There isn’t one answer. There are lots of difference answers depending on your mood. If you’re in a good, you’ll probably say or do something good. If you’re in a bad mood, you’ll probably do something bad.

There are different ways of getting to a mood. Lots of little journeys, which don’t have to be tiring, but can feel enlivening. Small steps. There’s a different directions you can a take a step. But it starts in the step. Before the step is where you are.

You are okay where you are. You will take a step. When you’re good and ready.

Dear Binda,

You taught me that when I’m foaming at the mouth that I should just grab a napkin and call it day. Instead the day called me out. I got a sudden urge, which I call a ‘sudurge’ for mellorine and Velveeta. I know they still exist. I just couldn’t find any in any of the grocery stores I went. But New York is a big town. They are bound to be out there, somewhere.

Can you offer me any suggestions?

Oh, more napkins. Okay. Got it.

Binda Williams has lived. She is preceded in life by pretty much everyone.

She continues to live her life well. And she’s a great hugger and an even better teacher of hugs. She was born in–doesn’t matter. Did you hear what I said? She lives. She’s alive right now. I’m serious. I’m on the phone right now and she’s talking about meeting up in Jersey and she’s pretty and alive and why don’t people write the opposite of obituaries? What IS THE OPPOSITE of an obituary?  I looked in Merriam-Webster’s. The closest thing I could find was “birth.”

Wow. Nothing in between birth and death?

Binda, you should have something in-between.

I love you.

Morning Binda,

Was thinking of what you mentioned last night during my visit, when I was getting ready to leave–had a great time by the way! It was about my hugs. You said I suck at hugs.

I agree. It’s not like I’ve not been told this before. Even my boss told me and I’ve only hugged him once in the entire ten years I’ve worked for him–and who does he get off writing me off after one hug?

Well, anway, I suck.

Let’s hug next time. Let’s make a real moment of it. I know I’m probably going to make a mess of it–my butt will probably stick out, my chin will want to jut out instead of digging in for your neck. Well, anyway, lots to learn. I’ll  see you then!

Dear Binda,

Help got a hold of you and–wow! I can see it in your eyes. You have a spring in your step. I’m following along because your words ring true.

Thank you for inviting me over on Saturday. Look forward to seeing you and the kids.

I really love you.

Dear Binda,

How are you able to learn new languages. And they all pay, don’t they? You are so rich and well-versed. I just want the basics. I want to know how to say hello and goodbye.

And “thank you.”

Thank you, Binda. In as many languages as possible.

If you find five white butterflies today, then call a relative you haven’t called in a long time and talk to them briefly. Or longer if they’re up for it.

Find any excuse to call someone today, anyone, just for a short chat. Ask them about them. Ask them about their thems.

Listen to what they have to say. Feel their words, hug them, close to you, and avoid  trying to tell them what to do. Let them tell you what to do.

I’m picking you up something from the grocery story. Something comforting.  I’m going to give you a message. And a massage. .I’m going to kiss you lightly. I’m going to be your friend. I’m going to clean the kitchen. I’m going to make you dinner.

I’m going to put you to bed, comb your hair, and kiss you lightly. I will stay with you until.

Dear Binda,

You make jogging look so easy. Of course you’ve been doing it all your life. That’s how you met your husband, isn it? At some running conference, or something. Yes, I recall: Right before your Chicago Marathon, back in the 90s.

I’m one of those people who says they’d like to start jogging. I did jog to a lamp post once. You know the one, at the corner of 97th and Amerstdam Avenue. The one with the perpetual caution tape festooned from the fire hydrant to that strange store front that never seems to amount to anything.

So back to your husband. What I want to know is: Why is that some men, like your husband, go on playing Laertes in Hamlet for decades when it’s time to move on? Oh, it isn’t that I don’t think he’s a great actor. He is, but I mean he’s been at that role for almost 40 years now.  The man is turning 53 next year! Didn’t we both see his very first crack before puberty. Yes, when he was cherub faced and sounded like a girl.  Even then I  always thought of him as more of a Polonius.

No offense.

And now, given his age, I think he should go for it. That’s my thought on his career. I’m only saying this because I refuse to go to his next performance.

I know, I know: none of what I’m saying has anything to do with your husband. So sue me.

Dear Binda,

It’s funny that I want people to understand me. Just last year I was convinced no one needed to. But then I get this urge to devulge something–somethingful meaningful, to me at least. Only to realize there I want captive audience. A lonely confession taste like lentils without spices.  I’ve told you this before, my confession.  And they’ve been met with blank stares. Not that you don’t want to understand me. We are friends and that’s part of our jobs. But there are some things people just can’t understand. There’s no najor revelation here, don’t worry.  I’m speaking in general terms. If I could, I would just skip the revelation part and just start with the ending credits, my bowing to the my audience, roars of applause, tears running down my face in shiny triumph.

That would be enough. Hell, even if I could just get my dal dishes to come out like yours. Lentils are never easy, in any form, for me at least. Maybe I should just to skip that part, and get to the part where people are praising my meals. Applause, swallowing, end credits.

Dammit, I want people know how I got to the end. It seems…

But, ahahahaha,  I realize it’s part of my job too, to let you confess. Well, then, let you ask you this, Binda. What  about you? How are you?

Ah, that might be it, yes? Let me sit down, as an audience member and let you tell me about your lentils.