Many years ago I met a mindfulness teacher/nutritionist/improv artist who shared my love of games. Parlor games, board games, crafty games, running around games, word games. I mentioned that for me, there's nothing like the feeling of joy, exhilaration, and embodiment I experience when I play. She explained, "Games hold our attention. When we play them, we give them our singular focus, like in meditation. The benefits are the same."

When I first heard that Israel declared war on Gaza in response to Hamas' horrific attack on Oct 7, I felt (among other things): concern (for lives lost), frustration (for violence being considered a viable option), and detachment (I don't know a lot about what's going on over there; I don't have a stake in this).

Then the body count grew, the neighborhoods crumbled, the safe zones were bombed. It didn’t take long for my feelings to change.

All lives matter. I believe this, fervently, and regardless of how the phrase has been used by others.

I believed this before the tragedy of what's happening in Palestine/Israel, yet the situation there and what I'm learning about it is heightening my perceptions of mattering, and sensitivity to it.

I'm seeing a pattern: in myself, with my friends and acquaintances, and in the folks I work with. It goes like this:

  - An act of oppression, harm, or inhumanity happens. We want to Do Something about it.
  - While we contemplate what that action is, we find ourselves awash in guilt, shame, fear or doubt.
  - And then, we end up doing nothing. Except perhaps to feel bad about ourselves.

While I still experience some combination of guilt, shame, fear or doubt regularly, I’ve figured out how to not be paralyzed; how to Do Something anyway.

Today, October 1, is the 20th anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis. On that day, my kiddos were 14-months and 4-years-old. I didn't know then that I'd have to wean my baby so my milk ducts could shrink enough for a mastectomy. I didn't know I'd go through four months of chemotherapy. Or that twenty years later, I'd be a healthy 61-year-old disinclined to wearing what my kids used to call my Foob—my prosthetic false boob.

I also didn't know that I was white…