An article appeared in the New York Times about Israeli agronomists having succeeded in germinating the seed of a 2000-year-old Desert Date Palm tree. Scientists soaked the seeds in hot water to soften their coats, then bathed them in a hormone-rich solution and finally potted them in fertilized soil. Six weeks later, the earth cracked and the seeds sprouted. No seed that old has ever successfully germinated. Interestingly, these living seeds were found at Masada, the cliff fortress where, in 73 A.D., 960 Jewish zealots died at their own hand, rather than surrender to a Roman assault.

The Desert Date Palm is much praised for its shade, food, and medicinal qualities. The Koran describes it as a “symbol of goodness” that is associated with Heaven. It was the symbol of ancient Israel, and the honey referred to in “the land of milk and honey,” came from these dates. The Hebrew word for this tree is “Tamara,” and it is the root of my daughter’s name.

I read this story on her birthday, and it reminded me that, like her namesake, she has been a perpetual force for my growth. Tara has taken me to remote island reefs in the South China Sea to dive in an underworld paradise; to swim with dolphins off the Islas del Rosario; has made me look at the impact of genetically modified organisms and native seed elimination the world over; made me a part of her Oregon Country Faire family; and calls herself my “only Hippie son.”

This bright, competent, beautiful, uninhibited, irrepressible seed has forced me to grow and stretch my limits, even when I thought I was comfortable and reasonably secure. She is, however, only one of the incredible women in my life. I have spent my life blessedly surrounded by strong women, a wife and five daughters, who force me to look at my over-inflated male certainties and not run from my vulnerabilities, but instead use them to move forward.

Happy birthday, my Desert Date Palm, Princess Baby, and thanks to all my strong women who inspire the growth of this aging seed.

The results of a just-published, government-sponsored survey of the nation’s mental health said more than half of Americans will develop a mental disorder in their lifetimes. The good news is that at the moment only one quarter of all Americans is suffering from a mental illness. How did we get so many sick people? It has something to do with how we define mental illness.

The American Psychiatric Association first printed a diagnostic manual in the 1950’s that defined mental illnesses, and it included 60 disorders. In the last 40 years, there have been four editions. The current DSM-IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) is the definitive arbiter of what constitutes a mental illness, and it now includes about 300 disorders. It includes everything from sexual arousal disorder to hypersomnia (excessive sleep). The DSM-IV lists dozens of shades of depression and bipolar disorders, what it means to be borderline, and even shyness can qualify as a disease.

Psychiatrists developed the DSM in the hope of refining our understanding of what mental illness is. What instead happened was we defined problematic feelings and behaviors as diseases. In so doing, we also implied that because these manifestations now had a name, it meant we knew how to treat the problem. Instead, what we have done is psychopathologized the ordinariness of the human condition and turned the vagaries of life into a drug-taking experience.

In most parts of the world, if you feel anxious, sad, can’t sleep, or lose your appetite for food or sex, you are not defined as mentally ill, not medicated, and generally get better. Families gather, healing rituals are performed, the community mobilizes support, and with time, people are reintegrated. What’s happening in America is we’re defining lots of people as mentally ill for a disease they probably don’t have, and we’re prescribing far too many drugs for them.

The interesting paradox is that we let an assortment of deviants run around who need to be treated, but who are never diagnosed. We don’t need the DSM-IV to tell us that a 46-year-old man who: invites a succession of kids for sleepovers, gives them white wine disguised in soda cans, pays a multimillion dollar settlement for accusations of child molestation, and dangles his son over a high-rise balcony railing, is bizarre.

Let’s stop defining the ordinary ups and downs in our lives as diseases. Let’s start holding people responsible for behaviors we all know are unacceptable. We are seriously confused when lawyers in courtrooms define what behaviors are tolerable or acceptable. No wonder we are #1 in the world for mental illness.

My wife and I took our granddaughter to New York City, as a gift to celebrate her coming-of-age Bat Mitzvah birthday. We spent five nights smack dab in the middle of the Theater District and went to shows every night. The lights of Times Square, and the incredible Broadway productions still inspire awe for a first-timer. Through the eyes of my granddaughter, I revisited the magic of my youth.

During the day, we toured the City: Battery Park, the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, and then up to Washington Heights, my old neighborhood. We visited my family— they still live on the same block and belong to the same Orthodox community. I showed my granddaughter my old tenement building and told her about the old gang, the hangouts and the hideouts. She listened, but it was clear that her enthusiasm was considerably less than mine in telling the stories.

She shopped 5th Avenue with her Grandmother (it’s not my thing so I arranged to meet them later, at the NY Public Library). I thought I’d sip a cappuccino in Bryant Park, read the paper, and reminisce. I was itching to tell my granddaughter about this place and the dates I used to meet here; however, once she arrived, she was ready to continue her jaunt up the Avenue.

I don’t discourage easily, so when we got to Central Park, I pointed out “Strawberry Fields” named in John Lennon’s honor. “He was one of the Beatles, and he was assassinated right in front of that apartment building,” I said, pointing to the Dakota. She didn’t recognize Lennon’s name, or the song, but knew the Beatles and asked how much further to the Museum of Natural History.

I am an incurable romantic. I believe the telling of stories connects us to a past of meaning (I also believe in galaxies far, far away, the glory of heroes, and in miracles). It didn’t matter how spellbound I was by the reminiscences of my idealized youth, my granddaughter was less captivated by my recitation, than she was in living her own experience.

This is the obvious, albeit painful truth: all history is the history of our own time (which is why we are destined to repeat so much of it). Children of each generation must experience their own successes and failures, joys, sorrows, and pain, if they are to make sense of their life’s journey.

The same day I pointed out Strawberry Fields to my granddaughter, the children’s home in Liverpool, England called “Strawberry Fields” (which inspired Lennon to write the song) closed its doors. That building will crumble, the songwriter is dead, but the melody survives, and that is the other truth. If you can provide a good melody, those who follow can write their own lyrics.

As long as the lights of Broadway can inspire dreams, there will be Strawberry Fields forever.

Andy Pudzer is famous for creating the “Monster Thickburger,” that’s the 1420-calorie burger sold at Hardee’s and Carl’s Jr. since late 2004. This sandwich publicly flaunts its excess of calories and fat. Even though, as a culture, we have a growing awareness of healthy eating habits, there is still a huge demand for food that’s not good for us.

Food critics have demonized Pudzer, who says all he’s trying to do is offer consumers what they want. “These products sell better than health-conscious products. We don’t tell consumers what they want, they tell us.” I don’t knock Pudzer because he’s fattening us up. I think he’s right. Obesity is the number one public-health epidemic in the country today. The NPD Group, which tracks consumer eating habits (USA Today 5/13/05) reported that the most popular menu item ordered by men at restaurants last year was hamburgers, for women it was French fries. It’s not Pudzer’s problem, it is a societal failure. We have the means to eat healthier, but we do not have the will. Eat a “Monster Thickburger” for lunch, and if you don’t die by the next morning, it’s hard to deprive yourself.

Overindulgence is a metaphor for contemporary American life. We seem unable to set limits on ourselves materially, nutritionally, or emotionally. Until we take more responsibility for our eating choices and demand better choices in our joints and school cafeterias, we shouldn’t be complaining about our early exit. But you can be sure that sooner or later somebody is going to sue Hardee’s or Carl’s Jr. for selling a product that increased the likelihood of their having a heart attack or diabetes. It would be un-American not to point the finger of blame at someone other than ourselves. Pudzer only created his edible Frankenstein, but we’re the ones who are choosing to eat it.