http://thisibelieve.org A public dialogue about belief — one essay at a time Fri, 25 May 2012 14:58:19 +0000 en hourly 1 People from all walks of life describe their personal philosophies in a brief essay. This I Believe, Inc. clean This I Believe, Inc. wp@thisibelieve.com wp@thisibelieve.com (This I Believe, Inc.) This I Believe, Inc. A public dialogue about belief—one essay at a time believe,belief,murrow,npr,beleive,beleif,bob,edwards,featured,essay,history,philosophy http://thisibelieve.org/images/TIB-logo-rss.jpg http://thisibelieve.org http://thisibelieve.org/essay/989/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/989/#comments Fri, 25 May 2012 02:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/989/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/989/feed/ 0 When citizens in Michael Seifert’s Texas border town couldn’t get respect from local elected officials, they didn’t get angry. They got organized. Seifert and his neighbors discovered that voting was the best tool they had to improve to their community. I am the Catholic priest for Cameron Park, a small town on the Texas-Mexico border. According to the 2000 Census, Cameron Park is the poorest place in the United States. Indeed at first glance, visitors think that they may have slipped across the border into Mexico—the ramshackle homes, the outhouses, the burning garbage, and the narrow roads have led folks to call us “America’s Third World.” Those who bother to get to know us, however, discover one of the richest communities in America. For while we are economically strapped, we are infused with Latino optimism wedded to solidarity. Our shared struggles as poor people have taught us to measure others by the quality of their hopes for the future, rather than the circumstances of their birth. When I arrived here in 1997, Cameron Park, for all of its goodness, was a place that lacked the most basic services that the rest of Americans take for granted. Not a single one of our roads was paved. There was no police, no mail, no school bus service. There were no streetlights, no sidewalks, and no parks. Our parishioners felt invisible, ignored, and left out. When we asked the county commissioner why the roads weren’t paved, he responded, “Why bother? You people don’t care. You aren’t really Americans. You don’t even vote.” People who labor with bent backs know better than to believe in politicians, but we do hold dear our self-respect. When this local politician challenged our identity as Americans, he unwittingly gave us the key to unlock our future: the vote. Still stinging from his rebuke, the community organized itself. We divided up into teams of two and went door to door, asking neighbors to turn out in the next election. And they did. Our voter participation rate skyrocketed. We became one of the highest voting precincts in south Texas. The local politicians took notice—and they responded. The roads were paved. A park was built. A sheriff’s substation was opened. Streetlights were installed. An old friend noted that now, “Cameron Park looks like America.” Well of course we look like America. We are America. While we may not speak the finest standard English or academic Spanish, we speak from our souls and with our hearts, and when we vote, we are speaking unmistakably as Americans. Down here, a graduation from college is a moment of celebration and pride. Lately, I have discovered that same pride from those who have voted for the first time. Yesterday I received an email from a parishioner who is studying at MIT in Boston. She wrote, “Father Mike, I voted in an election for the first time in my life. I was so excited when I mailed my absentee ballot.” A month ago, after the eight o’clock mass on Sunday morning, a woman gave me a big hug. She said, with a huge smile, “My husband was sworn in as a citizen last week. Now he can vote!” I hugged her back, and smiled at least as largely as she. This woman and her husband understood. They were Americans—and understood the privilege and the obligation of the vote. I believe in that privilege and obligation. And I believe in my neighbors of Cameron Park, who will go to the polls and who will by means of their vote, make an act of faith in America. Our America. This I Believe, Inc. clean 989 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/11657/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/11657/#comments Fri, 18 May 2012 20:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/11657/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/11657/feed/ 0 For Jessica Paris, “just say no” is more than a slogan from the 1980s. It’s a credo that gives her the freedom to discover the things she truly wants to experience in life instead of succumbing to the instant gratification pushed by so much marketing. I believe in just saying no. For my sixth birthday, my granddaddy gave me a silver dollar. As big as my palm and strangely weighty, the coin bore the profile of a stern Eisenhower. At that time, 1975, a dollar was twenty times my weekly allowance and would buy me four Milky Way bars, six packs of bubble gum, or twenty Charms Pops. But this dollar was not for spending. It had risen above the pettiness of commerce. This was more like an artifact of history or a piece of public art. So despite my temptations, I said no to Mr. Feeney’s candy counter and saved the silver dollar, displaying it on my dresser along with other cherished objects. This is my first memory of saying no to the razzle-dazzle, lose-ten-pounds-in-ten-days, buy-now-pay-later, you-deserve-a-break-today, just-do-it world we live in. It’s not just the media’s roar I’m referring to; it’s what my family, my friends, sometimes even my inner voice tells me—go ahead, take a break, splurge. But I have skepticism about pleasure that guides me: I don’t believe we satiate our desire by feeding it any more than we do by depriving it. And sometimes deprivation leads to greater satisfaction than indulgence. Take Thanksgiving. Eating triple portions of turkey and tubers doesn’t make me feel gloriously satisfied or thankful. Overcome by gravy, I feel gross. However, occasionally I fast and listen to my stomach’s knock, knock, knocking for two days. How chewy, how nutty is that simple cup of brown rice that breaks my fast. Here are some ways my philosophy currently manifests itself: I say no to sugar before lunch, no to high heels, no to a cell phone, no to artificial sweetener, no to pierced ears, no to bottled water, no to carrying a balance on my credit card. Sometimes saying no is easier than saying yes—I don’t have to say no to thong underwear; it says no to me. It’s not that I’m particularly self-disciplined. The opposite is true. It’s because I’m too lazy to rise for a six o’clock jog that I have to at least be able to say “No thanks, I’ll walk,” when offered a ride home. There are also things I don’t resist: books, two-hour phone calls, a six-minute dose of artificial sun to survive Juneau’s November. But when I need it, my strength to say no is bolstered by knowing that every no is a yes to something else. Not owning a car for my first thirty-three years is the reason I have skied to work on the Iditarod trail and why I have walked to work under the pyrotechnics of the morning Northern Lights. And the money I didn’t spend on a car allowed me to travel to India, where I rode trains, oxcarts, auto-rickshaws, camels, and even a festooned elephant. I’m no puritan or prude, martyr or miser. But in a world of such bounty, such opportunity, such Krispy Kremes, choices have to be made. I believe that saying no to some of life’s shimmering pleasures buys me a moment of peace and a small sovereign patch where I can pause and ask what it is my heart truly desires. No is not deprivation, it’s deliberation. No is not loss, it’s freedom. And my silver dollar? My older brother James stole it to buy Tootsie Rolls and little plastic army men. He believes in saying yes. This I Believe, Inc. clean 11657 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/88035/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/88035/#comments Fri, 11 May 2012 20:00:02 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/88035/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/88035/feed/ 0 When she was young, Lauren LeBlanc had grand dreams of living in New York and singing on Broadway. Instead, she became a mom and schoolteacher in suburbia. While it’s not the life she once imagined, LeBlanc now knows she wouldn’t have it any other way. I have come to a place not so much of peace but of understanding. Once upon a time, I had delusions of grandeur. I believed—as many young people believe these days, I think—that I was special, that I was different, that I was set apart. I truly believed that I was destined for richness and fame because of my talent and "specialness." I was going to live the new American dream. I was not going to grow up to be a "normal" person, not just another number in the growing American census. But time passed. Reality set in, as did age, and my perspective changed. The paradigm shifted. I am a schoolteacher. I am married to a salesman. We have a baby, a dog, a two-car garage, and a mortgage. Could my life be any more normal? And yet, I am perfectly okay with this. If I were to have a conversation with my eighteen-year-old self, I'm sure there is a lot she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't get why I'm not pounding the pavement in NYC, working to get an audition or that coveted part on Broadway. She wouldn't be able to accept that I haven't been to a real audition in four years. She wouldn’t be able to fathom that my coworkers have never heard me sing. She’d be curious about the baby, because she hasn’t had much experience with babies. She would wonder about my teaching career, probably calling it "pedestrian." She would look around my very suburban neighborhood and accuse me of selling out. If I'd bought a house, it should’ve at least been in an interesting, eclectic neighborhood with coffee houses and tapas bars on every corner. She’d probably scoff at the corner house in the painfully suburban neighborhood that I now call home. But I know things she doesn't know. I know of the alchemy of loss. I understand that those volatile college years—both wicked and wonderful—are a mere microcosm of life, like a lens zoomed in too close on one object. Life is so much more rich and complicated and wonderful and terrible than those four self-righteous years in the bubble. I know what it means to work for love, to not just sit back and let it happen the way it can when you're young. I know about bringing life into the world, and the complexity of emotions that brings: the confusion, the bone-deep exhaustion, the loss of sense of self, the love that doesn't know how big your heart is, so it splits it wide open. My life is simple. It is small, and it may seem interchangeable with so many other lives out there. I may never make an impact outside my house, my community, my hometown. But I've learned that importance is relative. Because to a small few, I am irreplaceable. When my little girl cries, she calls for "Mama." When she reaches out, it's for me, and me alone. So, a small life? It's perfectly fine by me. In fact, I think it's what I've wanted all along. This I Believe, Inc. clean 88035 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/58378/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/58378/#comments Fri, 04 May 2012 20:00:57 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/58378/ This I Believe: On Motherhood.]]> http://thisibelieve.org/essay/58378/feed/ 0 Like many new mothers, Jeana Lee Tahnk feared she would make mistakes raising her child. Despite her self-questioning, and the endless juggling of childcare duties with her own work responsibilities, Tahnk has found the confidence to trust her instinc... Am I doing this right? As a mom, that is a question I ask myself on a daily basis. Whether it’s disciplining tactics or sleep training or wondering if the organic cheez-puffs are really that much better for my kids, motherhood has been a type of training in progress for me; I learn as I go along. Life as a mom and CEO of a household is challenging, and between caring for two young kids, cultivating a successful career, managing schedules, and running a home, the question always remains . . . am I doing this right? My endless struggle for finding balance between my work life and my home life is difficult to navigate. That, on top of wondering if I’m parenting in a way that my kids will need therapy for is what makes questioning if I’m doing it “right” all the more salient. While I immensely value and recognize my contribution to my family as a mom, it is important to me to contribute to myself through my career as well. And seeking this kind of balance has presented its fair share of obstacles along the way. Once, on a day when my kids were home, I had to participate in an important client conference call. (Important calls and kids at home don’t complement each other that well, as you can imagine.) In the midst of the discussion, I actually had to run, yes run, down the hall away from my toddler daughter so that her high-pitched screeches wouldn’t filter through the phone and be heard by the CEO, president, and VP of marketing on the other end. While I sat breathless behind the bed, literally hiding from her, I rushed through my talking points in a harried whisper so that I could retreat back into my “safe” mode on mute. The memory of that makes me laugh now, but at that moment, fleeing from my child was the choice I had to make. I’ve learned over the years that this is what motherhood is about. It’s about the moment-to-moment. It’s about making the decisions that I think are right at the time and believing in them. I know I’ll look back and have regrets about certain ways I handled situations, or things I could have said differently, but it is in the collection of these moments that I define myself as a mom, a wife, and a woman. There are so many joys and challenges that come with being a mom, and despite my constant questioning, I know I’ll never have all the answers. What I do know is that the decisions I make for my children are always with their best interests at heart and that “right” means many different things at many different times. With that in mind, I can have the confidence and believe, yes, I am doing this right. This I Believe, Inc. clean 58378 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/podcast-special-this-i-believe-on-motherhood/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/podcast-special-this-i-believe-on-motherhood/#comments Tue, 01 May 2012 14:37:06 +0000 John http://thisibelieve.org/?post_type=essay&p=1000006286 This I Believe: On Motherhood (Jossey-Bass, 2012).]]> http://thisibelieve.org/essay/podcast-special-this-i-believe-on-motherhood/feed/ 0 Bob Edwards interviews This I Believe, Inc., Executive Director Dan Gediman about the organization’s new essay collection, This I Believe: On Motherhood (Jossey-Bass, 2012). Bob Edwards talks with Dan Gediman about the essay collection, This I Believe: On Motherhood. The book explores the diverse range of experiences and beliefs related to the mother-child relationship. It shares the personal stories of sixty essayists, some parents, some children, who describe what motherhood mean to them. The conversation includes essay excerpts by Jeana Lee Tahnk, Lauren LeBlanc and Tina Boscha. This I Believe, Inc. clean 1000006286 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/2278/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/2278/#comments Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/2278/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/2278/feed/ 0 After her mother died, Annie Azzariti and her siblings sorted through the family mementos she had collected over the years. The treasures they found reminded Azzariti of the beautiful life their mother lived, and the depth of her love for her children. My mother passed away recently. She left behind no awards, no large inheritance, no monuments to achievement as the world might define the total of a person’s life. What she did leave my brother, sister, and me were memories of her love, bits of herself that remind us of who we are. In the dark corners of her bedroom closet or under the paper lining of a drawer, she carefully tucked away her dreams for our future. I found the delicately crocheted infant outfit she had made for my baptism. There were letters and postcards I had sent and she had kept. We found photographs with names and dates and places written on the back, marking holidays and everyday events in our lives. She held on to every piece of jewelry we had ever given her. There were congratulatory telegrams and cards from her wedding day fifty-eight years ago mixed in with our academic awards and milestones in our careers. Like a find from an archaeological dig, each relic we discovered opened me up to a new way of seeing my mother. Lucrezia Palmieri Azzariti was born and raised in Venice, Italy. After World War II, she started writing a second cousin named Frank who lived in New York. Six months later, they married by proxy, and my mother was soon on her way to America. We were a traditional Italian American family: Mom stayed home while Dad worked hard to make ends meet. Their lives revolved around what they called their biggest accomplishment, their “three beautiful children.” For my mother, we were her purpose. As we grew up, she tenderly wrapped the artifacts of our childhood in her love and packed them away so she could hold them as part of her past until she left them to us as a legacy of ours. For me, finding these treasures decades later brought me back into her waiting arms. I believe these items of apparently small significance are the real measure of a life well lived. In a noisy world where what’s hot and what’s not fill our media, these quiet, gentle discoveries sustain us. These small treasures mark her loving contribution to the world, and reflect back to us—both the small “us” of our family and the larger “us” of the world—our source of love for each other. Few of us can create grand gestures to the larger society. Most of us live our days within a smaller world, one where we have the opportunities to create bonds of love with each other in ways that are quiet and often go unnoticed. I believe that we shape our world with kindness and love of what we do in the simplest moments every day. It is ultimately what connects us to each other, no matter who we are or where we live. I believe that with each sweet stitch of my tiny baptismal gown, every old photo, and every scrap of paper, my mother was holding a tender place of love for all of us. This I Believe, Inc. clean 2278 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/97344/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/97344/#comments Fri, 20 Apr 2012 20:00:01 +0000 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/97344/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/97344/feed/ 0 For many people, the middle of America is merely a collection of fly-over states. But Kathryn Timpany believes the prairies, farms and towns of the Great Plains – as well as the people who make their homes there – are the heart and soul of our country. I believe the prairie is the heart and soul of America, with its vast expanses of land and sky, and with its people who understand how being deeply rooted can grant you the freedom to sway in whatever wind comes your way without breaking. I believe in the wisdom of prairie grasses. Their roots go down so deeply and spread so widely that most of their life is contained in an underground labyrinth hidden from sight. Because of this, nothing can steal their livelihood – not blizzard, nor fire, nor drought, not even the twisting, tearing winds of tornadoes or violent dust storms. I believe in the people of the prairie. Whether full of courage or folly, the settlers who made it all the way out to the prairie, and managed to stay here, personified the kind of strength of character that fills verses of American songs. They came for a better life, for cheap land, for independence, for a fair chance. I am a product of that migration. My mother’s family left Pennsylvania to help found Topeka, Kansas, in the 1850s, and my father’s family came from Minnesota soon thereafter. As a child I can remember how my first glimpse of the Flint Hills in eastern Kansas took my breath away. The sweeping stretch of tree-less, grass-carpeted, flat-topped hills with no houses and no power lines thrilled me. I intuitively felt a visceral freedom I could not yet name at that young age. When I was 19, I left the prairie to chase my dreams. I was lured by the thrill of new faces, cultural riches and graduate degrees. Twenty years later, and a lifetime wiser, I ended my exile and returned to the landscape that is a place of strength and peace for me. I believe the people of the prairie can teach twenty-first century Americans what it will take to thrive in the coming years - patience and perseverance and a regular dose of potluck suppers. You can’t get rid of Grandma’s recipe box. You can’t clear out the barn and the tool shed, even if you aren’t running stock any more. There are things in there you will never be able to replace, things that might come in handy someday. Prairie people understand the kind of balance you need to have between freedom and responsibility to guarantee that everyone gets the best possible chance in life, from the richest family in town down to the one who contributes the least, thereby ensuring the community doesn’t lose its deep-rooted, life-giving compassion. On the prairie, everyone matters. I now live on a more northern part of the prairie, in South Dakota. It’s a great comfort to know that I can leave the city at any time and drive across that open land. I can drive for hours if I need to. For days, if my life calls for that. I believe the prairie will always be bigger and stronger than the foes and fears that I might have to face. This I Believe, Inc. clean 97344 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/11875/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/11875/#comments Fri, 13 Apr 2012 20:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/11875/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/11875/feed/ 0 As a child, Sabrina Dubik learned not to talk to strangers. But in college, she decided to befriend an elderly customer at the restaurant where she worked. The experience taught Dubik the benefits of engaging with random people she encounters in life. I believe that we should talk to strangers. By engaging in unexpected, friendly conversation with strangers, our lives can be affected in ways that are extraordinary. I learned this valuable and life-changing experience during my sophomore year of college. I am a student and part-time waitress in Chicago, and I spend most of my time at work engaging in as little “real” conversation as possible. This is not done intentionally, but rather instinctively. Growing up, I was used to phrases such as, “Don’t talk to strangers” and “Mind your own business.” As a result, I don’t talk to unknown people at work, beyond taking orders and the occasional weather chat. Similarly, I never strike up a conversation on a three-hour plane flight or know the name of the woman I ride the train with every day. But the process of keeping to myself ended in a life-changing way. One night, a little old man, probably in his eighties, came in and sat in my section. I took his order and went on my way. But I noticed that he came in week after week and always sat at one of my tables. Slowly, I began having short conversations with my new guest. His name was Mr. Rodgers, but he insisted that I call him Don. I learned that he and his wife had gone to dinner and a movie every Saturday. Since she had died, he carried on the tradition alone. I began looking forward to him coming in and telling me his movie reviews. I also knew his order by heart: a half of a chicken salad sandwich, a cup of potato soup, and a bottle of Coors Light (which he never finished). As the weeks went on I began to sit and really talk with Don. We talked about his wife, his days flying in the war, his son who had grown and moved away. Eventually, we began to talk about my ambitions -- going to school, my new husband, and the anticipation of my future. About four months after meeting Mr. Rodgers, I received a call at home from a nurse telling me that Don was in intensive care at Chicago’s Mercy Hospital. He was experiencing complications from an emergency heart surgery and had begun to bleed internally. I immediately drove to the hospital to see him. The first thing he did was thank me for urging him to visit the doctor. At first I didn’t know what he was referring to. Then I remembered that about three weeks earlier, Don was complaining about chest pains and I gave him the number for a doctor I know. At the hospital, the nurses always asked, “Are you his daughter?” and I always replied, “No, I’m his waitress.” Since meeting Don, I have learned that strangers can become acquaintances, and even friends. I recently found myself really talking to customers at the restaurant. I have had a lot more fun, the time has gone by faster, and I have gotten to know some of the people I see on a regular basis. Don taught me that life can be much more enjoyable if I engage in friendly conversations. After all, I became more than just his waitress. I became his friend. This I Believe, Inc. clean 11875 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/68791/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/68791/#comments Fri, 06 Apr 2012 20:00:02 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/68791/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/68791/feed/ 0 Candance Gordon decided she didn’t want to compete with the Alpha Moms who seemingly accomplish every parenting obligation to perfection. Gordon believes she can contribute to her children’s lives in ways that aren’t as glamorous but just as important. Whenever my kids have a party at school, I am the mom who always signs up to bring the juice boxes. It’s not because I’m lazy or that I don’t care if my kids have a good party. I am just not wired in such a way that I can fashion sandwiches, made on my very own homemade, organic, gluten-free, sugar-free bread, into holiday-themed shapes. Nor can I make centerpieces that are totally precious using nothing but dental floss and a milk carton. And I’m perfectly fine with that, even though it’s taken me a long time to get here. Alpha moms, with their ability to make gourmet meals from scratch, keep a spotless house, and scrapbook every minute of their child’s lives, used to intimidate me. I felt that because I stayed home with my kids, I should be able to do those things, too. So when the turkey-shaped cookies I painstakingly decorated turned out looking like little round pieces of poop, or when company stopped by and there were toys strewn from one end of the house to the other because, instead of picking up, I’d been busy cutting my child out of the dental floss he’d somehow managed to wrap around his entire body while I took a shower, I ended up feeling like a failure as a mom. I felt as though I was letting my kids down because I couldn’t do the things their friends’ mothers did without messing everything up and freaking out. After many failed attempts at baking and crafting, and many afternoons spent crying over my inabilities as a mother, I finally, rather begrudgingly, resigned myself to the fact that my lot in life is to be the juice box mom. I worked hard to be the best juice box mom in all the elementary school, and, after one of my daughter’s class parties, it actually paid off. Her teacher stopped me as I was leaving and said, “Thank you so much for always bringing extra drinks. Sometimes parents forget that younger siblings will also be attending class parties, and they end up being left out because we don’t have enough drinks for everyone.” I just accepted the compliment, rather than telling her I brought extra drinks because I never could remember how many kids were in the class. But her compliment taught me an important lesson—just because I’m not crafty or overly domestic, I’m not a failure as a mom. Not everyone is cut out to be an alpha mom, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I believe it’s okay to be the juice box mom. I may not bake cookies and decorate them to look like something straight out of Martha Stewart Living, but I do provide something to wash them down with. And I think that’s just as important. This I Believe, Inc. clean 68791 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/8447/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/8447/#comments Fri, 30 Mar 2012 20:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/8447/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/8447/feed/ 0 Although he makes his living with words, poet Fred D'Aguiar is enthralled by dance: from the physicality of the art, to its powers to inspire and heal. D’Aguiar believes dance can be a source for peace, if we all join in and move to the global groove. I believe in dance. Dance as magic, dance as cure and dance as a metaphor for life. All types of dances, all movement committed to an aesthetic of the body, of bone, flesh, blood moving in concert, infused with intuitive thought, positive vibes as Bob Marley dubbed it, thought buried in physical detail. Dancers, you magicians, Mr. Bojangles, Martha Graham, Baryshnikov — I call on you; help me with my argument. End the mind-body dichotomy. The body speaks to the mind. You scratch my back and I will tickle your mind. Let our heads move to the groove of our spinal columns. I grew up in 1960s Guyana and ’70s London on a staple diet of dance. In Guyana I danced to calypso or kaiso, reggae and dub, lots of hips twisting opposite matching twisting hips and laughter and sweat. My youth in England pulsed with that currency of the soul variously known as love vibes, passion fashion, boogie-woogie blues. My body and mind unified behind a unique cocktail of socially aware lyrics and compelling rhythms. As I dipped and hopped and spun to songs that called for equality, food for all, world peace, planet love, singing as a moral project, a ministry through song to a dancing congregation. Dance is magic. One time I threw a nightdress at my woman as we danced and all she had to do was hold up her arms for the silk dress to land a perfect fit on her perfect body, another time I danced opposite a woman and I knew from our movements of pure Euclidean geometry that she would be mine, yet another time I landed in New Zealand and Maori warriors approached me as if they would kill me where I stood, they foot-stomped, thrust spears and high-kicked, only to stop inches from my face to rub noses with me. Dance is a cure. When I worked as a psychiatric nurse in London, a sick woman, anxious and hair-pulling and thin with worry, danced her way from neurosis to happiness in three weeks of aerobic bliss. And the nurses decompressed from the cares of their day by dancing the night away. Dance is life, a moral project; if only nations could gather to dance, twist their territorial and trade disputes into the dust, and conjure peace. If only Coca-Coca taught the world to dance in perfect harmony. I see Neil Armstrong’s first step as the start of a moon-dance for mankind. Imagine the Constitution, “We the dancers,” or “I dance therefore it is self-evident that all bodies are created equal.” Like a lot of people I think through difficult issues while dancing. “I dance therefore I am.” Dance could be the method for understanding the most arcane concepts like nanotechnology, quantum mechanics, or the poetry theory of Sprung Rhythm? To the politicians in this election year I say, if you must carry a big stick at least dance with it. And to the citizens, I invite you to dance for the greater good, one and all. This I Believe, Inc. clean 8447