Nearly forty-five years ago, I was raped by a music executive in his office after business hours. I told no one, not even my boyfriend. I blamed myself for accepting an appointment at an hour when the building would be

Once upon a time in America we understood how to grieve together. We understood that our identity as a country was wrapped up in our willingness to be tender with each other when horrible things happen. That time seems to

I grew up listening to conversations about America the beautiful, America the free, the bold, the land of promise. Long before my father entered politics, he spoke reverentially about the country that allowed a boy born to an alcoholic father

In Naomi Judd’s 1993 book Love Can Build a Bridge, she wrote about “vanishing silently into the darkness.” I thought about that line this morning when I read about her death. Her daughters were careful and respectful in their statement,

I’ve spent a lot of time talking to people about grief. In the six years that I ran my support group, Beyond Alzheimer’s, grief was a frequent topic. And even when it wasn’t being actively discussed, it hovered in the

I was in grade school when I learned in History class about Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s “fireside chats” in the 30s and 40s. My initial image was of the president sitting beside a fireplace speaking to the country.  Having grown up with

In the Los Angeles neighborhood where I grew up there is an intersection where four streets meet. The area in the middle is a wide circle and when I was a child I dreamed I was standing there, waiting for

I have very early memories of being a child in the back seat of my parents’ car on a chilly night close to Christmas. Each year, my father quite dependably drove us around the neighborhood streets to look at Christmas

            I watched Elizabeth Dole walk slowly down the aisle of the National Cathedral, her eyes full of sorrow and memory and the strength that human beings manage to call up in times of great loss. I thought of the day

I remember the smell of blood. Metallic, almost like rust. My friend sat on the toilet as blood streamed out of her; I was perched on the edge of the tub in her small bathroom. She and the guy she’d