Sally Swift's Open Salon Blog

Bob Dylan, My Story

Thu, 31 May 2012 14:05:24 -0400

Charles Dharapak/AP

"Bob's voice, with its weight, its unique gravely power, was redefining not just what music sounded like, but the message it carried and how it made people feel. Today, everybody from Bruce Springsteen to U2 owes Bob a debt of gratitude. There is not a bigger giant in the history of American music. All these years later, he's still chasing that sound, still searching for a little bit of truth, and I have to say that I am a really big fan." President Barack Obama

I am older than Barack Obama. But I'm guessing the president felt the same awe meeting America's most treasured music icon at the White House this weekend as I did on a beach 40 years ago.

I am younger than Bob Dylan. But I'm guessing he felt awe meeting the president, receiving our country's highest civilian honor. If he appeared befuddled or detached, don't be fooled. Dylan's not so keen on social interaction, but he communicates exactly what he --and we-- are thinking and feeling, his way, through his music and the power of his words.

When President Obama put the US Medal of Freedom around Bob Dylan's aging neck, my first thought was, Oh, Bobby looks so old! Then I thought about his new songs on my iPod, along with hundreds of others, spanning 50 years. I realized Bob Dylan may have aged, but he will never lose touch with us, or the times. Through his enormous contribution to the world of music, to the world itself, he will stay Forever Young.

My Story

I'm going to share a golden memory of Bob Dylan. The Dylan in the picture below, the Bobby I remember. The one I believe still lives inside the man, no matter what age.

Bob Dylan: Nashville Skyline

Can you please crawl out your window?
Use your arms and legs it won't ruin you
How can you say he will haunt you?
You can go back to him any time you want to.
BobDylan: Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?

Join me as I open a window to one of the singular moments of my Boomer youth. So much confusion and fear coming of age in the turbulence at the end of the '60's, this memory stands out as an island of peace, and hope.

During the summers of '68 and '69, I spent weekends at a friend's family vacation home on Long Island Sound. Tidy rows of Victorian beach houses clustered so close together you could reach out your window and touch the neighbor's curtains.

Early one morning we woke to music coming from the open bedroom window opposite ours. First groggy, then annoyed, suddenly stilled by the plaintive, haunting sounds floating on the clear morning air, we listened intently, if a bit bewildered.

Whispering, I don't know why, across the divide between our beds.

"Wow, I didn't know Dylan had a new record."

"Me either. Was there a concert? It sounds so real."

There wasn't an album, there wasn't a concert. Yet.

But the music was very real.

It was Bob Dylan himself, a guest of the family next door. Sitting at his window on a soft summer morning, strumming and singing. Composing, polishing, perfecting tracks for the album Nashville Skyline.

We lay in our beds, entranced by the melody and the lyrics, mesmerized by that voice, so much cleaner pouring from his throat than on any album, any stage. He sang again:

Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile
Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile
His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean
And you're the best thing that he's ever seen
Bob Dylan: Lay, Lady, Lay

It wove through me, gave me chills. So intensely personal. Sensual. Intimate. To this day, whenever I hear that song I'm transported back to that time and place, laying across my bed feeling the caress of Bob Dylan's voice wash over me.

We came to our window sleepy-eyed in rumpled t-shirts to see him sitting at his, looking much the same. No words exchanged, just gazes. Two fresh, new college girls, one enigmatic, legendary man. Curious. Wondering.

Phew, such charm in that narrow face, those warm, liquid eyes under that unruly mop of hair.

I'd never thought of him that way, but suddenly I understood why Bob Dylan had a reputation as a ladies man. Don't ask if I became one of those ladies. So long ago. Irrelevant now.

Because I gained something much more precious and lasting ... a rare glimpse of the muse. A chance to witness a tiny piece of the process, the power of the poet. The brilliance of the man.

The memory is perfect, pure joy, all sense and sound and secret smiles.

There's more.

Dylan joined our crowd at the beach. He was quiet at first. Seemingly aloof. Uncomfortably shy. He was so thin and pale, especially compared to our robust, tanned bodies. Not even close to the image of a rock star sex symbol. And yet. Phew, such magnetism.

There was something unique, different, compelling about him. A vibrating intensity. Sharp intelligence. A hint of tenderness. Subtle wit. An introvert with a measure of poise and self-confidence we didn't yet possess.

And quietude. He was so still.

Those knowing eyes didn't restlessly track every movement on the beach ... though they did linger on the girls in our bikinis. No matter his bad-boy reputation, there was more longing than lasciviousness in his gaze.

We were all so alive, so boisterous, so young and juicy, he seemed to soak up our energy and enthusiasm as the day went on. And because we were also elite Ivy Leaguers, engaged, involved, committed to altering the adult world we were about to enter, he was drawn into our conversations too.

What did we talk about, our little group and Bob Dylan? Vietnam, the draft, the Kennedy and King assassinations. Politics, feminism, racism, sex, drugs and --only a little-- rock and roll.

We didn't have to talk about that because he played for us. Bob. Dylan. Played. For. Us.

Sitting on a blanket in the sand, leaning against a big red cooler with a battered acoustic guitar on his knobby white knees, Dylan played and sang. We sang too, at first tentatively, then, encouraged by his smiles and nods, raising our eager young voices in a chorus of those extraordinary, familiar songs already woven into our Boomer culture.

It was magic. A bunch of tuned in, turned on, brand new college kids basking in the sun and our incredible fortune, talking, laughing, sharing cigs and joints and swigs of cheap wine, drifting in a private cocoon of near nirvana.

Privileged to be joined by this odd duck, this awkward performer, this towering talent, who was, for one glorious summer weekend, One of Us.

Word spread. People wandered past our blanket, self-consciously casual, checking out the famous music icon their kids worshiped. You could see many shaking their heads, wondering what all the fuss was about.

A few stopped, openly listened. And I think, I hope, I want to believe, heard the eloquent pleas for peace, reason, change, understanding. We were their kids, after all, facing a challenging, chaotic future.

So much hope. So much determination. So much irony. Plus ça change...

Still, that exceptional experience will linger in my memory forever. And I know now what I didn't really appreciate then: I was lucky enough to experience, up close and personal, the clarion Voice of my Generation.

"I really was never any more than what I was—a folk musician who gazed into the gray mist with tear-blinded eyes and made up songs that floated in a luminous haze." Bob Dylan

Oh no, Bobby, you were a great deal more than that. Thank you.

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

_{Copyright © 1973 by Ram's Horn Music; renewed 2001 by Ram’s Horn Music}

Amen, Bobby. As we continue to fight the righteous fight, gray hair and dimmed idealism be damned, may we all stay Forever Young.

Breast Feeding Frenzy, Time Mag Jumps the Wrong Shark

Fri, 11 May 2012 13:05:11 -0400

Cover of Facebook page Hey, LACMA! Breastfeeding isn't shameful.

"I breast-fed all three of my children, because the milk is free." Michelle Singletary

I wouldn't touch the Time Magazine article on mothers breast feeding older kids with a ten foot pole. For me, it's a simple equation: Amusement parks post signs with measured lines, You Must Be This Tall To Use This Ride. If Junior can reach Mom's breast, the opposite should apply. Step away from the Mothership and go pour your own glass of milk.

But that's just me. Other women can do what they want. Which is the central point. Freedom of choice. Which is getting lost in all the braying over boobs.

Time got the viral coverage it was aiming for, yet especially in light of recent assaults on women's rights to control their own bodies, Time also diverted important attention away from the real issues. Including the absolute right of any woman to breast feed her child.

And, of course, Time managed to further demean the discussion --and women-- by sexualizing it.

What is it about the female breast that turns Americans into horny teenage boys? Granted, female breasts have been idealized objects of sexual attraction since the beginning of time. But breast feeding as soft core porn? Something creepy this way comes...

No other Western culture assigns such over-the-top prurient power to the sight of a woman's breasts, regardless of whether she's sporting a low cut top, twirling tassels or nursing a baby.

HEY LACMA! BREASTFEEDING ISN'T SHAMEFUL.

Time's pandering overshadowed a story at the heart of a serious women's rights violation. Katie Jane Hamilton was nursing her baby in a quiet corner of the LA County Museum of Art last Saturday when a security employee told her, "cover yourself." Why? A complaint. She was making two other museum visitors "uncomfortable." No fool, Hamilton refused and called for a supervisor, noting that public breast feeding is legal in California.

Wait. Let's pause and think about that for a minute. We need laws to legalize breastfeeding?

Let's also remember this incident took place in a museum. Museums display art, which often displays ...wait for it... nudity! Why did those outraged patrons visit the museum at all? Surely they knew they were risking the horrors of breasts and buttocks, even genitalia, displayed in paintings and on sculptures everywhere.

Hortense Breast Feeding Paul, Paul Cezanne

As Katie Hamilton said, 'not that it matters,' she was displaying little more than a baby. A cute baby at that. Not much breast in evidence, less than many women wear on the street. No nipple ... a bizarre line to draw, come to think of it.

A baby can be fed modestly, with no part of mother's breast exposed. Most women prefer it that way. Yet unbelievably, nursing mothers are still scolded on airplanes, playgrounds, restaurants and many other public places for "exposing" their breasts.

Oh, please. If a nursing mother is a turn-on to any kid, his parents should start saving up for lots of therapy. Parents worried about exposing their kids to sexualized images should pay more attention to TV and the Internet.

Look at any Red Carpet event or music video, you'll find more exposed tits and ass than you'd ever see from a mother nursing her child. What's next, banning naked toes? Oh wait, that'll never happen, Tea Partiers wear flip flops.

Whatever she wears on her feet, Katie Hamilton stood her ground and started a Facebook page called "Hey, LACMA! Breastfeeding isn't shameful" where she received a public apology from the LA Museum. Plus, she's got lots of company -- nearly 500 women signed up in one day.

Still, too many Americans, at odds with wildly distorted views of sexuality are embracing a puritanical attitude that is as outlandish as it is outdated. These people need to take a good look at why they have so confused nature/nurture with pornography. The media isn't creating that message, just capitalizing on it.

All those hypocritical, self-righteous Right Wingnut bible thumpers need to remember that nothing is more natural than breast feeding. It's the ultimate reflection of a female's life-giving force. And for many new mothers, breast milk is the only food they can afford to provide.

Bottom line, breast feeding is a mother's personal choice. Mothers who choose the breast are finding themselves in the line of fire from nosey, uptight strangers who could care less about laws covering any choice but their own.

Look under a new mother's bed, you'll likely find a few pacifiers, a stuffed toy or two, maybe some books, definitely dust bunnies.

I'm willing to bet that a peek under the beds of the loudest male opponents of breast feeding will reveal a robust collection of porn.

Whether you are a mother, father, child or adult, I hope you'll agree we can join in saying, HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! to each other and all mothers. Without them/us, where would we be?

What Has Become Of The Promised Land?

Sun, 8 Apr 2012 01:04:17 -0400

"[I]f I were standing at the beginning of time...and the Almighty said to me, "Martin Luther King, which age would you like to live in?" I would take my mental flight by Egypt and I would watch God's children in their magnificent trek from the dark dungeons of Egypt through...the Red Sea, through the wilderness on toward the promised land." Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, April 3, 1968

This week Jews all over the world celebrate Passover. We gather around Seder tables to tell the ancient story of our people's release from generations of bondage in Egypt.

It's a fascinating tale of conflict, drama and suffering. Of hubris, anger and weakness ... in the end, of hope, belief and salvation. It is about the strength of the human spirit, faith in a Higher Power and the primal human desire to be free.

Dr. King understood the universal meaning of Passover. He drew strength from the events Jews commemorate at the Passover Seder, inspiration from the story of mankind's original battle against oppression and final release from slavery.

The Seder is, in fact, a retelling of the story of Exodus. A reminder of the high price paid by the oppressor as well as the oppressed. A pledge to understand and remember the sacrifice that brought freedom to an entire race.

And a very clear message: Slavery. Is. Wrong. Freedom. Is. Right.

It happened thousands of years ago to the Jews. It happened hundreds of years ago to the Africans. It's still happening today to people around the world.

Seder Plate

Every year we tell the story of the Exodus to each other and to our children. We display and eat special foods, bitter and sweet, fertile and flat, we ask specific questions, we recite age-old prayers ... all to represent and remind us of the Israelites' bitter enslavement and their mighty struggle to be free.

We do all this to make sure we will never forget the importance of freedom. And of the laws of God, Nature and Humanity.

Passover Belongs to All of Us

You don't have to be Jewish to honor the meaning of Passover. It's far more than a triumph against slavery. If you belong to any organized religion --even if you don't-- the events of Passover helped form who we are today. At least who we stive to be.

Unlike their slave-masters, who worshiped a whole panoply of gods, the Israelites were monotheistic. One people, one God. The foundation of Judiasm, Christianity, Islam. Even, with no disrespect, of Do Your Own Thing.

During the Exodus, we're told, Moses ascended Mt Sinai to commune with God and returned with Ten Commandments. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. One thing is clear. The Ten Commandments came into being during the great Exodus of the Israelites from slavery.

Something else is clear. The Ten Commandments form the seminal template for how members of a civilized society should behave.

Who's In Charge? And Who Put Them There?

Yes, in modern times we evolved. We created laws, a constitution, courts, governments, leaders, citizen participation and much more. We needed local, national and international commerce, industry, agriculture, education, transportation, infrastructure, medicine, research, protective forces, communication ... the list is virtually endless.

With all that creation, just as in the biblical story of Genesis, came greed and suspicion and evil.

We definitely do not need those devisive emotions and behaviors. Hate. Racism. Sexism. Abuse of those less powerful. Arrogant presumption to decide what is right or wrong for another human being. Radical --perhaps deliberate-- abuse and misuse of power to interfere with our most basic human freedoms.

It is surely an abomination to practice any of those evils in the name of God.

There is a responsibily that comes with freedom. It's simple, really. To respect and accept the right of everyone to be free from the oppression of being preyed upon, ignored, used.

The Passover celebration of the Israelites' release from bondage has become an abiding symbol of the desire to be free and the power of faith in God, even in the face of overwhelming oppression and evil.

Easter Reminder

It is your symbol too. As many of you celebrate Easter, remember how it all began. One people, one God. Accepting the Ten Commandments and believing in loving our neighbor as ourselves.

The continuing struggle against oppression and evil belongs to all of us. If we forget that and allow hate mongers to turn us against each other, to determine what we do with our bodies and how we choose to behave in the privacy of our homes, we will again become slaves. To people much worse, and arguably more dangerous, than any Pharoh.

If we don't step up and soon, Moses, Mohammed, Jesus, Dr King and all our historic, spiritual, political leaders and role models will have acted in vain.

Of course I'm angry at the self-righteous trampling of our freedoms, especially in the cynical name of "God's will." I still wish a very Happy Passover and Easter to all the good folks who celebrate with hope and faith. May you enjoy your families and traditions during these holidays.

But please, let us all never forget the fragile foundation upon which our hard-fought freedoms now rest.

St. Patrick's Day, Here's To Alcohol, Not Politics

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 15:03:43 -0400

"Here's to a long life, and a merry one; a quick death, and an easy one; a pretty girl, and an honest one; a cold beer - and another one!" Old Irish toast

Yes, Bridget, the world's going the hell in a hand basket. Sometimes we need to step away from the fray. Smell the roses. Enjoy good weather. Get piss-faced drunk.

St. Patrick's Day came just in time.

I'm Jewish, but they say everybody's got a wee bit of the Irish in 'em. My oldest BFF is Irish, number 1 of 10. In her family, I'm called the 11th Harris.

My own Irish credentials thus established, it's also said that everybody's Irish on St. Patrick's Day. So, as I proceed with the festivities, I will expect no blowback from any of you Seans or Colleens.

I can assert from personal knowledge that the Irish love to tipple, to sip, to nip, to knock 'em back like there's no tomorrow.

In honor of St. Paddy's Day --and every other holiday, for that matter-- here are a few suggestions created in collaboration with friends whilst dipping our noses in green foam long ago and far away.

Liquor manufacturers should put the following warning labels on all alcohol containers:

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may make you think you are whispering when you are not.

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may lead you to believe you can sing.
WARNING: The consumption of alcohol is a major factor in dancing like an idiot.
WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may cause you to tell strangers that you love them.

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may lead you to believe that ex-lovers are dying for you to call or text them at four in the morning.

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may make you think you can converse without spitting.

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may create the illusion that you are tougher, smarter and better looking than most people.
WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may be a major factor in getting your ass kicked.
WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may lead you to confuse the bathtub with the toilet. This could be life-threatening if your partner or roommate is in the tub at the time.

WARNING: the crumsumpten of alcohol may Mack you tink you kan tpye reel gode.

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may lead you to think people are laughing WITH you.
In my capacity as the mother of a former college student, here's more:
THINGS THAT ARE DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK:
> Indubitably

> Preliminary

> Proliferation

> Cinnamon
THINGS THAT ARE VERY DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK:
> Specificity

> British Constitution

> Loquacious

> Transubstantiate
THINGS THAT ARE IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK:
> Thanks, but I don't want to have sex.

> Nope, no more booze for me.

> Good evening officer, isn't it a lovely night.

> Sorry, you're not my type.

> No one wants to hear me sing.

> Tomorrow even *I* will think I'm a jackass..

Have a very Happy St. Patrick's Day and if you do imbibe, PLEASE DON'T DRIVE!

I Got Married On A Bet... 30 Years Ago Today

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 23:01:39 -0500

Back Story
I never wanted to marry, which is odd because though I've sown my share of wild oats around the globe, I'm basically a monogamous homebody. Wherever I've lived, I've created a nest. And preferred only one man at a time to share it with me. But never quite the right one.

I dated a lot. Smart ones. Rich ones. Poor ones. Famous ones. A few infamous ones. Good, kind, decent, extremely marriageable ones. Except to me. There was always a reason why this one or that one wasn't right.

Eventually I caught on to the painful Inner Truth. I didn't believe I could give a man the kind of love that includes Trust. Or allow a man to love and put his trust in me. (You can read some of the reasons why here.)

The One
So of course when I least expected it I met a man I trusted instantly. I didn't love him right away, but I liked him. A lot. I felt safe with him, valued. Adored. Understood. Admired. Cherished. Loved.

He didn't care about my wild oats, he'd sown plenty of his own. The skeletons in my family closet didn't scare him away, they made him want to protect me. He loved me, he wanted me to make a nest for us. A home. A future.

I took that man at his word, trusted him and his love, learned to love him back. Fiercely. Completely. Con gusto. Then he wanted marriage. No!

My rationalizations: We're already living together. Happily. Both working. Fulfilled. Complete. Content. Everything was great, why rock the boat?

He tried to talk me down, convince me it could work, but I was firm. He backed off. I thought I was safe. So I relaxed. Really. I really relaxed. His plan all along.

Predictably, almost six months later, one night I said to him, "You know, I think we should get married. I'm not afraid any more. I love you. I want to be your wife. Let's do it."

Unpredictably, it was his turn to panic. We were living together. Both working. Happy. Complete. Content. Everything was great, why rock the boat? You get the idea.

The Fight
Then, right in the middle of a fairly reasonable discussion, he said the magic words that started The Fight. "There's no reason to get married unless we're going to have kids."

Steam shot out my ears. "Are you kidding me??? What is this, the 1950s?? We should get married because we want to spend our lives together, form a lasting partnership, a family of Husband and Wife. Children should be an added blessing to our union, not an excuse or a requirement for marriage!"

The battle raged for almost two hours.

The Bet

Finally, exhausted, he said what he intended as a joke to break the tension. "Okay, let's make a bet. If you can pull off a surprise party for my (30th) birthday, a real surprise, we'll get married."

"You're on!" I said. And the die was cast.

Two months later, while he was playing racketball with a clued-in friend at our health club/pool/community center, other friends helped me turn the juice bar into a party room.

When he walked in the room, sweaty and unsuspecting, 75 people yelled, "Surprise! You're getting married!"

Planning The Wedding
The wedding plans were remarkably easy. Though it wasn't my style, my mother wanted me to have A. Wedding. Okay, then it would also be a fun Saturday night party with a great band.

Also a chocolate wedding cake. Delicious!

And I didn't want a traditional wedding gown or legions of bridesmaids. Okay, two sisters. Color scheme: If I'm wearing white, everybody's wearing white.

It's entirely possible I'd been given some Valium at this point.

We put everything in my mother's more than capable hands, no fighting, no hysteria, no bridezilla.

Food was fun, we had a tasting party, picked what we liked, that was that.

Open bar, of course. Photographer, no problem.

Only one thing I really, really regret: I said no to video. This is a wedding, not a movie, it kills spontaneity, it's tacky, I said. I was wrong. I have the memories, but I've wished so often I could see and hear them again. Especially because so many people are gone now. At least we have the pictures.

Husband-to-Be said, typically, "Just tell me what to wear and what time to show up." Tuxedo. Ketubah signing, 6 PM. Wedding, 7 PM.

The hotel gave us the Presidential Suite--3 bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen, 4 bathrooms-- so everybody could be together. My sister-in-law and her two little kids, my other sister with her new baby and their joint baby sitter in one bedroom, the rest of the women in another, the men in the third.

Getting ready was just like home. Fighting with my sisters for space at the sink to put on make-up. Yelling at my older sister for showering so late, steaming up the mirror and frizzing my hair. Everybody telling me to put on more make-up. Older sister and Mom fixing my hair.

Sitting in a robe holding my baby nephew, chatting quietly with my two little nieces, a small oasis of calm.

Suddenly standing in my dress, my mother and sisters helping me with the short veil we'd had attached to my favorite headband.

The homey aromas of soap and baby powder mixing with perfumes, then colognes as we joined the men in the living room. Husband-to-Be looked at me with such wonder and so much love. I will never forget that look.

Ketubah
People went quiet as the Rabbi came in, asked us to join him at the table to sign the Ketubah (Jewish marriage contract).

Best Man signing, oldest friend/witness waiting his turn, Rabbi

The Rabbi was an old hand at marrying nervous couples (including my parents and two of my sisters, plus he'd officiated at my husband's and both his brothers' bar mitzvahs). Solumnly he reviewed the Ketubah with us. No matter what you do afterward, once you sign that, you're married. It's large, opens into three sections, all written in tiny, tiny Hebrew.

After we all signed, the Rabbi pointed to a section in the center. "This is extremely important," he said, "It contains the secret to a happy marriage."

You could have heard a pin drop. We all waited expectantly. "It's my wife's recipe for chopped liver!"

We burst out laughing, groaning at what must be a tired old joke to him, but it worked, tension broken. Until we went downstairs to the chapel. Everyone got ready. And quiet.

The Wedding

The wedding music started. My husband's two brothers, my younger sister's husband and older sister's son carried the chuppah (Jewish marriage canopy) to the front, opened the beautiful old lace overhead, each holding a pole (another Jewish custom). Then Husband-to-Be's parents walked him to his place just before the chuppah so he could wait for my parents to give me over to him.

Already under the chuppah was our best man, the mutual friend who'd introduced us. They joined him there. My sisters, one after the other, moved smiling down the aisle and took their places underneath too.

Then it was just Mom, Dad and me, standing in the doorway, waiting for our cue. NOOO! I had a flash of panic so sharp I almost doubled over. I saw all my friends and family, so many smiling faces, so genuinely happy for me. I wanted to be a gracious, smiling bride.

But it seemed the room went suddenly dark. All I could see was soft light glowing around Husband-to-Be, my True North. My eyes locked onto him like a lazer beam.

The feeling was otherworldly. If I can just get to him, I thought, I'll be okay. I don't remember walking down that aisle, but here's a close-up so you can see the genuine fear in my eyes.

Oh yeah, I'm a deer caught in the headlights.

Once we got to him, though, the rest was easy. My parents kissed me...

Husband-to-Be winked at me, took me to join our families and the Rabbi under the chuppah.

It was a beautiful religious and personal ceremony. Rich with ancient tradition in a modern setting. The Rabbi who knew our families so well, spoke from the heart about Continuity. Belief. Trust. Faith. Love.

And it was a great party too. Went on until past 2 AM.

Thanks for everything, Mom. I love you.

An after-party migrated back to the presidential suite. Family, friends, Husband and I still talk about it. Especially this time of year. Especially today.

Why today?

Today, January 23, 2012 is our 30th Wedding Anniversary.

I can joke about the panic now. I can laugh about that picture, it's in our wedding album. I love all the wonderful wedding memories. Because I took that huge leap of faith. And we're still married after all these years.

Continuity. Belief. Faith. Trust. Love. And Humor. In the end, that's what it takes.

PS Little more than a year later, we had our son. Win-win.

Here's my advice on how to maintain a lasting, happy marriage: Mating for Life, Simple as 1-2-3 - Sally Swift - Open Salon.

And I think I'll stay a bride, at least on my profile, for the rest of this week.