, would we stand still for allowing our children to grow up ignorant and unprepared for the work world? I think not! We all acknowledge that some basic skills and literacy must be afforded to all of our citizens so that they can lead a decent life, and, as the Declaration of Independence states, so that they can exercise their right to “the pursuit of happiness”. Imagine our country without universal education. Try. It’s unthinkable. The implications would be enormous.

But at least, if there weren’t public education, it would not be an immediate threat to that other inalienable right – the right to life. But that’s what we’re talking about when we talk about healthcare. I don’t know whether anyone has bothered to take a census of all of the needless deaths that occur every year in this country because forty-six million people were denied access to health care. It would be hard to quantify since there are so many variables that come into play when you’re talking about illness.

The cost of even the most basic medical care has soared in the past fifty years. Unless your name happens to be Oprah Winfrey or Bill Gates, trust me: you can’t afford it. You may, like so many hard-working Americans, be forced into bankruptcy. You may lose your home. You may simply die an untimely death because you can’t even buy life-saving medicine. You might even experience all of these possible outcomes.

And don’t get me started on the so-called “underwriting practices” which are standard operating procedure for the health insurers. I myself am a two-time cancer survivor. Thank God I had coverage. (We were blessed to have a wise and compassionate insurance broker. She helped us to navigate the treacherous waters of the insurance providers). Many, many people are not so lucky. Should you be denied health coverage because you are or have ever been sick?

It seems to me that many of our elected officials are a bit too cozy with big business, and big business includes big insurance companies. It also strikes me that many politicians are more concerned about future elections than they are about the welfare of their own constituents. And then there is another class of politicians: The politicians who are hell-bent on destroying our current president – at any cost. They belong to the “let-them-eat-cake” school of government, and should be treated accordingly. (Figuratively speaking, of course!)

We the People are being sold down the river at the very time when we need the support of our government the most. We who are or have been sick are a silent and large minority whose civil rights are being trampled every time we are denied access to decent medical attention. We who have lost our jobs and therefore lost our insurance are being doubly victimized for our misfortune.

Pray for enlightenment on the part of the Senate and the House. It’s an emergency and the doctor is out playing golf.

And On The Same Day

AND ON THE SAME DAY!

They sat on the bench at the bus stop under a cloudless azure sky, each staring straight ahead at the small, neat little building across the road which looked like a Methodist church that had been converted to some other purpose, possibly a private home. The bulletin board in the front announcing the topic of the next sermon was blank, and looked as if it had been that way for a long time, surrounded as it was with Queen Anne’s lace and tall grass. Apart from the church-house, there was nothing to distinguish this particular stretch of country road. No ambient sounds. As if a stern librarian had put her finger to her lips and whispered, “Quiet!”

“I hope it comes soon. I get kind of antsy just waiting,” she said, stealing a quick glance at her fellow traveler and looking back across the street.

He glanced at her. She was a familiar looking blonde with beautiful waves of cascading hair nearly overpowering her delicate, petite frame. He tried to peg her. “I’ve seen you before, but I just can’t seem to figure out. . . .” he trailed off.

Now she searched her memory. A shy, childlike quality came through his voice, with just the slightest rasp. Warm. Endearing.

“I, I used to be an actress.” She hesitated. “Maybe you’ve seen me?”
“Oh! So you’re . . .”
“And you’re . . .”
Now they frankly stared at each other. The recognition pulled them up short.
“So we’re. . .” he fumbled for the right words. “So we’re home, now”.
“I was sick, so sick. So tired. The paramedics came”.
“Yes. My doctor was there. And then – I was looking down. Seeing myself. Too tired to come back”.
“Exactly”. Her voice trembled. She shuddered.
“It’s a hospital”, she whispered. “It’s going to be okay, now. I feel it”.
“Wanna know a secret? I hated it! Hated all of it. Didn’t know how to stop. Couldn’t stop. Didn’t know what I would do if I stopped.” He willed her to look into his eyes.

She looked. Beyond the ashen skin, the painfully thin nose, the drawn look of his entire being. She looked into his dark eyes. Now there was a recognition that transcended the image she had seen again and again in the tabloids, in the videos, on the news. Something sweetly conspiratorial passed between them.

“And on the same day!” She laughed in spite of herself, and he understood.
“They must be having a field day down there!”
Now they both laughed, deep belly laughs until, uncontrollably, tears sprang to their eyes. They hugged carefully. Hesitant..

Now, a solitary man dressed in white scrubs and immaculate white sneakers emerged from the church house across the street. As he approached the bus stop, he smiled, as if sharing their private joke.

He stopped in front of them, holding out his hands and helped them to their feet.

“The Doctor will see you now”.

This I Believe, I Believe

Today marks the end of a series on NPR called, “I Believe”. I only heard it for the first time maybe two years ago, and I must confess, every time they announced a new segment I half expected to hear a bar or two of a song that was popular when I was a little girl, “I Believe”. They probably thought of it and decided against it as being too schmaltzy. Wise.

I really loved this series. It is fascinating to hear people from all walks of life and in all sorts of circumstances make a public statement about their most privately held and most central core belief. Most of the time I would listen and think to myself, “Gee! That’s a good one! I believe that, too!”. But I had never consciously thought about most of these ideas. They just informed my life, always working at a subliminal level, the mirapoix that flavors the soup, but whose taste nobody can identify.

Then, inevitably, I would say to myself, “Gee, I really ought to write a “This I Believe” essay and send it in. Then I would think: “Who knows? They might choose mine to put on the air”. (Notice the immediate departure from ‘Art for Art’s Sake’?).

So I have to ask myself the musical question: Do I really believe in what I say I believe in, or do I believe others would validate me if I said I believed in it? How do you really get deep beneath the bubbling surface of the potato leek soup of your mind to the most basic of its elements? And how do you know when you’ve gotten there?

This is an especially thorny issue for a songwriter. I write songs all the time that set out to express some aspect of what it is I truly believe. Some of the songs do this overtly in a kind of spiritual testimony. Some of them do it obliquely in a kind of story tradition that is so prevalent in country songs. (Some songs I write for pure fun, so they don’t count here). I have one song that states that I, like Norman Rockwell, try to describe the world as the best of all possible worlds, not because it really is that way, but because that is the world I would like it to be. The hope is that, “we get the life we make”. This is a corollary of the affirmation theory; the belief that you can change your life by changing your perceptions. As much as anything I have ever believed in, I believe in this.

Or do I?

I never have sent in my own essay for the show. Every time I came up with a hypothetical title, I questioned it. The questioning would inevitably plant just enough doubt in my mind to make me think, “Who am I to make this statement? What proof do I have? Is it truly an original thought? And while we’re on the subject: Who cares?”

As I write this, I believe that we can change our reality by changing our perceptions. Will I believe that tomorrow? If I had been one of those people who survived Katrina in New Orleans or the bombing of the World Trade Center — not from the comfort of my living room, but at ground zero — would I still believe this is true? I might take the other tack. I might start to believe that it doesn’t matter about my perceptions. I am simply collateral damage in the battle with nature or the battle with fundamentalist extremists.

But I did have my own kind of personal catastrophe. I survived cancer. Twice. I came out of it believing that one of the things that saw me through was my ability to envision myself whole and healthy. Simultaneously, I was able to surrender to and accept the reality of the situation and my own limitations in altering it. This allowed me to reach out for as much help as I could possibly get. So, yes. In other words, “Sit back, take a deep breath, and accept your reality”. This I believe, too.

So for me, I have two seemingly diametrically opposed ideas which I hold on to for dear life. Will a new life-altering event create a new belief system? And how will I know that unless I hear another essay on NPR?

MOTHER-IN-LOVE

Back when Art proposed to me (well, when he asked whether I thought we ought to get married), I was happy with the prospect of our new life together, but I had no idea what to expect in terms of his family, which was about to become *my* family. I had already had the experience of one set of in-laws, plus a whole raft of the mothers of my boyfriends. Let me tell you, I was scared.

Over the years I had come to expect that the women who would come to know me through their sons were not necessarily thrilled with me. I seemed to have a knack for choosing men who were just a little too close to Mom, and therefore, mothers who were just a little too attached to their sons. Most memorably, one of these Moms had taken one look at me, scanned me up and down and pronounced, “You’re obviously a very weak person!”.

So on I soldiered in the wilderness of all single girls trying to date their way to happiness.

I was lucky. Art appeared just as I had given up — just as I had reached the stage in my life where I had made my peace with the strong possibility that I would never remarry, never have a family beyond my family of origin, and (the silver lining to all of this gloom) would never have to face another potential (or actual) mother-in-law again.

So it was with great trepidation that I picked up the receiver for the first time to speak to Art’s mother. I was sure she would be resentful of me, sure she would find good reason to be critical of his choice, sure she would cold-shoulder me and find me unworthy of her precious golden boy, her eldest son. I remember gripping the phone with both hands, shutting my eyes tight, and waiting for her to lower the boom. So, imagine my surprise when I heard this sweet, benevolent woman at the other end saying, “Is this Robin? I’m so pleased to finally speak with you. Art has told me so much about you — all good!” and I could actually hear her smiling over the phone. She then continued, “I was so worried that he would be alone in his declining years!” . (Quite a turn of phrase, and it broke the ice!) I opened my eyes, which were now brimming with tears of gratitude, just as I suspected hers were, too.

A couple of years later, Art and I traveled to Connecticut for the first time as a married couple. I met my in-laws in person for the first time. Art’s father was a gentle, soft-spoken man who said little but made every word count. He had played in a square dance band for over fifty years and had the heart of a true musician. He treated me with great kindness and compassion. When Ed picked us up at the airport, I saw clearly where Art had learned how to be a gentle-man. My first instinct when Art introduced me was to give my new father-in-law a big bear hug. But I was still nervous about what would happen when we got back to my in-laws’ house. Would Marge accept me? Had our lovely conversations over the phone given me false hope? Was I about to become that old cliché, the long-suffering and marginalized interloper who had “stolen her baby”?

And what did Marge do? She greeted me with open arms and held me tight. She welcomed me into her cozy kitchen and into her family as easily as if she had been my birth mother. When she introduced me to her friends and neighbors she referred to me as her “newest daughter”. She put fresh flowers in the guest room and brand new sheets on our bed. She tolerated, and even welcomed our lavish public displays of affection. She allowed me help in the kitchen, rather than demanded it. (And believe me, I’m no Betty Crocker!).

Which brings me to the next point: Over the years, Marge has quietly taught me how to be a “balabust”– She doesn’t know the word, but it’s Yiddish and it means a woman who knows how to make a house a home. That’s not to say that I hadn’t learned the basics at my own mother’s knee. I knew how to iron (I’m not patient enough, but I know how), I knew how to put together a dinner party, I knew how to make a bed and I had the good upbringing that gave me a certain ability to be at ease in a conversation and to treat guests with courtesy and respect. (My mother taught me never, NEVER, to allow guests to visit without offering them food.) So I mean no disrespect to my Mom. She was great.

But Marge continued where Mom left off. After all, I had left home at eighteen, so my domestic education had been cut short. Over the past twenty years, Marge has generously given me inside tips about cooking — her recipe for pie crust (hand written and proudly displayed on my refrigerator), her secrets about how to remove all manner of stains from the laundry. She has allowed me to be present while she made delicious soups, and I found out that the trick to thickening a vegan soup is potatoes and a food processor. From Marge I learned the elegant economy of washing clothes in cold water (saves energy, saves you having to sort by color, good for the environment, and good for the pocketbook). How to stretch your money at the grocery store (coupons). The best way to reseal cellophane packages (clothes pins). How to find extra storage space in the kitchen (hanging baskets from the ceiling). The list goes on and on, and every day, it seems, I discover another kindness, another pearl of wisdom she has bestowed upon me. She has demonstrated how to create an atmosphere of warmth and harmony within the home (too complicated to explain in twenty-five words or less). And she has treated me as an honored guest and member of the family when I visited her home — not an easy task, since on the surface, you would not think the two go hand-in-hand. Sometimes I sensed I was underfoot, but she never complained. I could go on and on, but maybe you get the idea.

Mothers-in-law often get a bad rap, and perhaps, many of them live up to their reputation. But daughters-in-law can be less than perfect, too. And with all of my own faults and shortcomings, Marge has treated me with more than respect. She has treated me with unfailing compassion and love. Recently I have begun to call her “Mom”. I couldn’t bring myself to use that word with her when my own mother was alive. I was afraid of being disloyal. She always understood that. But it feels as if my own mom has given me permission. Lizi will always live in my heart as my first mother, the one who gave me life, and the one who was there for me through every sickness, every crisis, every broken heart, every failure and disappointment, my first confidante, my mentor. But Marge is my “other mother”. The one who has, with uncommon grace, taken me under her wing as a daughter, a sister to her other children, and as a friend. The one who has entrusted me with the role of caretaker to her grown son. She is much more than my mother-in-law, she is my mother-in-love.

Christmas, Loss, and Frosty

It’s January 1st. Time to strike the Christmas set. Time to strip the house of all of our little gee-gaws and doo-dads — the reindeer mugs, the Christmas Tree candles, the holiday tablecloth, the Christmas cards from our near-and-dear who are scattered hither and yon all over the world. Finally, it is time to take down the tree.

Every year when we take down the tree, I am filled with sadness. There is something so utterly poignant about denuding this beautiful, well — this creature, who has been a most hospitable house guest for the past three weeks. She has silently endured the indignity of being festooned with ornaments and strung with colored lights. She has endured countless hours of my playing the Beach Boys’ Christmas album. She has spread her branches like outstretched arms welcoming our brightly colored packages. She has allowed our cat, Henry, to sleep under her wings, peacefully enjoying her delightful aroma of earth and pine. She has weathered the unending hours of having the fireplace blazing only four feet away, literally sucking the life out of her by depriving her of her moisture. She has beamed her beauty for all, including our little neighbor, Stone, who came over frequently during the holiday season, I suspect, at times, just to feast his eyes on her. But now, it is time for her to leave us.

This year, for the first time, I actually cried as we undressed her. I had thought that this year we would be more lighthearted when it came time to say goodbye. We had made a point this year of spending lots of time with her and enjoying her company. And she never disappointed. So I thought when the first of the year rolled around, we would be able to part company with a sense of completion.

But this is the year that I lost my mother. Whatever that something is we feel when we have to let someone or something go, it was especially hard for me this year. The fact that we had tried so hard to honor her and treat her with the respect and admiration she deserved did nothing to ameliorate the sorrow of her loss. Am I talking about the tree or about my mother? For today, anyway, it feels like it’s all the same. Loss is loss. The harder I try to grab life with both hands and hold on tight, the more I feel it slipping away from me and vanishing into the Great Beyond.

But part of the joy of life, and of Christmas, is that it is not permanent. It has its season, and then it’s gone. But, as with just about anything in life I can think of, it reappears at some point, maybe different in some aspects, but also, thankfully, very much the same in others. Every year I say, “This is the most beautiful Christmas tree we’ve ever had!” — and every year it is true.

So now, I have dried my tears and just about put away Christmas for the year. I will miss our lovely green friend. I will try to remember the parable of “Frosty The Snowman”, according to the Beach Boys: “But he waved goodbye saying ‘Don’t you cry, I’ll be back again some day!’”.

God Bless Us, Every One!

Well, it’s officially here — The recession that everyone has been predicting and wringing their hands over. I don’t know anyone, literally, anyone, who has not been affected. People in every walk of life, at every rung of the socioeconomic ladder, of every political stripe — all of us are feeling the pinch. Some, more than others, but we are all in this boat together, and the boat has sprung a leak.

It reminds me so much of the tales my mom used to tell from “the olden days”. Mom was born in 1927, so she remembers the Great Depression very well. My grandfather lost everything when the markets collapsed. He had leveraged loans which he used to buy several real estate properties with a partner. When the market crashed, the loans were called in. Of course, Grandpa had no way to pay them back. He lost the properties and all the income that he would have been earning from them. He developed a severe infection from a decayed tooth, had what was then called “a nervous breakdown”, and he never recovered, mentally or physically. My grandmother supported the family taking in washing, working part-time as a saleswoman, doing whatever it took to keep her family together. My father’s father, a roofer by trade, with a wife and eleven children to feed, woke up while it was still dark every morning to get in a few hours of selling apples or pencils (I can’t remember which it was) on the street corner before beginning his work day doing construction. (I suppose there wasn’t much construction going on at that time).

When Art and I talked to Mom last year about the economy and Art cited the dire predictions she listened attentively and answered thoughtfully in a very subdued voice, “People are going to be jumping out windows”. It gave me the chills. And as it happens, I just heard a story of someone who had been laid off of his job who did, in fact, commit suicide. I didn’t ask how. It doesn’t matter. It was dreadful, and for once, I wished Mom’s prediction had been a case of her being a drama queen.

But I also remember from Mom’s Tales of the Depression childhood that there was a general atmosphere of can-do spirit. She described people as being generous and caring to the less fortunate. In spite of her own economic woes, my grandmother always kept her door open for passing strangers in need of food or momentary shelter. This was in no way uncommon. People did not worry so much about being victimized by the homeless or the desperate, although there were plenty of homeless and desperate people everywhere you looked. There was a spirit of cooperation. People pooled their resources. Neighbors looked out for neighbors. Children found ways to play that cost little or no money. They made go-carts out of orange crates. They literally made lemonade out of lemons (and sold it for a penny). Mom remembered playing stickball in the street. She remembered kids finding secret caves where they would light a small bonfire and roast potatoes. She said they were the best potatoes she had ever tasted. Shoes were mended and resoled until they fell off your feet. Clothing was handed down from the oldest child to the youngest. Everyone cooked from scratch because it was the cheapest way to eat — and coincidentally, the best way to eat. My grandmother was a first-rate cook and baker, and she could do it all on a shoestring.

I am not saying that I wish we would actually experience a Great Depression of our own. I pray that we do not. But in the I-Ching there is a symbol that signifies crisis and opportunity, each being opposite signs of the same coin. The economic chaos right now is certainly a crisis, but we can choose, if we wish, to also see it as an opportunity to explore the edges of our ability to cope and to re-examine our values and our humanity toward one another.

The holidays are upon us. It’s going to be a rough time for so many. Maybe this is the right moment to quote Tiny Tim in Dickens’ Christmas Carole: “God bless us, everyone!”.

HOLIDAY SHOPPING LIST

Most every Christmas — okay, *every* Christmas, so far — I have been stressed out and overwhelmed. Every Christmas I vow not to do it. Every Christmas, I do. Oh, I start out with the best of intentions. I make a detailed list, not only for gifts, but also for cards. I study the catalogs as if I were studying for the final exam of my life. I discuss it all calmly and rationally with Art. I make sure to learn the identity of the adult whom I will gift in Art’s family early. Like, right after Thanksgiving dinner. I plan for the lights, the tree, and I buy plenty of Christmas wrapping paper. I brave the madhouse of malls and department stores, driving in endless circles looking for a parking space. I scour the stores for those elusive perfect gifts (which are never right, anyway). Every year the holidays become,”an orgy of excess and waste”, to quote our president-elect. (Anyway, I think I got that quote right).

Every year on December 25th, right after the exchange of our gifts, Art brings in a big black trash bag. Out go the beautiful ribbons and bows, the artful wrappings, the raffia and tissue paper, a couple of rolls of Scotch tape, and the mountains of boxes are, at least, recycled.

The gifts are always thoughtful, lovely, and certainly appreciated. But while we sip our Christmas tea while gazing into the 5,000 watts of electric lights and staring at our beautiful gas-lit fireplace — while the radio brings us “Away in the Manger no room for a bed. . .” or “The Little Drummer Boy”, I think about all of the people whose Christmas will be anything but merry. Then the guilt begins.

On top of the stress of the holidays that everyone talks about ad nauseum, I have a little green Christmas monster. I hear his whiny little ET voice: “You are so lucky and blessed. What have you given to the needy, to promote the cause of peace, to help save the planet. Well???”. I picture this little monster tapping its tiny feet, its green arms crossed over its chest, its mouth scowling as it waits for a reply. (I take it as a rhetorical question so that I don’t have to answer). Usually in the week between Christmas and New Years, I put on a good five pounds trying to stuff down the little critter with pumpkin pie and egg nog. And then I make my one consistent New Year’s resolution: Next year I will make charitable donations instead of buying way too many expensive and unnecessary gifts. Next year I will celebrate in a more responsible and compassionate way.

So yesterday I was staring at the great pile of catalogs on our coffee table. (Never mind that I have been steadily trying to stop them from coming in the mail. They continue at an alarming rate! One catalog company stops sending, but a new one always comes to take its place. One company spawns another company, and now instead of one catalog, I have two). But sandwiched between Land’s End and Plow and Hearth, obscured by Pottery Barn on top and Herrington and LL Bean and Lord knows what else, I found a very slim catalog with a picture of a llama on the front. It proudly announces itself as “The Most Important Gift Catalog In The World”. If I had blinked, I might have missed it. This is the Heifer International catalog.

The idea is simple: This organization provides farm animals, as well as much needed tree seedlings and honeybees, along with education for needy communities around the world. By providing families with such valuable resources, many people can lift themselves out of abject poverty. In turn, for example, if a family’s donated goat gives birth, the new kids can be donated to a neighbor, and so forth. What a wonderful gift! You can buy a “share” of a goat or a “share” of a tree seedling for $10.00. (You can find them on the Web at www.heifer.org/catalog).

There are many other worthy causes that have programs for sending holiday gifts to loved ones. I am especially drawn to Unicef, whose mission is to care for needy children all over the world. Unicef has gift “tribute cards”. Each card costs $25.00, but if your budget is tight, or you have too many people on your list, you can buy a package of five cards for only $75.00, which comes out to $15.00 each. (I did the math — which is saying something for me!). They also have more tangible gifts available on their Web site that help support needy children. You can find Unicef on the Web at www.unicefusa.org.

Oh, don’t get me wrong — There will still be some totally frivolous and unnecessary gifts to friends and family. And I’m not going to stop accepting my husband’s unfailing generosity. There will still be a certain amount of sheer selfish delight. (I’m still a long, long way from sainthood!).

But I always remember the end of “Schindler’s List”. The moment when Oscar Schindler discovers the heavy ornate ring on his finger, and he realizes too late that he could have pawned it to save lives, but that now, the opportunity — and the need — has passed. He shouts in frustration, “I could have done more! I could have done more!” So this is the year I am going to fulfill my long-standing new year’s resolution. Finally. And when you think about it, you’re getting so much “bang for your buck”. While you are helping an anonymous needy person or community somewhere else in the world, you are also giving friends and loved ones the warm glow that is truly in the spirit of Christmas, while finally, finally, getting the very same glow yourself. (And silencing that annoying little gremlin in your head — at least until next Christmas).

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