One of my favorite movie scenes is from Working Girl. Melanie Griffith’s character, Tess, has a chance to explain to a client that her idea for a merger, presented by her boss as her own, was, indeed, hers. She has an elevator ride to convince him. She explains that she took an item from the society page and put it together with information from the business section to create an innovative business plan. I love that scene because I recognize in her logic the way my brain creates. I think true creativity comes when we can take knowledge from very different areas and weave it into innovation and wisdom.

I was thinking of this last night as I viewed a clip from an upcoming documentary called Alive Inside. From their website, “the movie examines the way in which music can bypass the ravages of dementia. Neuropsychologist Oliver Sacks and others explore the channels that music courses in the brain and what it might mean for the future of Alzheimer’s treatment.” This is of particular interest to me, as my father has been diagnosed with Alzheirmer’s in the past year.

The clip led me to ponder how we make meaningful connections. Three weeks ago, I had an enlightening Facebook discussion. It was sparked by a conversation with my older son, Josh. Josh’s dream is to be a professional musician, but he also has a great mind for science. When he showed me something he had designed in science, I said, “I think maybe you should focus on science and not music. Maybe you will cure cancer.” He replied, “I don’t want to cure cancer-I want to make music. Is that so wrong?” I honestly didn’t know how to answer him, and I put it out to Facebook. I was overwhelmed by how seriously everyone took the question and offered suggestions. One suggested that he may discover ways music waves may kill cancer cells. Everyone offered creative suggestions for how he might weave his knowledge of both in a new, creative, healing way. We were both thankful for the loving advice of friends. The work of Oliver Sacks made me think of how Josh may create healing with music in a similar way.

The following week, Rob and I presented a workshop at the Unity Leadership Conference. We asked the students to create a visual representation of their answer to the question, “For you, what would better look like?” One participant, a high school student, created the following sculpture:

Her explanation was that, for her, better was being able to take the ideas in her head and create them in the world in a way that connects with the ideas in other people’s heads, that they are creating in the world. It is a profound thought and a powerful visual.

Like Tess in Working Girl, I think the ability to make connections in unique ways and connect with others is one key to creative problem solving and one answer to What BETTER Looks Like.

On the evening of September 28, 2011, I had been invited to the home of friends to hear a presentation by Chouchou Namegabe, a Congolese activist, radio journalist, and founder and director of the organization, South Kivu Association of Woman Journalists.  They were hosting a group of friends, neighbors and colleagues to raise awareness about the sexual violence against women in Congo.

I had dressed for the evening and was ready to walk out the door, when I was stopped by my 12-year-old son. “Mom, you can’t wear that shirt out in public.” I had chosen a perfectly lovely lace top that my son thought was too revealing. I was amused, since he had never commented on my clothes before. Smiling, I replied, “I’m wearing a jacket, and besides, I always dress like this.” “Well, you shouldn’t. It’s embarrassing,” was his final verdict. I smiled again and, even though he was staying home and would not be publicly embarrassed by my fashion choice, I went in and changed to something more conservative.

An hour later I sat in my friends’ living room while Chouchou presented the stories she had collected from the victims of sexual violence.  There were audible gasps and visible tears from the people gathered, many of whom were hearing these stories for the first time.  For me, having heard so many stories before, and having sat with women in Heal Africa hospital in Congo, I thought I was more prepared than the others to take in what was being shared.  Then Chouchou told a story that broke my heart open again.  She told of a young boy who was forced to witness, then participate in, the brutal rape of his mother.

I immediately recalled the earlier scene with my own son. Our innocent exchange was prompted by his burgeoning sense of his own sexuality and his sense of my role as his mother. I could not help but contrast that with the image now etched on my heart of a mother and son whose relationship with each other, and their sense of self, was forever shattered by a brutal act of violence.

In that moment, I was able to personalize the violence in a way that I had not done to that point. I understand that I have no right to ask that the world be a safe, good place for me and my family unless I am doing everything in my power to make sure the world is a safe and good place for every mother and every family.

We know that humanity was birthed originally in Africa. Now, the wombs of Africa’s women are being destroyed physically. I believe if we are to birth a new vision for humanity, we must begin by healing the wombs and women of Africa. It is when we connect in empathy and deep compassion that we gain the strength to act in the world with great courage, capable of making profound, lasting change.

When people asked me why I was going to Rwanda, I had a short answer: My friend, Marie Goretti Ukeye, is a survivor of the Rwandan Genocide.  I wanted to go there to meet her mother, her family and her friends, and come to know them the way she had come to know mine.  What I could not have imagined was that, in a very real way, I would also meet Marie.

The first thing I knew about Marie, before I even met her, was that she was a survivor of the Genocide.  It was back in 2006, and my husband, Rob, was creating a film for the 5^th anniversary of 9/11.  The premise of the film, Satyagraha, is that the 5^th anniversary of 9/11 coincided with the 100^th anniversary of Gandhi’s first nonviolent action.  September 11, 1906 was when Gandhi called for nonviolent resistance to the British government in South Africa—a  movement he called Satyagraha, or Truth force.  Rob created a film of 100 years of nonviolence, using contemporary stories of people using their lives to create a better, more peaceful world.   My friend, Joe, met Marie and thought her story would be perfect for the film. 

He asked if I could contact her, and she agreed.

When I met Marie, the thing that struck me most was that her eyes were so full of love.  I realized immediately what an extraordinary woman she is.  She made it clear from the beginning that she did not want to tell her story of the genocide for the film.  She did not wish to become tied to that story.  She did, however, want to tell the story of “What better looks like”--her bonus life—the life she chose to live after the genocide.

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After watching the “To Sir, With Love” scene on the season finale of Glee, I posted a FaceBook status to all my former students.  I let them know that, of all the things I have done in my life, I will never be prouder of anything as much as I was of the years I spent teaching.  One student, who answered me privately, thanked me for advice and encouragement I had offered all those years ago.  She had come to me because she was hurt that people made fun of her because she looked “different.”  I told her that it would not always be that way, and that she would blossom, with confidence, into a beautiful woman.  She assured me that my prediction had come true-she had indeed blossomed into the beautiful butterfly I was certain she would become. What she couldn’t know is that my belief was born of hard experience.

I will never forget the person who let me know I was “different.”

Liam McMahon.

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After my mother died, I was cleaning out the closets in my father’s house.   I came across a picture of my mother that I don’t remember having seen before.  I was in her arms, and my sister was at her side.   

I was struck by her beauty and style.  It was 1963, and my mother more than met the fashion standard that was being set by Jacqueline Kennedy.  She wore an expensive brown wool suit, with a fur collar.  She had matching brown leather shoes and handbag.  But the piece de resistance was the hat.  When we were small, my mother always wore hats, but this was her favorite.  It was close-fitting, like a pillbox, but twice as high.  It was festooned with pink roses.  Her makeup was impeccable, punctuated by her bright red lips.  Even with two children in tow, she seems unharried, even elegant.  She held us as effortlessly as the handbag at her side.

In the years before my mom died, she had become a woman who played solitaire for hours in her pajamas and felt comfortable going outside in sweat suits without makeup.  She seemed so unhappy in the years before her death, unhappiness my brother, sister and I often pondered without ever settling on the reason.  My father adored her and she loved him back, she had good friends, and a job that she loved.  We could not understand why she was obviously unhappy.  And you didn’t ask.  My mom was not a woman to discuss her feelings. 

When she died suddenly of a stroke while on vacation in Rome, we were left with a mystery.  She had never had a sick day in her life.  True, my mom was a smoker, and never really exercised, but the same could be said of her own mother who lived into her nineties.  The only clue that I was left with was the unhappiness that seemed to cling to her in the months, years before her death.  I felt powerless to explain it.  Then I found that picture.  It had been so long since my mother had been that person that I had forgotten she ever existed.

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I just spent a wonderful afternoon with an old friend from the years my husband, Rob, spent doing stand-up comedy.  We recently reconnected after about fifteen years.  He came over with his girlfriend, and we spent time telling tales about the “old days.”  Our conversation turned to “how we met” stories and I remembered a story that I had not thought of in years.

I met my husband twenty-two years ago when I went to see a mutual friend perform at a comedy club.   I found him smart, funny and charming.  Although these are among his qualities that have kept us together all these years, none of them were why I initially chose to go out with him.  After all this time, I smile to think of the circumstance that started us on our journey.

First, I ask you to indulge a brief digression to set the context:

Growing up, I had two role models: Gandhi and Cher. 

I wanted to change the world like Gandhi, but I wanted to do it dressed like Cher.  That juxtaposition has always amused others, but to me it is the most natural thing in the world.

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A friend was visiting today.  She commented on recent post I had written for my What Better Looks Like site.  In the piece, Musings on Being an Older Woman, I envisioned aging with the grace of Mother Teresa.  She noted that that was a lofty aspiration.  It is true.  I don’t often question the height of my aspirations, as they have always been a part of me.

Once, when I was about nine, I was reading the newspaper.  Someone had died that day.  Someone important.  Although I don’t remember who it was, I cared enough, at the time, to follow the story to the obituary page.  After reading the life story, my eyes continued down the page.  At the bottom of the page were items called “Death Notices.”  I asked my mom, “What’s the difference between obituaries and death notices?”  She explained that obituaries were people who, for one reason or another were more newsworthy, noteworthy or important.  The death notices were for ordinary people-people whose passing is noticed mostly by family and friends.

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Last week a man in his twenties sat next to me in the bookstore, caught my eye and said, "I have always been attracted to older women."  My first thought was that I didn't know whether I should be flattered or insulted.  The general consensus on my Facebook status was that I should be flattered.  After all, as my sister-in-law noted," He didn't say he was attracted to old-ass women."  I guess that my appreciation of his flattery was tempered by the fact that I haven't quite assimilated the idea of "older" into my definition of self.

The incident brought to mind a conversation I had had with a friend around the time of my thirtieth birthday.  She had recently turned forty, and I asked her if she minded getting older.  During the conversation, I explained to her that, at that point in my life I was confident that on my best day, when my hair and make-up were done, and I was dressed well, people would turn and look when I walked into the room.  I wondered, and feared, how it would feel when people stopped looking when I walked into the room.

The question led me to a thought experiment.  I stopped to think about the oldest woman I could call to mind.  The vision that popped into my head was Mother Teresa.  "I wonder," I thought to myself, "how Mother Teresa felt when people stopped looking when she walked into the room."

 Of course, the answer came as quickly as the question--they never stopped looking when Mother Teresa  walked into the room.

 That thought was immediately comforting.  They never stopped looking when Mother Teresa entered the room, because the source of the attraction was her inner beauty--based on the power of her spirit and the love she had cultivated over a lifetime.  

I smiled as I thought, I think I can handle growing older if I do it like Mother Teresa.  I started worrying less about the exterior package, and more about becoming the person I want to be in the world--growing in love and spiritual power.

So far, it seems to be working.  If last week is any indication, someone's still looking when I walk into the room!

My father has recently been diagnosed with serious dementia.  In addition to grappling with the day-to-day realities and the changes that will bring to us as a family, it also caused me to contemplate the nature of remembering and forgetting.

My father was forgetful for as long as I can remember.  We used to tease him about being the absent-minded professor.  He would forget where he put his keys, forget where he put his watch, forget where he put the all-important article he had set aside to share with us.

As I ponder the current state of his forgetfulness, I realize that for the majority of his life, his forgetfulness served him well.   Early on, he needed to develop a habit of forgetfulness to thrive.  He needed to forget those aspects of childhood and family life that seemed to haunt his five siblings into adulthood.  When my father talks of childhood, he recounts endless tales of love, music lessons, ball playing and fun and games with his beloved brother, Tommy.

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On March 31^st, my husband, Rob Graydon, and I went to the Church Center for the United Nations to meet with a group of students from Soltun Folk School in Norway.  We introduced them to the What Better Looks Like Campaign, and created a film project with them.

This group was taking a class on poverty and they came to New York after participating in projects in Brazil, Costa Rica, Peru, Kenya, India and South Africa.

During the introductory activity they were asked to create in clay something to represent a moment, event or impression that had the greatest impact on them during their journeys.

Photos courtesy Bernt Egil

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