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By Stan Fischler / North Golan Heights, Israel The author in his family's current Safe Room in Israel. It used to be his granddaughter's bedroom. Stan's previous story, The Maiden and The Maven: A Modern Fairy Tale , appeared in the last issue It's about a ten-step walk from the kitchen to the Safe Room, but sometimes it feels like a mile. The sirens that blare around our little kibbutz in the North Golan Heights have become dissonant music to our ears–three year’s worth so far. Who knows how much longer? For the elderly in Israeli cities, the run to the nearest shelter can be a life and death sprint because the odds are not kind to arthritis, especially for elders. I did my basic training in the protection business a dozen years ago when the enemy du jour was then-dictator Assad, who ran Syria like a miserable two-bit Mussolini. A handful of parents were having a coffee klatch on a sunny afternoon when a pair of unpleasant sounds almost simultaneously disturbed the peace. The first–by five seconds–was not the “Habanera” from “Carmen” but more like the screech of the Brighton local as its wheels ground around the 90-degree curve at the Stillwell Avenue terminal. In a trice, all hands at the coffee table orbited in the direction of the nearest home, notably not a shelter, just a plain clapboard house. In a startling moment such as that, somebody has to be first and, alas, Fischler had to be last; so last in fact that the follow-up emission from above was one that became news to me– yeeeeee –and then an explosion directly at the kibbutz entrance and without a written invitation. Since there were no air raid sirens in those early war days six years ago, I never made it to the (alleged) sanctity of the hallway where all other kibbutzim were huddled. No matter, the explosion did no harm since no one was at the main entrance. Nor was I harmed in any way. But I did learn from the experience: the shell had come from Syria, supposedly by accident. That said, we learned to be extra careful of death via the sky. But neither my younger son Simon nor I could be careful in the next adventure-by-shell. This time we were on a late afternoon stroll around our community's perimeter. Two BOOMS left no doubt. "That's not us," said Simon. Dissatisfied by his reply, I shot back: "So now what do we do?" He didn't have to answer. The forest from which the blasts came turned quiet and we finished our walk unharmed. But as we soon learned, this was just the start of something big and three years later the war is more intense than ever. With that in mind, we learned that there were a few rudimentary things to remember: 1. THE SANCTUARY: Our home has a Safe Room that  has extra protection and is a good "cave" within the house where we should be. 2. THE ALARMS: Israel has a warning alarm which everyone can get on his or her phone. If the enemy munition is directly heading our way, the kibbutz siren lets us know without hesitation to get the hell into the cave, presto pronto. 3. INSIDE THE ROOM: Mattresses and pillows adorn the room; one that holds five "duckers" with reasonable comfort. Room for napping, sardine-style. The all-clear usually comes in from 10 minutes to an hour -- and then a return to normal duty. Our modus operandi has changed little over the years. Our fears alternate like our electric outlets which change with the fortunes of war. Exhibit A: After a few weeks, I moved my personal annex (sleep space) to the cave. Ergo: The Safe Room overnight became my bedroom. Partially because I'm partially deaf and partially because the cave is hermetically sealed, I never can hear the siren. But once the family piles into the cave, that's the signal that something is up -- and unfortunately -- is coming down. Throughout this whole ugly mess, our morale has maintained what my U.S. Navy Seabee Uncle Joe called "revolutionary decorum." Ever since Uncle Joe blurted out that line -- while annoyingly pinching my cheeks -- it somehow has stuck in my head. The other thing that has remained in my cranium is a song from the poignant musical, "Oh! What A Lovely War." It was ironic when I heard it on stage in London (September 1963) and it fits now like two perfectly meshed gears as the ( grrrrrr ) warning signal broke our silence with another wah, wah warning alert. The song lyric was -- and is, 63 years later: “When this lousy war is over.…Oh, how happy I will be!" Stan was gifted with a silver hockey stick when inducted into the USA Hockey Hall of Fame by the Islanders in 2020 Stanley I. Fischler (born March 31, 1932) is an American historian of hockey and the New York City subway, as well as a broadcaster, author of over 100 books, and professor. As a broadcaster with MSG, Fischler has won seven Emmy Awards ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stan_Fischler )

By Andy Borowitz  April 8, 2026 TEHRAN ( The Borowitz Report )— In its first act of goodwill since the declaration of a ceasefire, on Wednesday Iran permitted a container ship loaded with copies of the Epstein files to pass through the Strait of Hormuz. “In recent weeks, the closure of the Strait has cut off the world’s supply of Epstein files,” an Iranian government statement read. “Now, those files will flow freely to the four corners of the globe.” Although Iran is charging vessels millions for safe passage through the Strait, “We are sending the Epstein files through free of charge,” the statement indicated. The Iranians said they had taken Donald J. Trump's threat to destroy their civilization “very seriously,” noting, "We see what he's already done to American civilization."

From Common Dreams , April 14, 2026 This photo illustration created on April 13, 2026 shows a picture of US President Donald Trump on a screen and an AI-generated picture he posted on his Truth Social platform depicting himself as Jesus Christ after criticizing Pope Leo XIV. Trump later posted an AI-generated image seemingly depicting himself as Jesus Christ. (Photo by Mandel NGAN / AFP via Getty Images) President Trump exhibits what forensic mental health experts have identified as the “Dark Triad” of personality traits: narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy. What this represents is a constitutional emergency. Editor’s note: The following letter was sent to the bipartisan leadership of Congress on Monday, April 13, 2026 in regard to recent rhetoric and actions taken by US President Donald J. Trump. Senator John Thune Senate Majority Leader, US Senate Senator Charles E. Schumer Senate Minority Leader, US Senate Representative Mike Johnson Speaker of the House, US House of Representatives Representative Hakeem Jeffries House Minority Leader, US House of Representatives Dear Senate Majority Leader Thune, Senate Minority Leader Schumer, Speaker Johnson, and House Minority Leader Jeffries: We write to you today with a sense of urgency that we do not use lightly. The behavior and rhetoric of President Donald Trump have crossed a threshold that demands the immediate and bipartisan attention of Congress. This is not a partisan assessment. It is a judgment grounded in observable fact, consistent professional assessment, and the constitutional responsibilities that your offices carry. President Trump exhibits what forensic mental health experts have, across dozens of independent assessments, identified as the “Dark Triad” of personality traits: narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy. Rather than constituting a clinical diagnosis, this trait-based assessment is grounded in behavioral observation and is particularly useful for assessing the level of danger an individual poses in a political leadership position. We do not offer this as a clinical verdict. We offer it as the considered judgment of a substantial body of professional opinion, based on well-researched evidence that is consistent, accumulating, and impossible to dismiss. What makes this more than an academic matter is what predictably happens when this personality structure collides with immovable obstacles. The clinical literature is clear: individuals with Dark Triad profiles, when confronted with situations they cannot control or escape, do not recalibrate. They escalate. The psychological imperative to relieve narcissistic collapse overrides strategic calculation, concern for consequences, and ordinary self-restraint. Rage surges to domination. Impulsivity overrides caution. The urgent need to extinguish psychological pain eclipses every other consideration. We are watching this dynamic unfold in real time. The President’s recent public communications have been, by any normal standard of political discourse, alarming. His posts demanding that Iran “open the fuckin’ strait, you crazy bastards” and his threat to bomb Iran “back to the stone ages,” adding that “a whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again,” are not the rhetoric of calculated geopolitical pressure. They are the expressions of a man in profound psychological distress who is reaching for the most extreme retaliatory threats available to him. That these statements were addressed to an adversary in the context of an active military confrontation makes them not merely shocking but profoundly dangerous. President Trump has now ordered a US naval blockade of Iran — an action that has sent world oil prices soaring and placed the United States in direct opposition to the international community. His ongoing actions carry the potential to trigger a global economic catastrophe, draw in regional and great powers, and ignite a wider conflict with consequences that no one can bound. These orders are being issued without adequate deliberation, without congressional authorization, and in a context in which the President’s judgment is, by every visible measure, severely compromised. We urge three specific actions. First, Congress must immediately retake its constitutional authority over war. The bombing of Iran and the initiation of a naval blockade — acts of war under both US and international law — cannot be authorized by presidential fiat. Article I of the Constitution vests in Congress the sole power to declare war and to regulate commerce with foreign nations. The Framers intended Congress to deliberate upon and be accountable for precisely such consequential actions. Congress must assume its constitutional authority now, before further escalation renders the question moot. Second, congressional leadership — on a bipartisan basis — must convene urgent consultations with senior administration officials, including the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of State, and the Director of National Intelligence. The purpose is not routine oversight. It is to create a circuit breaker capable of preventing escalation toward catastrophe, including the potential use of nuclear weapons . Those officials have their own constitutional and statutory obligations. Congress should insist on those obligations and provide a forum in which they can be exercised. Third, Congress should formally initiate consultation with the Vice President and Cabinet regarding the President’s fitness for office under Section 4 of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment. We do not prejudge the outcome. We are not calling for the President’s immediate removal. We are calling for the process that the Constitution itself provides for this contingency: when a President’s capacity to discharge the duties of office is in question and poses a potential imminent danger to the nation. The Amendment exists because those who drafted it recognized that the question of presidential incapacity would occasionally arise, and that it required a constitutional answer rather than a political improvisation. We recognize the gravity of what we are asking. We ask it because the gravity of the situation demands it. A President who publicly threatens to destroy a foreign civilization, who launches a bombing campaign and then imposes a naval blockade without congressional authorization, and who shows every behavioral sign of a personality in acute crisis is not merely a political problem. He is a constitutional emergency. The mechanisms for addressing such an emergency exist. They were placed in the Constitution and its amendments for moments precisely like this one. The war with Iran will not wait. The escalation dynamics of this active military confrontation will not wait. The psychological conditions driving the President’s decisions will not improve under pressure — they will worsen. We urge you to act without delay. The Constitution gives you the tools. Your oath of office assigns you the responsibility. Respectfully, James Gilligan, M.D. Clinical Professor of Psychiatry, New York University School of MedicineAdjunct Professor of Law, New York University School of LawFormer Faculty of Psychiatry, Harvard Medical School Former President, International Association of Forensic Psychotherapy Prudence L. Gourguechon, M.D. Former President, American Psychoanalytic Association Former Vice President, World Mental Health Coalition Bandy X. Lee, M.D., M.Div. President, World Mental Health CoalitionCo-Founder, Preventing Violence Now Former Faculty of Social Medicine, Harvard Medical School Former Faculty of Law and Psychiatry, Yale School of Medicine James R. Merikangas, M.D. Clinical Professor of Psychiatry and Behavioral Science , George Washington University; Research Consultant, National Institute of Mental Health Co-Founder, American Neuropsychiatric Association Former President, American Academy of Clinical Psychiatrists Jeffrey D. Sachs, Ph.D. University Professor, Columbia University

By Sienna Sachs Beck / New York City Calliope is the Greek Muse of Epic Poetry, known for inspiring Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey . The eldest of the nine Muses and daughter of Zeus and Mnemosyne, she is often depicted with a writing tablet, stylus, or scroll. "A Muse" (Calliope) 1455-1460, painted by Cosimo Tura They say, write an essay. I say, “I'll hurl! I only write poems, I’m a poetry girl!” They say, one vignette. I say, “Just be kind, I’ve lost control Of my poetry mind!” They say, light the end Of a monologue fuse. I say, “Uh, do you mind? I’m texting the poetry muse!” They say, write a narrative I say, “I can’t clear it! I’m focussed on calling My poetry spirit!”   Sienna Sachs Beck, 13, is an eighth grader in Manhattan. Although she enjoys all kinds of writing (except for research papers), her favorite form of all time is poetry. An active environmentalist, Sienna especially loves writing poetry that raises awareness about global changes. And best–or worst–of all, Sienna enjoys doing Eka Pada Sirsasana (her favorite yoga pose) to excess, even while writing her next piece.

By Judi Markowitz / Huntington Woods, Mich. Shopping online has reshaped modern life with near-instant access to almost anything imaginable. Tap on your keyboard, and hours later, your desired gizmo or gadget is at your front door. However, the most remarkable home delivery I’ve ever heard about took place quickly and efficiently in Jerusalem. It can only be described as the perfect package.   A few weeks ago, Rachel Flasterstein, a longtime acquaintance of mine, told me about a birth that left her uncharacteristically gob smacked. This wasn’t Rachel’s first reproductive rodeo, either. She has practiced as an OB/GYN physician on the East Coast for more than four decades. Since graduating from medical school in 1985, she has delivered thousands of newborns.   Plans were made months before her daughter-in-law Sonya’s due date, so Rachel could travel to Israel and help care for the new baby and her three other grandchildren.  Her son, Nathan, felt a sense of ease knowing his mother was on her way.   Rachel knew there was a degree of uncertainty surrounding her arrangements, as anything could change at any moment due to the war with Iran. She moved the date of her trip forward in order to rearrange her hospital and office schedules to accommodate patients and then booked a round-trip ticket with El Al Airlines. Rachel thought everything was in place for this all-important trip.   Oi vey!  Five days before her departure, the airlines notified Rachel that her flight was cancelled. She now was scheduled to leave earlier than expected. All her carefully laid plans unraveled. Rachel quickly called her office to unscramble the mess, ensuring that her patients at home would still receive the care they needed.   Lillian, Rachel’s 91-year-old mother, was another important piece of the puzzle. She lives with Rachel and requires skilled care. Now, new help had to be found so that Lillian would be properly cared for. The pressure was on, but Rachel managed to secure a compassionate woman to stay with her mother. She now felt confident leaving the country.   But when Rachel boarded the plane, she realized that it was an Israeli rescue flight. The plane was filled with Israelis who were desperately trying to return to Israel to help with the war effort or simply to reunite with their families during these trying times. Rachel quickly understood that her status as a doctor was the main reason that she had been able to secure a seat on the flight.   When Rachel arrived at Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv 11 hours later, her plane circled the airport after incoming bombs were detected, delaying its landing. The war was in full throttle, and she didn’t know what to expect.   Rachel later told me, “Once we deplaned, sirens began blaring and cell phones were sounding the alarm for us to take cover. We were shepherded into a Safe Room under the airport. Fortunately, I managed to speak with someone who understood English and asked about the warning signal I had heard on other people’s cell phones — it was an app, and I quickly downloaded it.”   Finally, when the ‘all clear” sounded, Rachel hurried to Customs in order to leave the airport. However, there was a repeat performance — the sirens sounded again, and Rachel and the other travelers were forced to seek shelter once more. After a 20-minute stint, things settled down, and Rachel was able to head out at last.   Rachel arrived at her son and daughters-in-law’s house after a stressful train and bus ride. Sirens were screaming and bombs were flying overhead, and she prayed. Once in their home, Rachel felt a sense of relief, with an abiding respect for the actions taken to protect people from impending harm. That night, she slept in a bedroom that was equipped to withstand blasts and shrapnel.   For a couple of days, things were quieter; But on the third day, Rachel was woken early in the morning by Nathan, with the news that Sonya was in active labor. They called their doula, a trained, non-medical professional who would provide Sonya with comfort and guidance during childbirth. One problem, though–the doula was in the next town, 15 minutes away.   Rachel snapped into action. She immediately went to Sonya to assess the situation and to help in any capacity. She asked Sonya if she wanted to call Hatzalah, a Jewish volunteer emergency medical service, to take her to the hospital. The situation grew increasingly tense, with bombs potentially imminent and Sonya began to feel the baby coming. With past pregnancies, Sonya delivered within minutes of arriving at the hospital. Given the dire situation, Sonya didn’t want to take any chances.   When the doula finally arrived, she immediately began assisting Sonya with labor support. Sonya then decided that she didn’t want to risk leaving the house, given the dangerous situation, and asked Rachel to step in and deliver the baby.   What was it like to be in such a nerve-wracking situation?  Rachel recalled, “During the delivery I was in business mode, only thinking about the present circumstances. I was going through the maneuvers of delivering the baby and, ensuring that in a home birth setting that the baby was safe. I could tell there were two cords around the head, the hand was coming with the head, and it was a compound presentation. I felt confident that the baby was going to be vigorous. At first his color was a little off, but I stimulated the baby, and he picked up fine. Everything was okay.”    “Afterwards I was able to feel the magnitude, the enormity of the situation. It kept me going — the happiness that you feel when everything goes well, and you did something that someone genuinely appreciates. And doing it in a place where miracles are happening continuously — it was a powerful experience.”    “While I was delivering my grandson,” she continued, “the threat of ballistic missiles raining down on us remained close in our thoughts, never far from my mind.  Through the efforts of the Israeli Defense Forces there are various mechanisms to intercept bombs that are meant to destroy Israel. There’s David’s Sling, the Iron Dome, and a few other systems that are employed. While witnessing an interception, it almost looked like a sun and had a brilliant light, but it was too close and perfectly round.”   For Rachel, the momentous events were both sobering and profound. In a place where uncertainty can interrupt even the most sacred occasions, her experience underscored the quiet resilience required of the Israelis, who carry on with their work and their lives under constant threat. Yet even in a time of sirens and shelter runs, there is an enduring sense of purpose: the delivery of a child, a reminder to all of us that hope persists despite fear.   Judi Markowitz is a retired high school English teacher of 34 years. She primarily taught twelfth grade and had the pleasure of having her three sons grace her classes. In addition, she taught debate, forensics, and Detroit film. Judi has four adult children and nine wonderful and energetic grandchildren. She is married to Jeffrey Markowitz, whom she met in high school. They now spend much of their time running around with their grandkids.  The View from Four Foot Two  is Judi’s first book.

By Amy Lennard Goehner / Hudson, N.Y. The author and a teacher during a picnic Joining the Peace Corps after graduating from college was my only plan. And when the acceptance letter arrived early in 1974 designating South Korea as my post, my first reaction was, "Lemme get my sunscreen, I'm heading to the tropics!" "Moron!" was the reaction from my friends, reminding me of that new TV show, M*A*S*H , with wintry scenes of snowy, frigid South Korea. Within days, I boned up on my geography —raising it to a 4th grade level —and learned that Korea has four seasons, including brutal winters, just like Newton, my Massachusetts home after leaving Brooklyn. Only in Massachusetts during winter there is heat.  And in summer there is air conditioning. And year-round, there are indoor bathrooms. Summer, 1974: The author (see red arrow) with the group of Peace Corps Volunteers she trained with in Cheongju along with the Korean language teachers and staff. In 2024, the vols celebrated their 50th anniversary with a Zoom call Not knowing these details, back in 1968, I had hatched the plan all the way back in high school to join the Peace Corps, the same year I and my classmates marched down Commonwealth Avenue from Newton to Boston,  protesting the Vietnam war,  led by anti-war activists Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman. I felt so cool during that march. That is, until we reached the corner of Walnut Street, where my mother was having her hair colored at the beauty parlor. And outside, there she was, this frantically waving woman with purple hair sticking up in shiny, tin-foiled spikes—a metallic porcupine—hollering my name. “Not now, ma, it’s the revolution,” I remember thinking, but of course, I discreetly waved back. The author and one of her besties along with the master instructor of the Taekwondo gym where they studied Remember the  Peace Corp’s slogan? “The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Love.” Well, nothing tough about my first nights in the Peace Corps, though. Our group of 35 or so, many of us fresh out of college, met up in San Francisco just a few months later and were flown to Tokyo where we stayed in a lavish hotel with toiletries galore and plush, terrycloth bathrobes.  “I LOVE the Peace Corps!" I remember thinking. Twenty-four hours later, we were in Cheongju, Korea, the site of our three-month training. As we toured the building where we would all be staying, three of my new girlfriends and I crowded around the only sink in the building, calculating how long it would take to wash our hair in a cold-water faucet dripping one drop every two seconds. Washing with hot water would have to be done at the nearby public bathhouse. As we leaned in and stared at the sink, I looked at the girls and held up two fingers, silently mouthing the words, "Two years." The length of Peace Corps service. Surprisingly, I adapted pretty quickly to what felt like one long camping adventure. That first summer in particular is seared in my memory for the sheer magic it brought of learning something new every single day—customs, like, never plant your chopsticks upright in your bowl of rice; never write someone’s name in red ink; never blow your nose in public, especially while eating. Always use two hands to give or receive any object; always remove your shoes before entering a Korean home; always wait for the eldest person at the table to begin eating. Mistranslated signs in Korea still abound: Weekdays at 6 am., a few of us would hike on dirt roads to a nearby gym to study Taekwondo. When our master instructor, our sabumnim , wanted to say something to us in English, he would leaf through a dog-eared paperback of Everyday, Common English Expressions before responding with some cockamamie uncommon expression. One Friday, as we were leaving the gym, we asked if he had weekend plans. He grabbed his book with an "I-thought-you'd-never-ask" sense of urgency and enthusiastically replied, "I have no PLANS, PROJECTS or SCHEMES!" Similar English mistranslations could be seen on signs throughout the country. The funniest were dire warnings for innocuous conduct, such as this sign I saw by a park: DO NOT PICK OR SNATCH THE FLOWERS! Perhaps the most powerful memory of that summer, our final together as a group, was a day trip we took. After traveling for miles by bus on dirt roads, surrounded by rice paddies and mountains, we arrived at a watermelon patch. Acres and acres of watermelons, and right in the middle was a very tall, thatched hut on stilt-like legs. It was where a lookout would perch to watch for poachers.  I remember feeling that I was light years away from anyplace I had ever been. A place where time had stood still. The author and her fellow middle-school teachers at a school picnic somewhere in the mountains The guard was a young man around our age. We approached the hut, prepared to greet him using our rudimentary Korean phrases, as few Koreans in the countryside spoke English. The guard looked right at us and asked, "What do you think the implications of Richard Nixon's recent resignation will have on the rest of the world?" Huh?  Not a copy of Everyday, Common English Expressions in sight! Not long after that outing, our group was dispersed to our respective sites throughout the country as middle school English teachers. For a then-Third World country, learning English (even from a Brooklyn native) opened future doors and the Koreans were so grateful for that opportunity. I was always treated with great warmth and kindness by the Korean people. I, in turn, for the first time, learned love of another country. I don’t think I ever felt as proud to be an American than I did during those years. Proud to call America home.  Home of the good guys. The author and Daisy, the family's rescue pug (2023) Amy Lennard Goehner has always had Lady Luck on her side in landing dream jobs — after college as a Peace Corps volunteer in Korea and years later as a reporter at Sports Illustrated , covering boxing and horse racing. That luck continued with reporting jobs at Sports Illustrated for Kids and at Time magazine. She currently is a contributing writer to AARP’s Livable Communities and is grateful for the opportunity to write about people who are making life better in their own communities.

From Glenn Diesen's Substack

By Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. Originally appeared in My Washington Whispers on April 14, 2026 As I see it, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is to Israel what President Donald Trump is to the United States. Like Trump, who has power despite huge democratic opposition, Netanyahu is opposed by a huge number of Israelis. Each of these men is corrupt and clinging to power in order to avoid prosecution. And taking actions that may well destroy their countries. But I am sick and tired of being informed—whether by some casual Facebook post, by cable news or by respected entities like the New York Times or the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace that Netanyahu is a Svengali who manipulates Trump into launching wars like the current one against Iran. Furthermore, for Trump’s Secretary of State Marco Rubio to suggest that Israel pulled Trump into the United States’ current Iran fiasco is particularly galling. First, it is an established modus operandi for Trump to blame others for the unpopularity or failure of any of his decisions. Second, why would one take anything said by a representative of Trump’s regime at face value? Trump has demonstrated over and over that he never does anything he doesn’t believe will benefit him personally in some way.  Ditto for those around him. It is likely that the U.S. entered into this misbegotten war based on an assortment of motives held by diverse Trump factions, among them: to feed Trump’s ego; to distract from the Epstein files; to invite an attack on the U.S. in order to declare martial law and/or cancel the 2026 midterm election; to steal Iran’s oil; to hurry fulfillment of the Christian nationalists’ end-time prophecies ; as well as Pete Hegseth’s desire to play soldier at the expense of real soldiers. And that’s before one even examines the Manchurian Candidate aspect of Trump’s relationship with Vladimir Putin and the fact that Putin benefits immensely by the U.S. failure, its falling out with NATO over the attack, and the depletion of our nation’s weapon stocks. The bottom line: Trump and his cabal had their own reasons to attack Iran and should be held responsible for their own actions. It is obnoxious to attempt to lessen their responsibility by suggesting that they were victims of Netanyahu’s manipulation. That claim reeks of antisemitic stereotype: the sneaky Jew, the clever Jew, the Jews who, behind the scenes, run the world. Add to this the resurgence of claims on left and right that Israel has bought our nation’s politicians. Some, as usual, decry the American Israel Public Affairs Committee’s (AIPAC) lobbying efforts. This is a version of the never-ending charge that Jews have too much influence. And an implication that American Jews have double loyalties. One is sorely tempted to ask why neither the left nor the right have ever decried Saudi Arabia’ s use, for decades, of its oil wealth to effectively lobby to influence US-Middle East policy and politicians, as well as American business interests and private institutions.   Arab and Muslim Americans have as much right as Jewish Americans and every other American to lobby the government in the interest of a cause or a place they care about. Neither should be castigated as unamerican or accused of undue influence when they do so. But Saudi Arabia is a foreign nation.  And their lobbying, unlike AIPAC’s, has always largely stayed below the media’s radar.   As for the extremism of the Netanyahu government—whether in Gaza or as relates to its entry into the current war with Iran--I do not defend it. Or excuse it. Probably, Netanyahu’s political ambition and legal problems factored greatly into his decisions. Nevertheless, I do have some thoughts to explain, historically, what, in my view, may have brought Israel’s government to this extreme point. In 1956, Golda Meir, then Foreign Minister of Israel, addressing the United Nations General Assembly, stated, in part: "A comfortable division has been made. The Arab states unilaterally enjoy the “rights of war”; Israel has the unilateral responsibility of keeping the peace. But belligerency is not a one-way street. Is it then surprising if a people laboring under this monstrous distinction should finally become restive and at last seek a way of rescuing its life from the perils of the regulated war that is conducted against it from all sides?" Throughout the decades since, not much changed. For the most part, attacks on Israelis were not covered by the media until Israel responded. And then, the response would almost always be labeled “retaliation.” As if Israel’s responses were simply tit for tat rather than an effort to stop the attacks on its citizens. And, of course, the term “retaliation” easily feeds into the Christian stereotype of the vengeful Jew. That was very often followed by the world’s demands that Israel show “restraint.” I do not recall restraint ever publicly being demanded, or even asked, of the other side. In her 1956 speech, Golda Meir also said: "Over and over again, the Israeli government has held out its hand in peace to its neighbors. But to no avail.'. So often since then, the Israelis attempted to make peace with the Arab states and work out the situation of the Palestinians. There were a few temporary advances—but very few. In 1979, Israel’s Prime Minister Menachem Begin (notably, the then leader of the right-wing Likud party) and Egyptian President Anwar Sadat signed a Peace Treaty. Subsequently, Sadat was assassinated by his own for his effort. This was followed by what was called a “cold peace” with Egypt. In 1993, Israeli Prime Minister Itzak Rabin (of the Labor party) and Palestine Liberation Organization chairman Yassar Arafat signed the Oslo Accords. Shortly after, Rabin was assassinated by an Israeli extremist.  Perhaps Israel and the Palestinian Authority could still have successfully moved forward. But while the Palestinian Authority was elected on the West Bank, Gaza chose the Iran-backed terrorist group Hamas, which has consistently sworn to annihilate Israel. Attacks by Hamas and by Hezbollah, also backed by Iran, continued. Since its beginning, Israel has lived with the persistent attempts to annihilate it. Iran and its surrogates have not only consistently expressed that intent, but have  acted upon it at every opportunity. Is it surprising then, that after 78 years of this, some portion of Israel’s citizenry would turn hardline, even if the majority still favor seeking a peaceful resolution? Perhaps, for those in Netanyahu’s government, the October 7, 2023, massacre and kidnappings by Hamas was a final straw. Perhaps the restraint to try to “keep the peace” that Golda Meir referenced in 1956 not only wore thin but finally broke. Acknowledging this possibility does not constitute a defense of the Netanyahu government’s post October 7 actions in Gaza or the recent choice to attack Iran. Rather, it is requesting of the reader an acknowledgment that any other nation might well, under such strain, behave in the same manner. What’s sad is the loss of all the years when honest negotiation and compromise by Israel’s surrounding states could have avoided bringing the conflict to this point.   Jessie Seigel’s journalistic career began with the political Washington Whispers column, written for The Insider . Since The Insider ended its run in 2023, Seigel has continued the column as My Washington Whispers, www.mywashingtonwhispers.com . In addition, Seigel has had a long career as a government attorney, has received two Artist’s Fellowships from the Washington, D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities for her fiction, has been a finalist for several literary awards, and has had professional staged readings of her plays, Tinker's Damn , and The Three Jessies . More on Seigel can be found at  www.jessieseigel.com .

By Laurence Lerman / New York City Saturday Night Live creator Lorne Michaels is the subject of the new documentary  Lorne SCREEN TIME There are figures in American entertainment who dominate the frame, and then there are those who decide what the frame looks like. Toronto native Lorne Michaels belongs firmly in the latter category—a man whose influence is so pervasive it’s mistaken for the way things simply are. For nearly five decades, through NBC’s Saturday Night Live , Michaels hasn’t just served as the producer of the show he created in the fall of 1975 (he took a five-year hiatus in the early 1980s); he’s quietly shaped the national sense of humor and conversation by deciding—week after week—what gets laughed at, what gets launched, and what gets left behind. This year, SNL marked its 50th anniversary—a milestone that underscores its unusual longevity—and remains the most Emmy-awarded program in television history, amassing 113 statuettes over the past half century. Lorne , the new documentary from Grammy and Oscar-winning filmmaker Morgan Neville (whose previous work includes the well-received 20 Feet from Stardom and Won't You Be My Neighbor? ), arrives with the promise of access to a famously guarded figure. Michaels, despite being one of the most powerful tastemakers in television history, has always preferred to operate just out of view—a curator rather than a performer, a gatekeeper rather than a personality. The question hanging over the film is a simple one: does it finally explain the man, or merely reinforce the mythology? Michaels in his Saturday Night Live office in 1979 Neville’s film offers plenty of the latter. Built from a mix of archival footage and contemporary interviews, Lorne assembles a predictable  but formidable chorus of voices—Tina Fey, Chris Rock, Conan O'Brien, Maya Rudolph, Steve Martin, Paul Simon, Andy Samberg, and John Mulaney, among others—each offering variations on the same theme: Michaels as an exacting, enigmatic presence with an almost preternatural instinct for talent. The anecdotes are sharp, often funny, and occasionally revealing, but they tend to orbit a carefully maintained center. Michaels remains, even here, a figure defined as much by what he withholds as by what he shares. That may be the point. After all, Saturday Night Live itself has never been about a single voice. It is, at its best, a machine—a weekly filtration system for American culture, almost always turning headlines and personalities into something recognizable. The show has been declared irrelevant more times than  can be counted.  “Saturday Night Dead” has headlined editorials for years,  only to have the program reassert itself through reinvention, generational turnover, and the simple fact of its persistence. Besides.  what else are you going to watch at 11:30 pm on Saturdays? In that sense, Michaels’ greatest achievement may not be any single sketch or cast, but the creation of a system that outlives them all. Vice Presidential nominee Sarah Palin (l.), Lorne Michaels and Tina Fey doing her Palin impression in a 2008 SNL segment The documentary gestures toward this idea but stops short of fully exploring it. Instead, it expands outward, tracing Michaels’ influence beyond Studio 8H into a sprawling portfolio of television shows and films. There are the undeniable movie successes: Mean Girls, Tommy Boy, Wayne's World, the latter of which transcended its origin as an SNL sketch to become bona fide cultural touchstone; TV’s 30 Rock , a rare instance of the industry turning its gaze inward with both affection and bite; and the late-night empire that includes The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon and Late Night with Seth Meyers . Michaels (center) accepts an Emmy Award, one of 133 won by Saturday Night Live over the past 50 years And then there is everything else—a long tail of projects that felt, even at the time, like extensions rather than inspirations. Sketch-based movies like It's Pat or A Night at the Roxbury or The Ladies Man serve as a useful counterweight to the narrative of unerring taste. Michaels, the film suggests without quite saying outright, is not a perfectionist. He is something more industrial: a producer of scale, whose success lies not in batting a thousand, but in generating enough hits to define the field. Steve Martin breaks bread with Michaels This is where Lorne is most interesting—and also where it feels most cautious. The film acknowledges the unevenness of Michaels’ output but rarely lingers on it. Failures are noted, then quickly folded back into the larger story of longevity and influence. Power, in other words, is observed but not deeply examined. The result is a portrait that feels comprehensive in scope but curiously restrained in its conclusions. Still, there is value in seeing the architecture laid bare, even partially. Michaels emerges as a figure who understood, earlier than most, that comedy is both ephemeral and cyclical—that what feels urgent in one moment will feel dated in another, and that the only way to survive is to keep moving forward, keep discovering. Lorne may not fully decode him, but it does something arguably more fitting: it shows how a man can shape culture while remaining just outside it. A scene from 1992’s Wayne's World (1992), a  smash hit that grossed $122 million at the U.S. box office. In the end, Lorne functions less as a revelation than as a confirmation. It affirms what has long been suspected—that behind the ever-changing faces of Saturday Night Live is a steady if elusive hand guiding the whole enterprise. Whether that sensibility is visionary, opportunistic, or simply persistent is a question the film leaves largely to the viewer, even as it rolls out a red carpet of famous people to sing his praises. But after  nearly 50 years of defining what America laughs at, Michaels has earned the right to keep us all guessing. Laurence Lerman is a film journalist and a former editor of Video Business -- Variety's digital media trade publication. Over the course of his four-decade career, he has conducted one-on-one interviews with just about every major filmmaker working today, from Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino and Clint Eastwood to Kathryn Bigelow, Bernardo Bertolucci, and Werner Herzog. Most recently, he is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of the online review site  DiscDish.com , the founder and curator of  FilmShul.com , a multi-part presentation on the history of Hollywood and Jewish America, and a commentator on various 4K UHD and Blu-ray home entertainment releases.

By Marilyn Mars / Santa Fe, New Mexico Margareta Magnusson, an unlikely debut literary star in her 80s Have you ever pondered what happens to your belongings when you die?  Margareta Magnusson did.  In fact, in 2017, she wrote an international bestseller about it, The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning . Or as they say in Swedish, dostadning . Since then, a million copies of the book have been sold worldwide, translated into some 30 languages. The book’s central premise is that thoughtfully decluttering your possessions  during your life is an act of self-care and a gift to those that may end up having to sort through your items.  It’s about deciding what to keep and what to let go of so as not to leave a chaotic burden behind for someone else to take care of. As I mentioned in the Insider in February , I’ve been a Clutter clearing practitioner for over 15 years. I have worked with many clients during their own process of death cleaning.  I have also worked with many people clearing out the homes of their loved ones who have recently died.  I often see them face the daunting challenge of making decisions about what to keep and what to let go of while simultaneously grieving.  It’s an emotionally taxing  experience if you are left with someone else’s boatload of items. Margareta, who passed away in March at age 91 was a professional painter and designer.  Her journalist daughter Jane Magnusson, one of her five children, told a friend in the U.S. that her octogenarian mother in Sweden was “death cleaning.” The friend, overwhelmed by his own father’s possessions, said “I think there’s a book in that” and asked if Margareta could write it.  Jane brought the idea to her mother and she agreed enthusiastically, turning her lifelong habit into a book in just a few months.  The rest is publishing history. One of the things I admire about this book is Margareta’s practical approach to death cleaning.  She begins her book by saying: “The only thing that we know for sure is that we will die one day.” The author looks at death as an ordinary fact that should shape how we live and what we own at the different time periods of our life.  Facing this openly is a motivating factor to organize and decide what really matters. At the time of writing this book, Margareta was “somewhere between 80 and 100 years old” as she wryly describes it.  The author advocates starting before you are frail, in midlife or later, as a permanent form of organization that makes your everyday life run more smoothly.  She continually asks herself, “Will anyone I know be happier if I save this?” a nd letting it go if the answer is no.  I also love how Margareta urges you to talk with your family as you sort through your belongings, both to share stories and to find out what they actually want rather than guessing. Death cleaning at its best is a slow and steady affair, so one has time to process the feelings that arise while lettings things of times gone by go.  In my experience, it’s one thing to go through practical items like expired makeup and worn-out socks and another thing to sort through more sentimental items such as letters and photographs.  When it comes to the meaning we make of our things, a lot of emotions are likely to come up. Maybe it’s your many treasured books or all the clothing you own, some of  that you wear and much of it you don’t.  Whether it’s everyday kitchen items or all those extra kitchen gadgets and appliances just sitting, someone will have to sift through them when you die.  Why not make it a bit easier for those who will have this task? When my clients are death cleaning, they often ask me the best way to handle items that are very meaningful to them. They are concerned that their private belongings such as journals and old love letters will fall into the hands of others when they die.  I’ve seen many people grapple with the challenge of letting go of possessions that held sentimental value for their loved ones even if these items meant nothing to them.  Guilt is what commonly arises.  Margareta shrewdly suggests gathering these items into a box marked THROW AWAY and leave a note requesting it be destroyed when you die. In my experience, having such a box can give the people who come after you the freedom to let go with a clear conscience. In my clutter clearing classes, I often pose the question: “We enter life with nothing, we leave with nothing.  What is it about us humans that compels us to hold onto possessions?”  A snake sheds its skin and forms a new one, trees shed their leaves until the next season of budding.  Can we, as humans, learn to enjoy the things in the different chapters of our lives and yet be willing to let things go when it’s time? If it’s true that the only thing we know for sure is that we will die one day, then why not make conscious choices of what we surround ourselves with in the different chapters of our lives? Margareta deftly touches upon so many of these points in The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning.   I found her book candid and surprisingly light-hearted, and humorous, filled with Margareta’s own experiences of death cleaning. She’s someone I would have liked to have met. Marilyn Mars is a clutter-clearing expert and educator, whose passion is discovering the underlying reasons why we hold on to things that no longer serve us in our current lives, Marilyn has worked one-on-one with clients around the country for 15 years and teaches virtual classes year-round. A native of Long Island, N.Y, she took a road trip to Santa Fe in 2001, fell in love with the mountains and decided to stay. She and her husband Guillermo are dedicated hikers. www.marilynmars.com

By Bonnie Fishman / San Francisco Bay Area Steamed mussels in Brussels And that’s not all. Fish and chips in London, croissants and baguettes in Paris, Belgian chocolate and waffles in Brussels. I just returned from a whirlwind trip to three major European cities. Of course, I chose the hotels based on their breakfast buffet reputations. Did I go to tour museums? No. Did I go to see famous churches? Nah. Did I go to see historic buildings and squares? Not really. I went for two main reasons: to eat and because I was able to travel after a long illness. I pounded the pavement every day to suss out great food, look at crafts and fashions from other countries and most importantly, just to be there. I traveled with my sisters, Nancy and Marcia, and our cousin, Jeri, from suburban Detroit. We had a blast. Lots of walking, eating, and laughs. Two of our favorite meals were in London. The first was at Veeraswamy, the oldest Indian restaurant in the United Kingdom. The famed restaurant was celebrating its 100th birthday when we were there. The food was extraordinary– inventive, unusual flavors, and beautifully presented. The author in Veeraswamy in London I ordered the best possible dish baked in banana leaves. It was a potpourri of several recipes, a mini tasting menu on one plate if you will. Nothing on the menu resembled anything that we’re used to in the United States. When the manager caught wind of the fact that I was going to include the restaurant in a magazine food column, he comped our table with two beautiful desserts. Don't ask me what I ate because it didn't have the taste or texture of anything familiar. I didn’t care for it, but I appreciated the effort that it took to create. A variety of dishes baked in a banana leaf: crab cake, potato balls, eggplant, ground lamb, chicken curry, marinated pineapple, chutney, surrounding rice pilaf Beautiful desserts at Veeraswamy Another great London meal was at Nopi, Yotam Ottolenghi’s flagship restaurant. This was my second visit, and it did not disappoint. If you are unfamiliar with Ottolenghi, he is a very popular Israeli chef and author, with 11 bestselling cookbooks under his belt. The mostly Mediterranean bent of the cuisine speaks to me as it is one of my personal favorite food profiles. He creates magic particularly with vegetables. The evening we dined there, I had crispy oven-roasted celeriac with almond cream. Don’t ask. Oven-roasted celeriac with almond cream at Nopi in London Moving on to Paris from London through the Chunnel, we were greeted by rainy weather for our brief two days in one of my favorite cities. It didn’t stop us from walking a few blocks to the famed Café Les Deux Magots, where, back in the day, great minds and literati hung out, such as Hemingway, Camus, and Sartre. I had dessert for dinner: a warm pear tart. I devoured it guilt-free. Hey, I was in Paris , right? Warm pear tart for dinner at the famed Les Deux Magots in Paris A new day, a new culinary adventure. After visiting the spectacular Museé D’Orsay, we trekked through the pouring rain to have an ooh-la-la tres Français late lunch at the quintessential Cocorico, right behind the museum. I felt like I had walked into a French movie - the atmosphere, the vibe, the diners, the aromas, the beautiful yet understated plates of food. We were tucked into a corner booth and devoured classic French fare. Roasted cockerel at Cocorico in Paris My sister Marcia and I shared cockerel, a young rooster, roasted to perfection. I ordered it because the gentleman next to us was delicately dissecting the bird, using his fork and knife, like the French do, surgically separating the meat from the bone. His technique was mesmerizing. The next morning, we boarded a train to Brussels. It is true: Belgium is known for four culinary items: chocolate, waffles, mussels and frites (French fries).  I have never seen so many chocolate shops in a row, street after street. They were all beautiful and alluring. How does one choose? Me, I’m a purist, dark chocolate with nuts. I’m not a particular fan of filled truffles. The four of us did take a chocolate class learning how to make said truffles.  It’s a lot of fuss to temper the chocolate, keeping it shining after the delicacies have set. The one main thing I learned was let someone else make them! Bonnie filling truffle molds with tempered chocolate Bonnie filling the truffles with chocolate ganache Waffles are a different story. I could eat them every day. There were plenty of waffle shops too. We took a waffle class, where we learned what makes Belgian waffles different from American waffles. The Belgians use a waffle iron with deeper holes; the egg whites are whipped and folded into the batter separately; and oil is used instead of melted butter. This creates a lighter, crispier textured waffle. The Belgians also make a divine yeast waffle, sweeter and denser than the traditional product. (from L to R): Bonnie, Nancy, Marcia, and Jeri getting ready to make waffles in a cooking class in Brussels Finished product: Belgian waffle smothered with Nutella and fresh fruit I have an embarrassing confession. Keep in mind I’m the only professional chef in the class. I made two HUGE mistakes while we were preparing waffles. The first one is I overfilled the waffle iron with batter, and it squished out all over the place. Second, I forgot to oil the iron, so my waffle was not coming out of that pan even if you begged it. The class assistant spent the next 20 minutes scraping it out. I’m glad it wasn’t me! Unbeknownst to her, I was eating the scraps that she tossed aside. Now let’s talk mussels with fries or moules-frites. We stumbled across Cave du Roy, which was built in the 15th century, an underground vaulted cellar that housed a fabulous cozy restaurant specializing in mussels. They offered various preparations, but I stuck with the classic: mussels steamed with garlic butter and white wine. The food arrived in a huge metal pot. When the top was removed, we were bathed in the most beautiful aroma. The delicious frites were on the side. The cozy vaulted cellar restaurant Cave du Roy in Brussels Moules-frites at Cave du Roy I have attempted to recreate this dish at home and share it with you. The biggest difference is the quality of the mussels. The Belgian ones are harvested from the North Atlantic Sea. They were plump and juicy. The ones I was able to procure here in my town are puny. I hope you all have better success in finding wonderful mussels to cook at home! Classic Mussels in Garlic & White Wine   Yield: 4-6 entrées 4 lb. mussels, scrubbed & debearded if necessary 2 Tbsp. olive oil 2 oz. butter 4 garlic cloves, minced 1 shallot, minced pinch of chili flakes 3/4 c. dry white wine 1/4 c. fresh chopped parsley Allow the mussels to soak in a large bowl of water for 20 minutes to ensure that the sand is removed from the shells. Drain the mussels in a colander. In a large Dutch oven, melt the butter with oil over moderate heat. Sauté the garlic and shallots for 5 minutes.  Add the wine and chili flakes. Bring the wine to a boil; boil for 3 minutes. Add the mussels. Place the top on the pan. Cook the mussels, shaking the pan a couple of times or stir with a large spoon. When the mussels have opened, 5-7 minutes, they are done. Mix in the parsley. Distribute the mussels in individual serving bowls. Pour liquid over the top. Serve with fresh or toasted baguette slices. Yank the “beard” down the side of the mussel and pull it out. Discard.             After sautéing the garlic and shallots, let wine come to a boil.   Sprinkle on chopped parsley just before serving.             Bonnie Fishman attended the Cordon Bleu Cookery School in London. Later, she owned and operated Bonnie’s Patisserie in Southfield, Mich. and Bonnie’s Kitchen and Catering in Bloomfield Hills, Mich. She has taught cooking for over 35 years and created hundreds of recipes. She is now living in Northern California.

By Dr. Nancy Fishman / Morgan Hill, Calif. For people who have never been married, the romantic notion of cohabitation might have enough appeal to try marriage if the opportunity arises later in life.  If you had been married and experienced the death or divorce of a spouse, you certainly would have a different perspective. I’m guessing that people who divorce are less likely to consider remarriage. The bloom is off the rose. On the other end of the spectrum are those who had good marriages and could never imagine living life alone. In fact, severe loneliness and the need to take care of someone are reasons that drive some to seek new partners. My mother-in-law, Rose, lost her husband when she was 71. She never imagined being with any other man. But four years later, she met Sam, a widower from New York, who lived in the same apartment building. They met in the lobby, flirted in the elevator, and began watching TV together in the evenings. Rose discovered that she really enjoyed making dinner for Sam. The company was exactly what each needed. Soon they talked about the benefits of marriage: one rent to pay, shared interests, and the security of companionship. Marriage! Yes! That seemed like a smart idea until Sam moved into Rose’s more spacious apartment. Like a light switch was flipped, Sam immediately began bossing her around. He was not at all grateful that she spent thousands of dollars having his teeth fixed, buying him a whole new wardrobe, and paying for all the groceries. It took her a long while until she confided in us that Sam was verbally abusive and wouldn’t stop talking. My mother-in-law concluded she needed to divorce him. Just as she was about to hire an attorney, Sam had a stroke, rendering him speechless! Oh, the irony was not lost on Rose and our family. She divorced him and sent him back to New York for his family to take care of him. At that moment, Rose declared, “Never again!” My friend’s mother, Mrs. Anywitz (a pseudonym), met a different Sam, also from New York, at her synagogue. He was nice and very, very friendly. Their rabbi encouraged them to marry during their advancing years. When Mrs. Anywitz passed away, her family discovered she had been covering for Sam’s progressing dementia. He had no family living in the area, so my friend put Sam in a nursing home to receive the care his mother would have wanted him to have. Every other day, my friend would get a call from the nursing home. Apparently, Sam was very, very friendly there as well. Most mornings, the staff would find him in bed with female residents, one or two at a time. You never really know what you get when you marry in the graying years. It’s kind of like adopting an older puppy. There are medical expenses, fussy diets, separation anxiety, drooling, and tushy baths. You have to wonder if it is ever worth it, especially if there is no chance for a satisfying sex life. Many women enjoy more fulfilling companionship among the sisterhood of females. You can always find a girlfriend to go to dinner, appreciate cultural events, or take a cruise. Even though it’s not a marriage, women seem to take relationships very seriously. When in need, you can always count on a female pal to be there for you. Throughout five decades in private practice as a psychologist, I have worked with countless people who have considered remarriage. One man, in particular, had a long marriage with five adult children and a slew of grandchildren. He and his wife married young before they each had a chance to consider they might be the wrong match for one another. After almost two years of pouring out his heart to me about how unhappy he had always been in the marriage, he finally decided to seek a divorce. To say he had soured on the concept of marriage is an understatement. However, once he began living alone, he discovered the loneliness was less tolerable than the thought of finding a new love relationship. So, he took the plunge and activated a profile on a dating site. Getting back in the saddle for the first time since his college years was scary. He was full of self-doubt. He worried about women’s expectations and his ability to measure up to men with more experience. Soon, he discovered most women perceived the qualities he valued in himself. Unlike his wife, they were eager to be with him. He found himself laughing and having fun. Life was ripe with potential. Then, he met a special woman and began to consider spending his life with her. There they were…both with gray hair, eight children and many grandchildren between them. The adult children were thrilled to see their parents happy; they heartily endorsed the idea of a new marriage.  Every December I receive a holiday card from the couple reminding me that remarriage is always an option at any age. Though you are never too old to remarry, I just bet it’s not on everyone’s bucket list. As for me, I say, “Hell, nooo!” This column is devoted to psychological topics that speak to the human condition, such as relationships, family, love, loss, and happiness. The ideas, thoughts, philosophies, and observations expressed here are personal and not meant as professional advice. Names and identifying information have been changed to protect the privacy of real people. Dr. Nancy Fishman moved to Santa Clara County in 2016 from Michigan, where she was a practicing psychologist. Currently, she is a strategy consultant to individuals, families, businesses, family law attorneys and their clients, working on coping, managing, reorganizing, pivoting and innovating. She is the founder of Forgotten Harvest, one of the nation’s largest food recovery operations. She is also the creator of Silicon Valley’s A La Carte food recovery and distribution initiative, and the organizer of Feeding Morgan Hill. Nancy lives on a family compound with her husband, sisters, brother-in-law, and a pack of dogs.   NancyFishmanPhD.com   ForgottenHarvest.org