GABRIELA YARELIZ

December 2021 Quotes

By: Gabriela Yareliz

These are some of the quotes that have been spinning through my mind, these days:

One

“We have a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws,” Martin Luther King, Jr. once said. These days, I wonder what that looks like and what that would mean exactly. I am currently reading Eric Metaxas’ book on Bonhoeffer, someone who pushed at the lines and limits of everything that was held to be correct and moral according to the ethics and political delusion of his time and was godly despite his law breaking. As things get weirder and more absurd, at the risk of sounding like Carrie Bradshaw, I can’t help but wonder… what it is that is required of us. As most everything in life, there is no set recipe or set of instructions, just guiding principles and a daily renewing relationship with an all-knowing and all-caring God who has never failed us and never will. (This is probably the only paragraph in the world to have Bonhoeffer and Carrie Bradshaw mentioned together— take note).

Two

Muriel Strode said, “I will go where there is no path, and I will leave a trail.” This made me think of Pilgrim’s Progress, which I revisted in film version, recently. If there was anything that stood out to me in the film it was the fact that the narrow path to obedience to God is such a narrow one. Narrower than we think. There is something at every corner to derail us, if we aren’t careful to keep our focus. I know that these days there is so much philosophy that pushes manifestation, abundance, and the fulfillment of our capriciousness as some kind of confirmation of a life well-lived. Yet, in John Bunyan’s classic, what we see is that the path was difficult and required focus the whole way through. The things our society prizes require a degree of worldliness for appreciation that more often than not derails us from our truest mission.

In recent interactions, I have felt convicted that so much of our focus in general as Christians is set on frivolity. We must reach the deeper level and fix our eyes on the light. As Bunyan wrote, there is an urgency with which we travel, and there is help that is always near. We never walk alone.

The path is so difficult it sometimes feels as if there is none, and we are hacking our way through with a machete. The trail we leave allows others to embark on their own journey toward what is promised.

Three

“In this universe we are given two gifts: the ability to love, and the ability to ask questions. Which are, at the same time, the fires that warm us and the fires that scorch us.” Mary Oliver, Winter Hours

As I sit here and write, I have more questions than answers. (It would be arrogant to think otherwise). Both seem intertwined, love and questions. If one simply doesn’t care, one doesn’t ask. There are few things that make much sense anymore. I think there is a general feeling of disorientation and surroundings feel distorted behind a fog of illusions. It’s like that line from The Swan Princess: Not everything is as it seems.

There has been a trauma inflicted on the body and human spirit. We are struggling to make sense of it. We are struggling to heal from it.

Maybe there is a reason we don’t get many answers. Maybe they wouldn’t help. In recent times, many have discovered that the truth is weighty. Odd how something can hang heavy enough in your heart to anchor it but at the same time, set you free.

Four

“We were too embedded in a lifestyle that meant we were always moving. Sometimes it really is good to just stand still.” Graham, Clanlands, pg 285

I read recently a thought by Bonnie Gray that said something along the lines of, Ps. 46:10 says, “Be still and know.” Our knowing depends on our stillness. I had never thought of it that way. For many of us that think there is some incentive to always be moving, or as Riley from So Little Time would say, “Always be closing,” while clapping– there is a huge incentive to pause and be still. Maybe, we could try that and see what happens.

Five

And this one, which speaks for itself by Bianca Serratore:

“There are times God will have you say or do things that may cause your flesh immense discomfort. It will be out of the ordinary, and it won’t seem normal to the world. It will rip you right out of your comfort zone and into the unknown. Good, keep going. I’ve seen the most spectacular testimonies come from those moments. That’s exactly where God moves. You were never made for normal.”

Stay inspired. xx

Will You Hear It?

By: Gabriela Yareliz

As we mourn the loss of Carlos Marin, I had Il Divo playing in the background just dissolving me to tears. These artists, even after they are gone, they stay with us. Sometimes, it’s eery, and sometimes, it’s comforting. We can watch a movie, open a book, or hear a song, and we can see them, hear them, experience them. It’s like we resurrect them.

I was telling my fiancé that this makes me feel like we need more videos of the people we love so we can experience them even when they are gone.

It really makes one think about what one leaves behind.

I wonder if anyone will read this when I am gone and wonder if I was an interesting person, a positive person, a funny person– I hope they do think I am funny. For some reason, that’s important to me. I like making people smile. Maybe, I will be misjudged. Wouldn’t be the first time. Some think I’m too feisty, too serious, too blunt.

I wonder if they will hear my voice or if they will feel the spaces in between lines that held my sorrows and my fears. The ones that held my joys and my anticipation. Maybe they will see my fractures and also feel the spots where the bone healed thicker. I hope they can hear my snark and maybe see my eyebrow raise or my occasional eyeroll. I hope that in my writing they see what Robert Frost always tried to impart, everything is ok and everything is not ok. I hope they feel my sincerity because by God, I write most sincerely. And more than anything, I hope they feel my hope.

Carlos Marin

By: Gabriela Yareliz

Writing with condolences to the family of Carlos Marin and the Il Divo family. We have lost one of the greatest vocalists to come out of Spain (and the world, to be honest) to this virus that has flipped the world upside down. There is so much that will just never be the same. Tragedies and grief that are irreversible. Absences this world will feel.

Carlos had a unique charisma about him. I’m grateful he shared his light with all of us. Il Divo’s music holds a special place in my heart and in my life. His art and magic touched the depths of our souls, and it was clear he lived with great passion. You felt that in his voice and saw it in that spark in his eye. There are just no other words.

Leaving you with one of my favorites:

Live Nativity, Please!

By: Gabriela Yareliz

I walk around my neighborhood hoping that, somehow, I will stumble upon a live nativity scene. You know, people dressed up and real animals. I thought about calling our councilman, state assembly senator and the dweeb who wants to run for re-election after he lost the last cycle. Yes. They could be the three unwise men? Our U.S. Rep can play the part of Mary… I mean, it could work. It could happen at the park under the bridge. Hmmm… *sends politicians group email*

The Inner Room

“Do not be swayed by the opinions of others. The secret to breaking free from confusion.” The Art of Simple Living, Shunmyo Masuno

By: Gabriela Yareliz

All of us can have an inner room. It’s sort of like an inner chamber of the soul to where we can retreat to find stillness and peace. Wise counsel should always be heeded, but in a world full of noise, I think it’s imperative we press a pause button at least once a day to meet with God.

In my mind, when we pray and enter God’s presence, we tuck ourselves away into a space where nothing touches us and reaches us but Him. I encourage you, if you haven’t found the stillness, clarity and peace you need (we all need it), find your way to that inner room of the soul where all fears and voices are silenced but one.

It’s a place of refuge and a place of understanding what cannot be placed into words.

Every day, we have a choice to make as to what path to follow, what voices to give attention to and whether to really make decisions and deal with reality or to continue on a different path. These days, it’s not too hard to lie to ourselves or stick to a path of least resistance.

If there is anything the stillness of winter offers us, it’s a reminder to not be afraid to retreat into what looks like silence. Silence sometimes looks scary to us, but as a winter forest scene reveals, even in the silence, things are very much preparing to burst forth. Nothing wrong with the rest and quiet a period of time can offer. Seek it. Let it revitalize you.

I’ve learned over the years that the inner room is a refuge from raging storms. A needed place to let down the anchor.

Bespoke

By: Gabriela Yareliz

Maybe it’s the southern side of me, but I like looking at personalized things. When I was young, there was a fad where girls had purses with their initials on them. I craved one of those tiny pink “G” marked baguette bags. (Thank God my parents knew better than to spend money on the cheap vinyl purses). Cheap materials aside, monograms and personalization are always in style. Here are some fun ideas I liked, whether it’s for a gift or just starting the new year off with a little more personalized vavavoom.

*[None of this is sponsored. Just genuine picks].*

The Towels

Amazon towels are fluffy and personal.

The Accessories

I eventually in life got myself a little monogramed bag. One of the brands I have found that is lovely is Lily and Bean London. They have occasional sales and also offer other leather items that can be personalized. The Daily Edited, an Australian brand, also offers personalized cell phone cases and accessories. If you are looking to shop with a cause (funds go to charity), check out The Shop Forward. They have their iconic “4 Things” tote. I love this company.

The Shop Forward’s 4 Things Tote; “Life Goals” Tote.

The Clothing

Ralph Lauren is known for its monogram shop. Also, Sezane offers monograms on some items like jackets.

The Stationery

LauraRowStudio is my favorite on Etsy. She is delightful, and her items are always so carefully and intentionally packaged. There are so many designs to choose from. Smythson is also known for stationery, invites and planners. A bit pricey, but it’s the brand.

The possibilities for 2022 are endless. Monograms remind us that there is nothing better than being you.

Winter Scene

By: Gabriela Yareliz

When you see a cardinal, it means angels are near. I saw that at a garden center, recently. I thought it was cute. I feel like angels are always near, but it’s a nice reminder. A cardinal on a winter day is a popping apparition.

We all have different scenes that flash through our minds related to different seasons. When I think of winter, I recall preparing to walk down to my bus stop. My mom winding the teal knit scarf I had around my little head until only my eyes were peering out. My breathing making the thick knit moist to my annoyance. I remember my thick blue snow pants, and my friends who would clip their mittens and gloves with a string through their coat sleeves.

I remember walking down the street, swooshing through the tall snow. Sometimes, only to find out, by the time I reached the bus stop, that the snow day notice had flashed on the morning news screen. I remember the glittering lights in downtown Grand Rapids, and a small mart near the house that we would sometimes stop at to get milk. I remember sitting in the parking lot waiting for my mom to run in and out and the Christmas Shoes song coming on the radio, the winter darkness offering the world a memorable stillness. I remember the silver tinsel loaded on my great aunt’s tree, shiny, while I would watch Univision’s Sabado Gigante.

A good snow fall meant the boys at school would play football at recess on the concrete slab, and the remaining kids would head out to the fields to start rolling snow balls. We would have snow ball fights, but better than that, we would roll these balls for days until they were bigger than all of us. We would make teams to push these enormous balls into circles that would become the icy walls of our snow forts and igloos. We’d play inside of these forts and have our own spaces and “rooms” until the warmth would melt these structures away. They were magic. We were wildly resourceful and creative.

I have vague memories of winter camping in Michigan (I am not even kidding). It was that time when McDonalds was doing the Flintstones mugs. I remember little raccoons stealing snacks in the night and the sparky bonfires. Sparks floating up toward the star-lit sky.

What memories come to you with winter? We are only about a week away from the winter solstice.

Seasons and the scents and feelings that expand in their spaces can take us back. It was the best of times; it truly was the best of times.

Come With Me to the NYC Post Office

By: Gabriela Yareliz

New York City post offices are their own animal. They are fortresses of bullet-proof glass, disgruntled employees and long lines.

I am not kidding when I tell you that in law school we would read the Yelp reviews for nearby post offices where we had bad experiences and laugh so hard. It was a mix of personal entertainment and vindication of our woes.

I am lucky the employees in the Brooklyn ones don’t hate their lives like the ones in Manhattan, but still, you can typically walk out with a good story.

The other day, I had three batches of gifts I still needed to send off. I also needed a smaller box for one of the batches. I walked over to the post office with two large parcels hoping to use the postage machine to print labels for them and get the smaller box. When I arrived, the machine was, of course, broken. I just used this days ago, I thought to myself, mourning the little machine that saved me time. I looked at the line of 60 people ignoring the useless and arbitrary tape on the floor for “social distancing”. Three entire Middle Eastern families waiting to do their passports and everyone else shipping gifts. I am not standing in this line twice, I thought. So I grabbed the smaller priority box I needed and ran home.

As I start taping the last box together, without warning, my packing tape is done. Think fast, I think to myself. At this point, I am sweating in my three layers. I take off a sweater and throw it on the couch, with two remaining.

I run down the block, coatless and one sweater down, to the Chinese dollar store. When I walk in, I realize the snow globes I had seen at the cash registers at the grocery store were from there. Focus, I whisper to myself. When I look at the store, it looks like Christmas had vomited all over with some birthday stuff hanging precariously from some hooks above and then hardware items. I walk past the clear shower curtain separating the cash register from the surrounding disaster, toward the hardware items and start scanning.

I find the tape on the floor and run to the register where the man wants me to give him a dime as exact change. I keep telling him I don’t have a dime but can give him a quarter. He looks peeved behind the hanging plastic. I don’t understand why he doesn’t want my money, and I can’t believe I am arguing with a man standing behind a shower curtain. I slap the quarter on the counter and yell keep the change, as I run back out on the sidewalk. Still sweating.

I get home and finish taping the box. I scratch the address on the label and slap it on. I run into my mailman in the lobby of my building, who is a kind soul but can’t take the label-less boxes (even if they had labels, these guys don’t take outgoing mail—- I hate that about NYC).

I get to the post office. Still 60 people. One passport seeking Middle Eastern family left. I get in line, realizing I have to hold my boxes or put them on the floor and kick them. The floor is gross, so I decide to hold them. A woman with an Italian-American accent gets behind me and starts speaking loudly on her phone.

Her first conversation revolves around how Desitin cream is child abuse (according to her) because it leaves white residue on the skin. Then, she proceeds to hold a call about how excreting black waste like tar is not normal and how the person is probably dying of internal bleeding. “It’s not normal,” she insists loudly. She then answers another call where she discusses our mayor’s latest edict on vaccines and calls Joe Biden every expletive in the book. At this point, the whole room is eyeing her— many in annoyed solidarity. I am sweating and holding my boxes while trying not to laugh to keep from crying. If I react to her, she will murder me, I am sure.

A man walks up to the label machine that is now to my left. He taps the screen and then starts kicking the machine like a vending machine. I tell him, “Sir, it’s out of service. I tried it earlier. Now, it’s frozen.” “Oh f***ing hell no.” He looks at the line and then looks at me, “Thanks. I’ll come back.” And he leaves muttering to himself curses for us all.

Someone who tried to cut the line and should have known better in the back gets cornered into the PO Boxes. Finally, it’s my turn to get to the window. The worker shuts the bullet-proof door. I open it on my end and slide the packages in. I shut the door on my end, and then she opens her door and starts typing away, asking me to certify that there is nothing dangerous in the packages. I look around at the letter slot with the broken handle, the chipped floor tiles, the walls with scuff marks and the mold in a corner of the ceiling. Thank God they fixed the shattered window, I think to myself. The line is still long, but thankfully, it’s now behind me. I look at the clock which is frozen at the wrong time like most other things in the building.

Forty minutes of my life in that post office communing with my community. “Thanks for waiting,” the worker tells me, sliding the receipt in the window hole toward me. I smile and thank her. I walk out and rip the mask off my face the minute the cold air hits me. My last visit for the season, I think to myself. Until we meet again, USPS. Until we meet again.

Here I Come A-wassailing

By: Gabriela Yareliz

Searching for Memories

I can see myself holding the Christmas carol book, fast-forwarding the little white cassette in my purple boombox past that one song, “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In.” I found that song to be boring. Not sure why. Skip. My favorite one was “Here We Come A-wassailing” (there was a weird sadness to the melody that I liked) and there was also the “Twelve Days of Christmas.” I annoyingly knew all the lyrics. When I would bust out that little white cassette, it meant one thing– time to put up that tree. I think all those years of loud singing are being repaid by my neighbor who just discovered the echo feature on his karaoke machine… sigh.

These days, I have started out my mornings a bit all over the place. Sometimes, I feel as distracted as a cat playing in a tangle of garlands and ornaments. In these early mornings, after I do my Bible reading, I’ve been reading Calm Christmas, by Beth Kempton, which includes many of her beautifully described Christmas memories. It has made me reflect on how Christmas has evolved for me over the years. Different brackets of time in my life held different traditions. No two Christmases are alike, as Ms. Kempton points out, but many have or had similar ingredients to them. My Christmases were magical as a young kid. So magical, I wish I had some sort of magic wand that could transport others to them, so they could feel the emotions and magic I felt. As I got older, Christmas grew to hold more emotion, negative emotion. I associated that winter darkness with some dark moments in my life that unfortunately sort of ruptured for me on a distant Christmas Eve. But, as I have settled into adulthood, I’ve tried to shift away from that, and as Ms. Kempton does, I want to cling to the magic I knew was there. I hope I can encourage you to do the same. Reflect on good times. I firmly believe we all have at least one. It may not be like anyone else’s, but that doesn’t matter. And if you really don’t have anything joyful to look back on, I hope we can inspire the future. Nothing wrong with orchestrating a little magic. After all, Christmas magic seldom happens without any planning. In a way, this post is a post of gratitude to everyone who made these magical moments happen for me.

Christmases Past

Michigan

I am one of the lucky ones. Christmases were wildly festive for me as a kid. I have my parents to thank for that. I don’t remember my first Christmas, but photos reveal it was an awe-filled morning for me. I got a little kitchen set and many toys. I look ecstatic in the photos with all my little treasures.

Another aspect of the Christmas season that was magical was where I lived. I moved around a lot, but a huge chunk of my early childhood was experienced in Michigan. A state that is BEYOND beautiful. Pure Michigan, if you are looking for an ambassador, look no further than me. I am forever proud of being a Michigander. There are plenty of photos of me in tiny snow pants crawling through the snow like a tiny Michelin man, wandering under enormous droopy pine trees whose branches hung down like curtains with my long-haired young mother and my dad wearing his little green Michigan State trucker cap. I will never forget a time we were driving on the highway at night, and I saw a Coca Cola truck with the polar bears and Santa on it. There were lights on the truck’s side mural, and it looked mystical through the snow globe that was that night. Michigan Christmases never disappointed. I lived in suburbs worthy of television with kind neighbors and snow days. Our fireplace going. Me, sitting on the couch with a large red Christmas stories book. I still remember how that book smelled. I loved the story with Santa’s journey and the little illustration of the mouse in the corner.

Somehow, part of our tradition included reading The Christmas Box, by Richard Paul Evans. It’s a book that still moves me to tears– just the thought of the burgundy and ivory cover. I’d make myself warm whole milk with load of cinnamon or hot Ovaltine. Sometimes, we had the fun hot chocolate packets with the mini marshmallows. When we moved to Ohio, we lived in an older house, and I sometimes felt chilled, so I would sit near the floor heating vent and read. That Christmas stories book never got old.

American Girl

Looking through American Girl catalogs and making my list for Santa was a big deal. I was a huge believer of Santa. As Wilson from Home Improvement says, the spirit of Saint Nick lives in and through all of us. I am grateful that my parents allowed me to experience that. One of the most magical Christmases was when we were moving from Michigan to South Carolina. We were moving right around Christmas break, and we’d be staying at the Air Force Base temporary housing for Christmas. Just before we left, my 4th grade teacher had been reading to us the Addy American Girl book series. Addy was the doll and character that had escaped slavery. I loved Addy. Her courage fascinated me. In my head, as I was preparing for this big move (we had moved before several times but not out of Michigan), I mentally told myself I needed to have courage like her and embrace my new home. Somehow, unknown to me, my parents had ordered the Addy doll for me before we left Michigan. I can’t imagine my mom’s stress of hoping she would get there on time before we left. On a warmer-than-I-was-used-to Christmas in South Carolina, a place rich in Southern history, I opened that box and found the doll of the character whose courage had filled my mind for so many months. I didn’t understand how something like that was possible, but it was one of the most magical gifts I have ever received. It made the new move easier. I felt like I had a friend. Addy was with me.

The School Shopping Experience

The school also played a role in the season. I remember schools would give us catalogs where I guess if we sold something the school would get a cut. It was pointless stuff. Usually, my dad would order some peanut brittle. The school would set up a little shop in the gym, and we could come with money and buy gifts for our friends and family. I always loved that. I often had my eye on a little Cabbage Patch doll (which were popular and expensive), but I never got one for myself because I had a little budget to keep, and I knew I wasn’t there to shop for myself. I hope schools still do that. I doubt it, but it taught me something. It also gave me the opportunity to be giving. It’s hard for kids to get presents for their parents.

Puerto Rican Flavor

Being Puerto Rican, the period of Christmas to Three Kings Day (Jan 6) was always super festive. I have always remembered turron blocks and the Banco Popular annual special, which always came with a certain theme. Watching it was a family affair after we would open the box from my abuela who would send them to us.

We’d usually wait until after Thanksgiving to decorate. That white cassette would get popped in the player and probably annoy my parents as I would start helping assemble the tree. Growing up, we had a white Christmas tree with ecclectic ornaments, including the little creations I would make in school out of popsicle sticks and yarn. I loved doing those crafts. Our tree had a little train we would assemble around the skirt. Once we had finished decorating, one of my favorite things to do was to lay under the tree on my back with my head toward the middle, and I would stare at the spirals of colorful rainbow lights as the living room would get darker.

Night was always a special time, in the winter. Puerto Ricans love doing parranda. This is when you go from house to house taking people with you, singing and surprising people at home. When I was young, I remember my parents would go with friends’ parents and church friends, which meant a sleepover at my grandparents’ house. I would hear about the fun stories and who brought the stereo on their shoulder that time, the next morning. When I got older, a group of church folks would go, and I was able to go along and spend the whole night singing and eating with my parents and other friends. One year, in South Carolina, we brought an American friend of mine tag along from the church, and she probably thought we were nuts. We would drive up to the next house. Everyone quiet and tip-toeing to the door, and then we’d start singing loudly, asking the homeowner to let us in.

When you would get to the last house, that meant food. We’d eat, there were movies on, people on the couch talking, and it often meant an air hockey game between me and my dad. One time, it got so competitive we almost broke a window when the puck went flying.

The Christmas Services and Parties

The Christmas season also included lots of lights and hayrides. Often, these were family church friends who would do the hayrides or we’d go with them to a festival of lights. One of my favorite things were the church services around this season. The services often had special music and lots of candles or poinsettia flowers. Ahead of time, I would think about what to wear, and wear my Christmas best. I’d help out in the church kitchen putting eclairs on trays. A golden glow coming from the ground floor of the victorian looking old church that our church used to rent, snow swirling outside in the Ohio streets, as we’d prepare before the Christmas service.

There was a lady at our Ohio church, who would be in charge of the children’s service. She would stage these odd productions where people would huddle around the baby Jesus in the manger and sing Feliz Navidad to Him. I’ll never forget the year my friends were roped into being the three wise men. The photos are hilarious. They weren’t exactly thrilled. Three gangly 13-year-old wise men. Ha.

The Small Things

There are so many small things that brought me big joy; and so many stories that filled my heart in this season. Sometimes, it was cutting snowflakes out of foil, decorating my American Girl Dolls’ Christmas tree in a corner of my room, and other times, it was the Arthur Christmas PBS special (I never missed it). The joy and anticipation of the season was always abundant.

It was the connections, the laughter, the scratchy velvet dresses with weird plastic net lining, the tights that rip and the shiny shoes that scuff, sitting in that Michigan house window staring at the snow accumulating on the porch with no sign of stopping. It’s that white little cassette and my chorus of one.

I still believe in the season’s magic. It’s the light that shines in darkness that will never be extinguished. The love that generously blankets us like thick Michigan snow.

Finding the Roots

By: Gabriela Yareliz

I have been intrigued lately by the unfolding Ghislaine Maxwell case (the trial is happening here, in the Southern District of New York). You can find neat updates at @houseinhabit on Instagram. (She is in the courthouse, these days).

Something else that has captured my attention is the Apple TV + series called The Shrink Next Door, the true story of a controlling, gaslighting but charismatic shrink who ends up unethically enmeshing himself in the lives of his patients, Marty being the one patient showcased on the show. Dr. Isaac (“Dr. Ike”) isolates Marty (who was vulnerable from the start) from his family and starts to steal from him and control his finances. It’s a wild story. Even wilder still that this happened for years and he only just got ordered to surrender his license this year, in New York. (There is currently litigation around this, and it all came to light when a neighbor started digging deeper regarding the ownership of the house next door to his).

On The Shrink, one can often figure out the theme of the episode because the opening credits happen with a vine that starts wrapping itself (to the point of suffocation or covering) around something theme related for that particular episode. So, for example, in the episode that covers Dr. Ike’s family history and the death of his father, the opening credits have family pictures and a vine covering them on a wall.

Something I find interesting that Dr. Ike and Ms. Maxwell have in common is that they did unthinkable things. One was helping traffic minors (or at the very least was very aware of what was happening to them), and one was profiting off of his patients in unethical and self-agrandizing ways.

Spoiler alert: The episode about Dr. Ike’s father revealed that his father was a holocaust survivor who had a family prior to coming to the states. If I remember correctly, his wife and son were killed at the concentration camps, and then later, he remarries and becomes a father to Dr. Ike. It’s clear Dr. Ike resents his father and has some deep wounds of neglect. His father was unable to connect with him well due to the trauma and loss he had endured. Dr. Ike also resents their poverty.

As I have been researching Ghislaine Maxwell, I learned about her father Robert, who escaped the Nazis by joining the army. Robert then left Czechoslovakia and moved to the UK, where he changed his name and started new. He ends up earning and creating a lot of wealth through media, but then gets himself involved in ponzi schemes and fraud to maintain the wealth. He stole pensions, and things crumbled. Some say he was a spy. It was all like a house of cards waiting to implode (and it did). Sources say Ghislaine’s father was very controlling and would control her interactions, who she showed affection to and who she was photographed with, etc. She would accompany him to many events. Weirdly, her name means “pledge” or “hostage”. It’s still unclear how Robert Maxwell died, but Ghislaine told people she believed her father had been killed. Shortly after this dysfunctional figure left her life, she became entangled with Jeffrey Epstein.

Here’s the deal, I don’t explain these people’s backstories to justify their deeds. Never. People choose how they behave and there are consequences to that. Both need to reap what they have sown. I do find interesting that both figures did atrocious things and have a common link, family dysfunction that stemmed from parents who had endured and survived the Nazi period as Jews. This is a simple illustration of how, when we don’t heal from certain things and when we endure certain things, we can pass the harm down and help equip what may be future monster behavior. Our lives become chain reactions.

I just recently wrote about the long-term effect of values, and how we can feel the impact of people’s values even after they are gone. Trauma works the same way. Unhealed trauma is something that acts like that vine in the opening credits of The Shrink Next Door. It covers us in darkness and wraps its tentacles around us, sucking the life out of us.

I get that not everyone has something as dramatic as the holocaust in their family (though many do), but there are many past experiences (slavery, migration, communism, neglect, divorce, sexual abuse) that can affect how we behave and family dynamics. Every flawed human has holes that he or she yearns to fill with something, and this impacts how we choose our relationships, who we entagle ourselves with and who we choose to victimize, if anyone (hopefully not).

Trial sketch from Ghislaine Maxwell’s trial.

The one person who is responsible for healing and choosing well is you, my reading friend (and me, in regards to myself). We are responsible for our lives. We can live in a weird retaliation mode of anger, hurting others and dysfunction, but if these recent cases teach us anything, it’s that they end in our self-destruction and in the harming of others. Self-awareness can go a long way. Our own healing can mean the liberation of generations that come after us and safety for those around us. People like to say that people do the best they can. That may be true for some, but we also need to realize that what is “the best” for one person may not be good enough. Make sure your best is good enough. We need to stop pretending like certain people are monsters in isolation and realize that their lives, and our lives have baggage. The baggage justifies nothing but reveals everything.