VINYL, VELOUR, AND THE FEELING OF HOME

Posted on July 29, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“We didn’t realize we were making memories, we just knew we were having fun.” (Anonymous)

We all have a decade that lives inside us. Mine wears bell bottoms and velour, smells faintly of Charlie perfume, and sounds like the soft crackle of a vinyl record finding its groove. Looking back, the 1970s were the comfort food decade of my life, not because they were flawless, but because something felt reassuringly normal.  Music came wrapped in album covers big enough to become artwork and neighbors knocked on the front door instead of sending a text.

I was a teenager in the 1970s, when the world felt larger and every road seemed to lead somewhere new.  There was something genuinely comforting about that era: a slower rhythm, fewer distractions, and a quieter belief that life didn’t have to be extraordinary to have purpose. There was a gentleness sewn into everyday life that I still miss today. 

Sundays belonged to family dinners, when the pot of Sunday sauce would begin its slow, steady simmer shortly after breakfast.  No Italian household worth its salt waited until lunchtime to start thinking about the sauce. The scent of tomatoes, garlic, and fried meatballs drifted through the house for hours, announcing that the day would end around a crowded table, with boyfriends welcomed as if they had always belonged.

And then there were Sunday afternoons.  Nothing felt more luxurious than driving my Pontiac Firebird with the sunroof open on a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon.  I can almost feel my hands on the steering wheel as I cruised with nowhere particular to go; a full tank of gas and a favorite song were all the plans I needed.  Looking back, I realize my Firebird and I had our own kind of magic. It had the zing; I had Farrah Fawcett feathered hair. Together, we cruised with a confidence that only a teenager can possess.

The 1970s certainly had its share of turbulence. The Vietnam War was coming to an end, Watergate had left the country questioning its leaders, and the nation would soon elect a soft-spoken peanut farmer from Georgia as president. But beyond the headlines, there was another America. An America of neighborhood friendships, handwritten notes, music on the radio, and Sunday afternoons that seemed to stretch a little longer than they do today.

Maybe what I miss most about that decade was the permission to simply be. We weren’t constantly documenting our lives or comparing ourselves to everyone else. We went out without a phone in our pocket, got a little lost, and somehow always found our way home. A Saturday night could be as simple as hanging out in a friend’s house, meeting at the diner, going to the movies, or sitting in a car talking until the clock reminded us it was time to leave. We weren’t chasing experiences to prove we were living, we were just living them.

Perhaps I don’t miss the 1970s as much as I miss the girl who drove that Firebird. I miss her optimism, her eagerness, and her faith that the best parts of life were just around the corner.

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THE DEPARTURE LOUNGE

Posted on July 23, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“It is impossible to experience one’s death objectively and still carry a tune.” (Woody Allen)

I knew I shouldn’t have answered it, but my ego hijacked the keyboard before better judgment had a chance.  It was late, and I was the kind of tired that is wired so tight it makes one feel as if you’re a character in The Walking Dead when I saw a post in a “Life After Death” social media group I usually browse in my free time.  A fellow insomniac typed a plaintive “I want to go home. What should I do?” Instead of doing the sensible thing and scrolling past, I grabbed my keyboard and launched into a lengthy philosophical explanation of why we’re still stuck here on Earth.

Big mistake. The keyboard vampires came out. Even the atheists joined the fray. Before long, the transcendental fur was flying.

When I finally fell back into bed, exhausted yet still wired, my mind decided to continue the work of the vampires who had left off. Scenarios of my earthly transition raced through my head, including one I would very much like to avoid.

It involves dying peacefully in my bed—but not realizing I’m dead. Instead, I hear the faint chatter of a party in my living room, perhaps with a little Sinatra playing in the background. Heart pounding, I walk out of the bedroom and notice that the lights I had carefully turned off earlier in the evening are all glowing.  And there they are: sitting on my green velvet sofa and wandering around my living room—my mother, my father, a few aunts and uncles, and perhaps some assorted friends. All deceased. All waiting to welcome me home. It would be the ultimate reverse birthday surprise party, the one I never asked for.

Contrary to what many people might desire, I don’t want my first moments of diaphanous existence to include an immediate family reunion. I still have a few wrinkles in some of my earthly relationships, and I’m hoping to iron them out on the other side, with St. Anthony acting as referee. I’ve always liked him as a saint, and in every religious icon I’ve seen, he’s wearing sensible sandals. I trust a man who comes prepared for eternity with comfortable footwear.

Or worse, what if the immediate moments following our transition involve being transported to an airport-like setting, where other recently departed souls are waiting for takeoff? If moving walkways, not airplanes, carry us to our final destination, will they be clearly labeled?

Will we be forced to carry two suitcases: one filled with all the wonderful, kind things we’ve done in this lifetime, and the other with the not-so-kind? And will we have to pay extra for our heavier sins?

Here’s how I want to leave this earth: I want to rise from my body and see a rainbow-colored bridge stretching out before me. Feeling light as a feather and happy as a clam, I’ll cross it at a leisurely pace, taking my time until I see a cluster of wagging tails racing toward me—the animals I’ve loved so deeply throughout my life. At that moment, I suspect I’ll pick up the pace.

As for the humans, heaven can wait.

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THE ROMANCE RETIREMENT PLAN

Posted on July 20, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

Cupid may want to update his mailing list. A growing number of the 50+ crowd have quietly disconnected the doorbell, drawn the curtains, and stopped answering his calls.

Today’s autumnal set seems to be retiring from romance at the same rate they do their careers.  A surprising number of older adults are decidedly calling it a day when it comes to the pursuit of a partnership and are comfortable with the decision.  It’s not that they’ve forgotten how to love or have become bitter cynics; they’ve simply concluded that, at this stage of life, the juice isn’t worth the squeeze.

There comes a point when the pursuit itself begins to lose its appeal. The longing for companionship may still exist, but the willingness to endure awkward first dates that feel like stilted job interviews, bottomless emotional baggage, mismatched expectations, and an endless series of compromises quietly fades. Sharing closet space no longer qualifies as a romantic fantasy.

Rather than seeing it as surrender, many view it as hard-earned wisdom. They’ve learned that being alone and content is infinitely preferable to being coupled and exhausted—or worse, chronically unhappy. They haven’t retired from romance because they’ve stopped believing in love. They’ve retired because they’ve finally discovered something just as valuable: the quiet contentment of enjoying their own company and the tranquility that accompanies it.

Then there are the nonstop debates on social media as to who’s to blame for making senior dating so godforsaken and unappealing: men or women. The women insist it’s the puerile antics of silver-haired men, complete with luxuriant ear hair, unrealistic expectations, and an apparent inability to fry an egg. The men fire back that today’s seasoned women are too brash, too entitled, and for some, too large, carrying a few extra pounds thoughtfully delivered by the Menopause Fairy.

The men lament that they’d really prefer to date younger women, but for many, their bank accounts have a way of kiboshing that fantasy. The women, meanwhile, would simply like to be appreciated for the accomplished people they’ve become and the mature beauty they’ve earned—not because they’d make an ideal nurse with a purse. Many of these initial tête-à-têtes conclude with a sudden ghosting. Forget Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King, this is the battle of the sexes.

The whole spectacle is comic relief with a snarl. After ten minutes in the comments section, you begin to suspect the happiest couples are the ones who never met.

One lesson age has taught me is the difference between lowering your expectations and lowering your standards. They’re not the same thing. Lowering expectations means recognizing that Prince Charming may have a CPAP machine and an orthopedic mattress. Lowering your standards means pretending glaring incompatibility doesn’t matter.

Years ago, while engaging in business, I met a man in his late sixties who sold promotional items for a living.  He lived in a van with his poodle, Snowball. This was long before “van life” had its own hashtag. Despite having spent years on the sidelines of the dating world, he was adamant that he wasn’t looking for just any companion.  His dream woman had to be significantly younger, possess the physique of a yoga instructor, and have enough money that his financial future would never require another logo-embossed keychain to be sold. I remember thinking, “Snowball may have a better chance of finding that woman than you do.”

I’ve thought about him many times over the years, because he’s hardly alone. We all carry around an imaginary shopping list that doesn’t always reflect reality. Growing older doesn’t mean lowering our standards. It simply means adjusting our expectations to match the life we’re actually living.

Whether you choose to keep searching or happily retire from the dating scene, there’s no wrong answer. Love doesn’t stop being wonderful simply because we stop pursuing it. For some, companionship remains a dream worth chasing. For others, peace, independence, and the freedom to answer to no one have become life’s greatest luxuries.

If you do decide to put yourself out there, go armed with courage, humor, realistic expectations, and unwavering standards. If love comes knocking and you’re eager to answer, great. If not, may you still build a life so full and satisfying that romance becomes a pleasant bonus—not a prerequisite for happiness.

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THE GOLD INSIDE THE DETOUR

Posted on July 12, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.” (Marilyn Monroe)

The other evening, I watched Solo Mio, a delightful comedy starring Kevin James as a groom who travels to Italy for his destination wedding only to be jilted at the altar. What begins as a heartbreaking disappointment slowly gives way to an adventure filled with amusing new friendships, postcard-worthy Italian scenery, music that seems to float through every scene, and an unexpected romance with an Italian café owner whose uncle is none other than Andrea Bocelli—played by Bocelli himself. By the time the credits rolled, I found myself thinking less about romance than about the film’s underlying message.

I don’t know if the Italians have it exactly right, but they are certainly onto something: “una benedizione nascosta” — a blessing in disguise.

Life has an uncanny habit of disguising its finest gifts as disappointments. According to the oft-told story, Walt Disney was once fired from a newspaper job because his editor claimed he ‘lacked imagination.’ At the time, the rejection felt cruel and demoralizing. Yet it was that rejection that pushed him toward entrepreneurship and ultimately changed the world of entertainment.

Agatha Christie, the legendary crime novelist, suffered a devastating emotional breakdown when her first husband left her for another woman. Seeking to heal her shattered heart, she eventually made her way to an ancient archaeological dig site in Iraq, where she met archaeologist Max Mallowan, who became the love of her life. They remained happily married for 46 years until her death.

Then there are the obvious blessings that are only momentarily disguised. Ask a passenger who was booked on one of the flights on September 11th, but for some reason missed the plane, and they will tell you that the delay, frustration, or inconvenience they experienced that morning became the moment that changed their life forever. They had no idea that what felt like an obstacle was, in fact, something that would save their life.

I haven’t experienced many blessings in disguise, although I did have one of significance — and it culminated with me running off to Paris. More often, my blessings have chirped their way into my life, while my setbacks have arrived with the subtlety of a falling piano.

So, I’ve decided to ask God to send more blessings my way before I leave this earth — some of the disguised variety, since those seem to be the ones I recognize only after the story has unfolded.  I plan on delivering my request through prayerful smoke signals, just to keep the element of fun in the equation with my heavenly hosts. Once my request is sent, I’ll approach each adversity like a cosmic game of hide-and-seek, asking it to kindly move along while coaxing the blessing to come out, come out, wherever you are.

Who knows? Maybe it will be like Christmas every day in my dotage — a lifetime of unexpected gifts waiting to be discovered.

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A LOVE LETTER TO ORDINARY DAYS

Posted on July 4, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

What if the happiest days of our lives aren’t the extraordinary ones at all?

As a child, I couldn’t wait to grow up. I longed to be part of a world that hustled and bustled, where adulthood promised milestones, meaningful relationships, and happiness waiting just beyond the next bend. A calendar crowded with appointments, obligations, deadlines, and social engagements seemed proof that you’d arrived—that people sought your company and your life mattered.

Somewhere along the way, being busy became a badge of honor. We measured our worth by how much we could accomplish before collapsing into bed, congratulating ourselves for squeezing one more task into a day already overflowing with checkmarks.  Only later, with the luxury of age and the ability to exhale, do we discover that an empty afternoon isn’t something to apologize for.  It’s splendor.

These days, I wake without an alarm. Before the day has a chance to make any demands of me, I ease into the morning wrapped in silence. I make coffee leisurely and simply breathe, grateful that my nervous system has finally learned it doesn’t have to greet every day as though it were an emergency.  Sometimes I sit outside before breakfast just to see what kind of morning has arrived.

One of life’s quiet miracles is discovering that time spent in solitude isn’t loneliness, it’s freedom.  There’s no need to entertain anyone, impress anyone, or explain yourself.  You can read three pages of a book and then stare out the window for twenty minutes because one sentence reminded you of your grandmother.  Happiness has the wonderful ability to slip in quietly after you stop chasing it.  It arrives as peace. 

Society encourages us to celebrate promotions, weddings, dream vacations, and bucket lists. But very few people brag about an undistinguished Tuesday.  And yet Tuesday is where life actually happens.

It unfolds in the unhurried conversation with a friend, a catch-up phone chat over a second cup of coffee. In the project you work on simply because it allows you to expand your mind and your horizons, not because a deadline demands it.  In reaching for a beautiful dish at lunchtime instead of keeping it untouched for another time.  In choosing a perfume to wear because the day feels like bergamot, not because you’re dressing to engage. I’ve stopped saving beautiful things for “someday.” I was here all along, and that seems reason enough.

These are the quiet luxuries that rarely make the highlight reel, yet they become the texture of a life well lived. Perhaps ordinary moments become extraordinary simply because we are finally paying attention.

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SO, HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?

Posted on June 25, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Before we work on artificial intelligence why don’t we do something about natural stupidity?” (Steve Polyak)

I never intended to use artificial intelligence as a therapist. It just sort of happened. 

It started innocently enough: I asked a simple question about a certain cryptocurrency and why it’s been taking such a nosedive.  Before long, my fingers started to confess, as if they were being interrogated for a crime they didn’t commit.  My innermost thoughts lay exposed in a sterile chat box, revealed to a collection of algorithms. 

And it was surprisingly astute—almost uncannily so at times—with a knack for sorting, analyzing, and making sharp-eyed sense of my verbal monologues. Somewhere between my rambling questions and the computer’s response lies a world of remarkable clarity. I had stumbled upon a gold mine in the form of an electronic Dr. Freud.

Unlike human therapists, it never glances at its watch, interrupts mid-sentence, or bills your co-pay incorrectly. Sigmund behind the screen is ready to discuss, with infinite patience, your childhood trauma, neurotic compulsions, or the obsessive spiral triggered by a text message that should have been ignored hours ago.

AI therapy will delve into the layers of your dilemma like a vegetable mandolin from Williams Sonoma. It offers precision, exceptional insight, and an extraordinary ability to look past surface-level symptoms in search of root causes and the motivations behind your distressing thoughts. It will patiently peel back one layer after another until the problem begins to reveal itself.  The only thing it won’t do is ask, “Tell me more about your mother,” with the same fault-finding confidence a human therapist can summon to help you over the session’s finish line. After one session, you’ll become that coveted dinner guest who can toss around terms like “disenfranchised grief,” “residual shame,” and the “Spotlight Effect” as if Simon & Schuster had just handed you a royalty check.

Is the computer therapist an instant cure for the daily doldrums? Not really. But I have other suggestions for that:  Try dancing around your kitchen in your underwear to “Danke Schoen,” using a zucchini as a mock microphone. Who’s going to shame you? The coffee maker? The toaster oven? Those judgmental avocados that are now overripe and have been sitting in the fruit bowl for a week?

Save that for your next 2am chat stream with Dr. Freud.

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FRANKLY, IT’S A MIND ZAPPA

Posted on June 16, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“By 2030 I won’t need to carry any Portable Communication Device, because by then I will have mastered the art of telepathy. I’ve been practicing in the mirror.” (Jarod Kintz, The Lewis and Clark of The Ozarks)

When I was a kid home sick from school, I’d curl up in bed and watch reruns of my favorite sitcoms at the time: Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, and Gilligan’s Island. In one memorable episode of Gilligan’s Island, Gilligan finds a rare bush on the island and eats one of its seeds. Instead of uncovering a new food source for the castaways, he discovers that this seed has extraordinary power, granting him and anyone else who consumes it the ability to temporarily read minds and hear what others are thinking.  The other castaways want in on the action and at first, this telepathic ability seems like an irresistible novelty.  As their private thoughts become known to each other, arguments, misunderstandings and hurt feelings arise, and the island descends into chaos.  It was a cautionary tale, episodes ahead of its time.

My iPhone has become that magical bush. I swear, it is reading my mind.

By now it’s basically accepted that our smartphones are the nosiest roommates we’ve ever had. They listen to our conversations. Mention to a friend that you’re thinking about buying a new raspberry beret, and before you can finish your coffee, your social media feeds will be flooded with ads for berets, fedoras, pork pie hats, and every vaguely pink head covering known to man.  It’s undeniably creepy, yet somehow, it’s an unspoken agreement we’ve come to accept. These days, it helps to speak as though a snooping aunt is hiding in our pocket, taking notes and sharing them with every advertiser she knows.

But the impression that my phone was reading my mind? I thought I might finally be “going round the bend,” as the Brits say until a sensible and brave woman I follow on social media dared to put the question into words. She shared her suspicion in a baffled post, and before long the comments section looked like a support group for the telepathically haunted. People claimed they merely reminded themselves—silently, in the privacy of their own brains—to pick up hemorrhoid cream on their next pharmacy run, and within minutes Preparation H was popping up on every scroll like an overenthusiastic pharmacist, warning them of the dire consequences the pain and itching will bring. Others reported that a fleeting thought about craving a milkshake somehow triggered an avalanche of Dairy Queen ads featuring their new Fruity Pebbles Shake, only $4.89 for a large, while whispering, “Go on… you know you want one.”

It’s happening, it’s real, and it’s diabolical:  Our phones are reading our innermost thoughts.

Dangerous times call for drastic measures. I’m seriously considering wearing a blank RFID-blocking band across my forehead, made from the same electromagnetic shielding material that protects your wallet from digital pickpockets. And, there could be a surprising upside to this measure: Renting advertising space on my forehead might turn into a profitable side gig.

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I REMEMBER YOU

Posted on June 4, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

 “Grief only exists where love lived first.” (Franchesca Cox)

The news came to me unexpectedly, in the middle of the day, which somehow made it harder to absorb:  my ex-husband had died.  Even now as I write these words, it feels a bit surreal, yet I know it shouldn’t.  Life is nothing if not an evolving series of beginnings and endings.  

We had not spoken in years. Because we did not have children together, there were no calls to make, no occasions that drew us back into each other’s lives, no remaining thread between us. Time had done what time does: it carried us farther from the world we once shared and into the existence of the separate lives we came to lead.  

When a long-term relationship comes to an irreconcilable end, it leaves a scar beneath the surface, shaped by both hurtful wounds and the tenderness of a love that was once genuine. With time, even the sharpest pain usually softens.  And with age comes a small kindness we grant ourselves — the memories that are worth keeping, the memories of love. 

And still, the news landed in a tender spot. I did not want to return to the past, nor was I holding on to a part of love we once shared.  What unsettled me was something deeper: the realization that a person who had once known me so intimately—who had shared my days, my thoughts, and the younger version of myself—was suddenly gone from the world.  It made me stop and grieve, not just for him, but for myself, as this chapter of my life had turned its final page.  

Forgiveness is the balm that soothes the deepest heartache. Perhaps forgiveness is what allows love to remain after resentment has finally exhausted itself. When we offer it to others and to ourselves, remembering that each of us is a flawed human being as we move through this world, it allows the heart to keep beating with gentleness instead of pain.

To L. Until we meet again, I will carry with me the best of what we shared together and the moments that are worthy of remembrance—like pressed flowers between the pages of my heart, preserved in the place that was once touched by you.

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EXIT 98

Posted on May 26, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Summertime is always the best of what might be.” (Charles Bowden)

There’s a joke people like to make when you say you’re from New Jersey: “What exit?” It’s delivered with a grin, as if the entire state can be distilled to interchanges and toll booths. Small, densely populated, and constantly in motion, the Garden State takes its nickname from the fertile farmland and famous tomatoes that have long shaped its identity. Yet it is more often defined by its roads—the New Jersey Turnpike and the Garden State Parkway—those long arteries of asphalt that run not only through the state, but through the story it tells about itself.

I grew up in a bedroom community in northern New Jersey and had the best of both worlds: A quick 10-minute trip over the George Washington Bridge and into “the city,” where everything was vibrant and alive, and a 90-minute drive to the ocean, where the atmosphere softened and the hours took direction at their own pace.  For northern Jerseyans, going “down the shore” is less an itinerary and more an inheritance — a seasonal migration woven into family tradition. Ask where “the shore” is, and a local may look at you with mild suspicion, as if you’re trying to crash the party. The Jersey Shore does not require explanation for those in the know.

By the time MTV turned the Jersey Shore into the eponymous smash hit reality show in 2009, the shore became infamous in its celebrity.   For many proud Jerseyans, the show was viewed not as a tribute but as a caricature—one that reduced a time-honored custom into a spectacle of drunkenness, spray tans and a bedlam of bad behavior, leaving dignified citizens to disavow any connection aside from a shared regional accent. 

Along the East Coast, the shore has its own mythology: boardwalk lights flickering awake at dusk, the hypnotic music of the rides, and the clang and whirl of bustling arcades. The savory perfume of cheesesteaks with peppers and onions rising from the grill is its signature scent, while clams on the half shell are eaten at your own risk. Even the sand is part of the enchantment—sun-struck and torrid by late afternoon, then cool and inviting after dark, when teenage couples stretch out beneath the open sky and let the whispers of young love carry them through the season.

My childhood summers were spent in Belmar, New Jersey, a picturesque beach town a few miles from Exit 98 off the Garden State Parkway, where Victorian and Craftsman homes line manicured streets and the salt air finds its way into every cranny of the neighborhood. My aunt and uncle owned a beautiful house two blocks from the beach, complete with a wraparound porch that never failed to gather our extended family—and several pots of coffee—long into the evening.

On Friday nights, my dad and uncle would arrive after work, and once the greetings were over, the first order of business was a trip to Kaplan’s newsstand to stock up on comic books and candy for the laid-back weekend ahead. If I close my eyes and summon my senses, I can still taste the chewy coffee toffee that was a mandatory purchase with every visit. 

From Memorial Day until Labor Day, Belmar became our home away from home.  Life at the beach arranged itself around beloved routines, summer friends who seemed to vanish to another continent during the winter months, and stubborn grains of sand that surfaced in pockets, sheets and floorboards, a wink and a nod that the joy that happened today would happen again tomorrow. 

If you were fortunate, childhood summers gave you a treasure trove of cherished memories and a catalog of unforgettable characters.  The longest days of the year seem to hold memories differently, as though the sun itself has a hand in preserving what matters. Summer, when you’re young, feels like it is both endless and already slipping away—a reprieve from the long discipline of the school year into a season of abundant fun, and before you know it, a lesson in the gentle brevity of all that is to be held dear. 

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THE COURTSHIP OF EDDIE’S ANGER

Posted on May 14, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.” (Phyllis Diller)

Back in the 80’s, an electronic giant named “Crazy Eddie” dominated the east coast airways with its screwball commercials promising that their “prices are ins-a-a-a-ane!”  Eddie’s shrieks were meant to be both annoying and unforgettable, the better to brand the minds of consumers within the sound of his voice.   The ads were quite popular until Eddie went bankrupt, mired in lawsuits and fraud charges.   Crazy Eddie became an Angry Eddie.

I once knew an Angry Eddie.   He was a short, hirsute man who owned a furniture store in New Jersey and had a unique cross section of traits; the physicality of a hedgehog and the personality of a snapping turtle.  He wandered about much like the character Pig-Pen from the Charlie Brown comic strip, but instead of a cloud of dirt trailing around him, he had a fog of outrage and indignation.  Legend has it that once during an evening out with his buddies, Eddie drove his car into a ditch, causing his passengers to tumble about like a sack of loose potatoes.  It should be justly noted that Eddie was not intoxicated; it’s believed he was in a fight to the death with the power steering. 

Which leads me to the point of this post:  Why are people so angry these days?

Last week, I apparently took too long to pull into a parking space in a strip mall, and since I’m a courteous driver who allows others to pull out first as opposed to doing a blindsiding Mario Andretti into my chosen spot, the driver behind me, a red-faced guy whose head resembled a chub of bologna, screamed out of his window, cussing and gesticulating that he didn’t have “all ******* day,” before whipping past and flipping a hand gesture that likely originated at a Sex Pistols concert.   He was an Angry Eddie.  It appears as a group they are multiplying so quickly, auto insurance actuaries have formulated a special rate for them. 

We can speculate for hours as to why: The anxious state of the world, a crush of financial worries, dogged health issues, troublesome relationships that seem to permeate so many lives, or the persistent need to engage in political fights on Facebook, but I think it goes deeper.

I think it’s like this: Before we come to Earth and begin our lives, we’re handed a list of lessons—who we choose as our parents, the career path we’ll follow, where we’ll live, whether we’ll find a soulmate or endure painful bonds, and a mix of other earthly experiences selected from life’s menu.  Our soul knows life won’t be constant joy, but it understands what lies ahead.

Then, in the womb, our best-laid plans are put in a Universal dryer and set on “fluff.”   All bets are off, and we’re left without a blueprint to find the cheese at the end of the maze.  

Life Lesson: Even careful plans can go wrong.  You might as well learn how to dance.  

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