In our ever-evolving and often unpredictable culture, there is something refreshing about returning to life’s simplicities. A beautiful photograph, a breathtaking painting, or the rich sound of an orchestra can remind us of what lasts among constant change. For me, that connection has always been found through music. On July 17 (my birthday) my debut album Saxophobia: Celebrating the Sax Craze of the 1920s will be released on the Chandos label, one of Europe’s most respected classical recording companies. This project celebrates the music of legendary saxophonist Rudy Wiedoeft and represents a journey that has been more than 30 years in the making.

The music itself dates back to the 1920s. While every period has its challenges, there is no denying that life moved at a simpler pace before smartphones, iPads, social media, and the endless distractions of our fast paced lives. Perhaps that is part of the reason this music continues to speak to me.

I first discovered Wiedoeft’s music through my mentor and teacher, Ted Hegvik. From the moment I heard it, I was captivated. The lightning-fast runs, crisp articulation, quirky titles (Saxophobia, Sax-O-Phun, Saxarella), and infectious melodies immediately grabbed my attention. Even today, it’s difficult to fully explain why. Like many musicians, I was influenced by my first musical loves. Growing up in central Pennsylvania, I studied the saxophone seriously, but I had never heard the instrument played in this style or manner. As a teenager, those new sounds left a huge impression on me. Looking back, it’s hard to imagine the performer I would have become had I never encountered this music.

For the past 16 years, I have been searching for ways to reintroduce and reimagine this repertoire for contemporary audiences. In 2009, I premiered SAXOPHILM in Bangkok, Thailand, a fully scripted multimedia production that combined Wiedoeft’s music with silent film clips. Originally scored for saxophone, piano, and harp, the project later expanded to full orchestra arrangements by Lanny Meyers, Andrew Cottee, and Dan Higgins. The addition of the visual component transformed the audiences’ experience also. Suddenly, listeners had a familiar visual reference, like Charlie Chaplin or Harold Lloyd, that helped connect them to this lesser known music.

I’m thrilled to be joined by 2 wonderful collaborators, Lynette Wardle (harp) and Dalton Ridenhour (piano). Between the 3 of us, we have performed with the finest ensembles, music festivals and recording projects for the past 25 years. The wealth of knowledge in other avenues of music making only enhances SAXOPHILM and the unique style it displays.

I first discovered John Wilson through his fantastic recordings with his ensemble, The John Wilson Orchestra at the Proms in the 2000’s. The precision and style that the orchestra executed is unparalleled. John was a master transcriber and interpreter of the music of Hollywood’s Golden Age. Later in 2023, I had the pleasure to work with him recording lost gems of Frank Sinatra charts with crooner and Hollywood star, Seth MacFarlane. The journey with John and I began there at the Skywalker Ranch during those recording sessions. Our zoom and email chats about the logistics and how to make this project possible really paid off. I couldn’t be more thrilled at the production quality thanks to expert engineer, Jonathan Allen who worked at Abbey Road studios for over 25 years and now collaborates with John Wilson on all of his projects with the Sinfonia of London. The whole team at Chandos was first rate from beginning to end.

That philosophy guided the evolution of SAXOPHILM, which merged music that was largely forgotten with imagery that was immediately recognizable. The response was remarkable. Audiences became engaged not only with the visuals but with the music itself, discovering a repertoire they may never have encountered otherwise.

That same spirit is abundant in Saxophobia. From April 12th to 14th, 2025, we recorded this album at London’s Royal Academy of Music. Working with John Wilson and the Sinfonia of London was an unforgettable experience. From the very first note, the orchestra brought boundless energy and vigilant articulation to the sessions. The shimmering strings, vibrant brass, and colorful percussion elevated these works in ways I had only imagined. Mikaela Bennett, soprano extraordinaire, delivered 2 spectacular period songs, which will bring a smile to your face. The new orchestrations help bridge the gap between the 1920s and today. Enhanced rhythmic elements from the drum set and expanded orchestral sonorities brought this music a higher sophistication. Early recordings had to rely on primitive technologies- single microphones and wax cylinder recordings. Many of the musical details we can capture today would have been impossible to preserve in the 1920s.

My hope is that listeners will embrace this new interpretation and discover that this music sounds and feels vibrant, relevant, and inspiring. If there is one lesson I have learned through this journey, it is the importance of remaining committed to a vision while being patient to let that vision evolve. The concept behind both SAXOPHILM and Saxophobia changed dramatically over the years, yet the concept never did: to serve the music. Music and visual art share many similarities. Both must adapt to changing technologies and expectations while keeping standards of excellence and great artistry. The tools may change, but the pursuit of beauty, authenticity, and connection remains constant.

As the album’s release approaches, my work shifts to social media, interviews, and digital promotion, opportunities that simply did not exist for previous generations of artists. Having a record label like Chandos broadens the network and reach, connecting with potential new listeners I would not be able to find on my own. The challenge is finding balance: adapting to the modern world without losing sight of one’s passion and purpose. Ultimately, my hope is simple. I hope this album brings joy to listeners. I believe its soul and charm can speak across generations.

This project would not have been possible without my trio partners, Lynette Wardle on harp and Dalton Ridenhour on piano. Their musicianship, patience, and endless support enriched every part of this process. They have been with me every step of the way, and their contributions helped make this recording special. Finally, thank you to Aleks for the creative photo shoot and the opportunity to share Saxophobia: Celebrating the Sax Craze of the 1920s with your readers.

The memories from that day are as enjoyable as the music itself. What once was old can be new again. And sometimes, in revisiting the past, we discover new and fresh territory.

The album is available at Chandos.net, and wherever you stream your music.

Saxotively yours,
Chad Smith

The post Saxophobia: Rediscovering the Sax Craze. appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

We’re living in a world where you can generate the “perfect” version of yourself in five seconds flat. Perfect lighting. Flawless skin. Snatched waist. Symmetrical features. You can literally create your dream image with a simple prompt. 

It’s wild, isn’t it?

And yet… something still feels off.

Because it’s not you.

Those AI-generated headshots and hyper-polished images are hurting a lot of people’s personal brands more than people realize. Yes, I said it. Personal branding was never meant to be about creating an artificial version of yourself that looks disconnected from reality.

Why would anyone want to connect with an AI version of you? It’s inauthentic. In many ways, it’s catfishing. Because eventually people are going to meet the real human behind the image, and when the person standing in front of them doesn’t match the overly manufactured version online, trust gets broken immediately.

People don’t connect with perfection. They connect with presence, energy, emotion, and humanity. AI cannot replicate that. It can’t capture your lived experiences. It can’t read your energy. It can’t translate confidence, magnetism, depth, or the subtle things that make someone unforgettable from the way they walk into a room to the way they smile that only a camera lens can capture.

That’s the part people feel. And feeling is what creates connection.

It’s the same reason an actor can’t rely on an AI-generated image to capture their true essence. A headshot isn’t just about looking attractive. It’s about communicating emotion, personality, presence and your story in a single frame. People need to feel your depth, your essence, your humanity. An AI photo can never fake that.

Now let me be clear.

I’m all for embracing AI. I think it’s an incredible tool. I use it. But there’s a difference between using AI to support humans versus replacing them. AI can enhance efficiency, productivity, and innovation, but it cannot replace the human experience. It cannot replace connection, emotion, intuition, storytelling, or embodiment. 

And despite how advanced technology becomes, humans will always crave what feels real.

That’s why authenticity is becoming even more valuable in this next era.

Because AI is not going anywhere. In fact, it’s accelerating rapidly and being trained to replace certain jobs and automate systems faster than most people are prepared for. Which also means entrepreneurship, personal branding, and human-led businesses will become even more important moving forward.

We’re moving into an economy centered around intelligent abundance. Where people will increasingly rely on their ideas, creativity, expertise, energy, and unique human perspective across multiple projects and income streams. Whether people consider themselves entrepreneurs or not, more individuals will have to think like one.

This is exactly why I approach branding photoshoots differently.

Most people think a branding shoot is about outfits and pretty pictures. Wrong. Your photos are communicating something long before you ever open your mouth. It’s communicating your presence. Your positioning. Your energy. Your brand.

For this recent photoshoot with Carly, an actress stepping into more leading roles, we started with strategy first. Before styling even began, we got clear on who she was becoming, how she wanted to be perceived, and what energy these images needed to radiate.

From there, I created a visual style direction mood board aligned with the next level of her career and personal brand. And instead of running out to buy an entirely new wardrobe, I pulled pieces she already owned and transformed them into four elevated looks that felt polished, powerful, feminine, sophisticated, and intentional.

Because style is never just about clothing.

It’s about visual identity.

Every detail communicates something… the fit, the silhouette, the posture, the energy, the overall presence. And when all of those elements align, people don’t just see you differently. They feel you differently.

That’s something AI will never replace.

Shot downtown in Soho with KARJAKA behind the lens.

The post This Is What Real Humans Look Like appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

There are moments in the year that gently ask us to pause, to look more closely at the lives we are living and the people who shape them. Mother’s Day is one of those moments. It arrives each spring, just as the earth begins to soften and bloom again, inviting us into reflection, into gratitude, into a deeper understanding of what it truly means to care.

For many, this day is a celebration of mothers in the traditional sense. And rightly so. Mothers are often the first to hold us, to guide us, to teach us how to move through the world with both strength and tenderness. But over time, I have come to see Mother’s Day as something far more expansive. It is a moment to honor all caregivers, those who nurture, uplift, and hold space for others in ways both seen and unseen.

Caregiving is not defined by a single role. It is a way of being.

It lives in the parent who works tirelessly to provide stability, in the teacher who sees potential where others may not, in the neighbor who checks in, the friend who listens, the mentor who opens doors. It lives in communities that gather to support one another, especially in moments when life feels uncertain or overwhelming.

Care is not a transaction. It is a relationship. It is a commitment to showing up, again and again, with presence, with patience, and with love.

And if we allow ourselves to look closely, we begin to see that care has always been a collective experience.

The Village That Raises Us

There is a phrase many of us know well, “it takes a village to raise a child.” It is often spoken, but I believe we are only beginning to understand its full truth.

Children do not grow in isolation. They grow in ecosystems. They are shaped not only by their immediate families, but by the communities that surround them, schools, neighborhoods, organizations, and the countless individuals who contribute to their sense of belonging.

When I reflect on my own journey as a mother, I see clearly how many hands, how many hearts, have been part of that story.

Raising my son was never something I did alone. Yes, there were moments that were deeply personal, moments of decision, of guidance, of quiet conversations that only a mother and child can share. But there were also teachers who challenged him, mentors who inspired him, friends who stood beside him, and a broader community that created the conditions for him to thrive.

When he walked across the stage at Yale University, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. But it was not pride rooted only in achievement. It was pride in the journey. In the network of care that had supported him along the way. In the understanding that his success was not the result of one person’s effort, but of many.

This is what community looks like when it is alive and active. It creates pathways. It removes barriers. It reminds us that none of us are meant to do this alone.

And perhaps most importantly, it teaches our children what it means to care for others in return.

Redefining What It Means to Nurture

As both a mother and a leader, I have spent much of my life thinking about care, how we give it, how we receive it, and how we sustain it over time.

In my role as CEO of Dr. Hauschka Skincare USA, and through The Giving Garden®, I have come to understand that care must extend beyond the individual. It must reach into the systems and structures that shape our daily lives.

To nurture someone is not only to support them emotionally. It is also to ensure they have access to what they need to live with dignity. Nourishment. Education. Safe spaces. Opportunities to grow.

This is where the idea of caregiving expands into something deeply interconnected with community.

A caregiver may provide comfort in a moment of need. But a community creates the conditions that make long term wellbeing possible.

And when communities come together with intention, something powerful begins to happen.

Gathering for Good

In the May episode of The Giving Garden® Podcast, I had the privilege of speaking with Laurie Richter from the 100 Who Care Alliance. Our conversation centered on a simple yet transformative idea, what becomes possible when individuals gather, not out of obligation, but out of a shared desire to make a difference.

The model of 100 Who Care is beautifully straightforward. Groups of individuals come together, each contributing a set amount, and collectively decide where those funds will go. In a single gathering, they are able to create meaningful, immediate impact for organizations doing vital work in their communities.

But what struck me most was not just the efficiency of the model. It was the spirit behind it.

There is something deeply human about gathering with purpose. About sitting in a room, or even a virtual space, and recognizing that together, we can do more than we ever could alone.

Laurie spoke about the ripple effect of these gatherings. How one act of giving often inspires another. How people leave not only having contributed financially, but feeling more connected, more engaged, more hopeful.

This is community in action.

It is not passive. It is participatory. It asks something of us, our time, our attention, our willingness to be part of something larger than ourselves.

And in return, it offers something equally profound, a sense of belonging.

The Quiet Work of Mentorship

There is another dimension of caregiving that often goes unspoken, mentorship.

To mentor someone is to invest in their future. It is to offer guidance, encouragement, and sometimes a gentle push toward possibilities they may not yet see for themselves.

Over the years, I have had the privilege of mentoring many individuals, particularly young women navigating their careers and their sense of identity. These relationships have been some of the most meaningful in my life.

Mentorship, much like motherhood, is not about control. It is about trust.

It is about creating a space where someone feels seen, where their voice is valued, where they are encouraged to explore, to question, to grow.

And just as I have offered mentorship, I have also been shaped by it. There have been countless individuals who have guided me, challenged me, and supported me in ways that have made me who I am today.

This is the reciprocity of care.

It moves in both directions. It evolves over time. And it reminds us that we are always both teachers and students.

Expanding the Circle

What would it look like if we expanded our definition of Mother’s Day to include all of these forms of care?

If we honored not only mothers, but mentors. Not only parents, but communities. Not only individual acts of kindness, but collective efforts to create a more just and compassionate world.

Perhaps it would look like gathering with intention. Reaching out to someone who has made a difference in our lives. Supporting an organization that aligns with our values. Taking a moment to care for ourselves, recognizing that we cannot pour from an empty cup.

Perhaps it would look like gratitude, expressed not only in words, but in actions.

And perhaps, most importantly, it would look like a commitment to continue this work beyond a single day.

Because caregiving is not a moment. It is a practice.

A Personal Reflection

As I reflect on my own life, I see a tapestry of care that has shaped every chapter.

I see the early days of motherhood, filled with both uncertainty and profound love. I see the community that surrounded us, offering support in ways both large and small. I see the journey of raising a son who would go on to carve his own path, supported by a network of individuals who believed in him.

I see the evolution of my work, from leading a skincare brand rooted in nature, to creating The Giving Garden®, a program that brings together community, connection, and giving.

And I see the countless moments of mentorship, conversation, and shared growth that have enriched my life in ways I could never have anticipated.

All of it is connected by a single thread, care.

A Moment of Reflection

This Mother’s Day, I invite you to reflect on the caregivers in your life.

Who has nurtured you? Who has stood beside you? Who has helped you become who you are today?

And how might you extend that care outward?

Perhaps it is through a simple gesture. A conversation. A moment of presence. Or perhaps it is through something larger, joining a community initiative, supporting a cause, becoming a mentor yourself.

Whatever form it takes, know that it matters.

Because when we choose to care, not only for those closest to us, but for our communities and our world, we become part of something greater.

We become part of a circle that continues to expand, touching lives in ways we may never fully see, but will always feel.

And in that circle, we find something deeply human.

Connection. Purpose. Belonging.

This is the true spirit of caregiving.

This is what we honor.

And this is what we carry forward.

The post The Circle of Care: Honoring Those Who Nurture Us All appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

There is something profoundly hopeful about a garden created not for one household, but for a whole community.

In the April episode of The Giving Garden® Podcast, I had the privilege of speaking with Sara Stewart of The Unity Gardens, an organization whose work continues to stay with me. What began as a simple response to a deep need, access to fresh, healthy food, has grown into something far greater than a network of edible gardens. It has become a living example of what is possible when people come together to create spaces rooted in dignity, joy, and shared care.

Community gardens are often described as places where food is grown. But the truth is, they grow much more than vegetables. They grow trust. They grow new relationships between neighbors who may have passed each other many times without ever truly meeting. They create an invitation to gather, and in that gathering, something powerful begins to happen.

What moved me most in my conversation with Sara was her belief that these spaces can remove the invisible lines that so often divide us. In many systems, there are those who give and those who receive. There is a transaction, a stigma, a quiet imbalance. But a community garden, especially one built for everyone to access freely, offers another way. It says, this belongs to all of us. It says, you are welcome here. It says, nourishment should not come with shame.

That idea feels especially meaningful to me. Having grown up in a food insecure household, I understand how deeply access, and the lack of it, can shape a person’s sense of dignity. Fresh food is not simply about nutrition. It is about wellness, possibility, and the feeling that you, too, are worthy of beauty and abundance. When a community creates a garden space that anyone can walk into, harvest from, learn in, and enjoy, it is doing more than planting seeds. It is restoring humanity.

What I love about The Unity Gardens is that it reflects a truth I believe deeply, that care is most transformative when it is shared. These gardens are not only about solving a problem. They are about creating a culture. Children learn where food comes from. Families gather outdoors. Volunteers return because the work feels meaningful and joyful. People exchange recipes, taste something fresh from the vine, and reconnect with the earth and with one another. In a world that often feels rushed, transactional, and disconnected, these spaces offer something gentle and radical, a chance to slow down and remember what community can feel like.

Nature has always been a teacher. At Dr. Hauschka Skin Care, we speak often about the rhythms of the natural world and the wisdom that lives within it. Gardens remind us that growth cannot be forced. It must be tended. It must be given time, attention, and trust. Community works the same way. It flourishes when people feel seen, welcomed, and invited to participate.

That is why I find community garden spaces so inspiring. They are not just patches of land. They are expressions of a shared belief that wellbeing belongs to everyone. They remind us that health is social, emotional, and collective. They show us that when we design spaces with openness and care, we create the conditions for people to thrive.

The beauty of these gardens is also their simplicity. A seed, a bed of soil, a few willing hands, these small beginnings can become something extraordinary. They can become gathering places. Classrooms. Sanctuaries. Sources of food and confidence and calm. They can become a blueprint for how communities care for one another.

I left this conversation feeling reminded that some of the most meaningful changes do not begin with grand declarations. They begin with a single act of generosity. A garden planted. A gate left open. A hand extended in welcome.

And from there, a whole community can bloom.

If you want to learn more about The Unity Garden, listen to our April episode of The Giving Garden® Podcast at https://youtu.be/804BW1TqyP4

The post Where Community Takes Root appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

Very often these days, when I start to think about a new piece, I am confronted with a flood of questions: Will this piece be like the last, or will I push myself to discover some new way to express things this time? Do I just start to write and see where things lead, or should I force myself to do some pre-planning (which I hate to do)? Am I writing abstract music, or will the piece be “about” something? It is finding an answer to this last question that preoccupies me the most lately. For example, if I decide to write for a singer, the structure and character of the piece are going to be shaped in dialog with the meaning and expression of the text. But songs with texts are obviously about the subject of the text. There are other, less obvious ways in which a piece of music might be “about something”.

One of my mentors often said, “you are either aware of your influences, or you are controlled by them”. He meant that every composer is influenced by other music, whether willing to admit it or not, and to pretend otherwise is ignorant. I have thought a lot about that statement over the years and, ultimately, have found it helpful and freeing. If I just accept that influences are always there, then I had better get to know as much music as I can. It follows that this gives the unconscious the broadest range of sources to pull from. Furthermore, one can choose when to push the line between unconscious and conscious influence and create pieces that have an intentional “conversation with the past”, drawing on archival sources, deliberate musical references, or even quotations. The job then becomes to compose new contexts and points of view around and on old materials, transforming them and creating something new. This is, in fact a rich way of working that tracks the entire history of music, at least as far back as chant and as recent as “sampling”.

I find it deeply inspiring to consider all kinds of pre-existing materials – words, music, and recordings – depending on the piece I wish to write. My 1998 piece for live electric guitar and fixed media, ‘Scuse Me transforms Jimi Hendrix samples and musical motives into a new musical world with its own energy, totally apart from its famous source. My setting of five of John Berryman’s Dream Songs, for orchestra and fixed media has chunks of Bach woven into the orchestra at key dramatic moments to heighten the text without even really being heard. Other pieces, such as my recent, Muriel’s Songs, incorporate both historical musical models and memoir-based storytelling.

My grandmother, Muriel Gellert Chasalow (1903-2000) was born in Brooklyn and lived the rest of her life there and in New Jersey. In 2016, my Aunt Renee, her daughter, collected some stories that Muriel had written, assembling them into a book. I had heard or read some of these stories over the years, others were completely new and surprising to me. For my libretto, I extracted several dramatic situations from the book, composing a poem on each, often incorporating sentences from her stories wherever possible to capture her voice. The narrative thread starts with her memories at ten years old in 1913 and finishes with the death of my grandfather, Sam, her husband of fifty-six years, in 1985. My text adds a few especially colorful family stories that she had not written about, but that I had heard told by other relatives repeatedly over the years. The result is an intimate, intelligent and humorous personal reflection on living through key events of the Twentieth Century.

Excerpts from Muriel’s Songs – Copyright 2023 Eric Chasalow DBA Suspicious Motives Music (ASCAP)

1913 

My mother’s mother was orthodox
So very religious, she only spoke Yiddish…

But my parents were completely different.
My father was a Tammany Hall Democrat
And above all, worshiped
The Brooklyn Dodgers.

1942

This song grounds the cycle in perhaps the defining experience of the century for my grandparents’ generation…World War II… I have written a direct parody (in the oldest sense of that word) on Purcell’s, When I am Laid in Earth, from Dido and Aeneas.

We suffered the shortages

We learned first aid
We suffered the fear of air raids.
We lowered the shades
We sat and listened
Every moment was a new threat

We suffered the fear
We worried the night through
We suffered the loss of loved ones
We were resolved

Then, somehow,
it was all over
I swept the sand
off of the summer carpet
and out the door,
But we would never
Ever be the same again.

 1959

Following a monumental effort, due to the post-war housing boom, my grandparents moved to West Orange. Grandpa returned to truck sales, founding Greater GMC truck sales, in Newark…bankrolled by the mob.

After the war
We moved to a nice
Part of West Orange
Not the best, but very nice

One day Longie,
who lived
Just two-minutes away,
But in a more exclusive neighborhood
Was found by his wife
In his own basement, hanged.

You had known him
In younger years –
A business acquaintance
Back when he dated Jean Harlow
And bought her that
Diamond bracelet and
A red Cadillac

We did not attend
The funeral
Though almost two-thousand
people did, with an
open casket
and an abundance of flowers
which really was surprising
for a Jewish service
though we heard later
that no one, not even
the rabbi, had been at all surprised…

1985

Toward the end of her book of stories, Muriel takes stock of what matters to her and realizes that the small interactions and daily accomplishments really count.

After being busy
In the role of wife and partner
For fifty-six years,
Suddenly I am alone

I never tell anyone
How pleased I am
When they ask
me to mend a sweater
Or show me a picture
And ask, “don’t you think
This would look well on me?”

Just the other day
I was extremely
Satisfied that
I was able to reset
all of the clocks
myself.

Musically speaking, each song in the cycle is a meditation on a different historical source and style. The challenge here was to embrace each source so completely that the new piece would move well beyond mere imitation to become transformative. With that as my goal and not wanting listeners to start playing “name that tune”, I have often been reluctant to mention specific sources. But the piece is written and I have either succeeded or failed, so here goes: Henry Purcell, Irving Berlin, JS Bach, Milton Babbitt, Disco, Latin Jazz and a less intentional bit of Mahler each make their appearance. As luck would have it, as I write, Talea Ensemble plans to present the New York premiere of Muriel’s Songs on April 23 at the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research so you can come and judge for yourself.

YIVO Institute for Jewish Research 15 W16th Street, NYC. (Information and tickets at yivo.com/Musical-Memoir)

The post You are either aware of your influences, or you are controlled by them. Musical Conversations with the Past. appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

There is a belief I return to often, one that has quietly shaped both my personal journey and the work we nurture through The Giving Garden®. Women grow in the most spectacular ways when we choose to gather with purpose. Not to compare. Not to compete. But to expand one another.

When women come together in honest conversation, something shifts. Growth stops feeling like a solitary climb and begins to resemble a shared horizon. We multiply courage. We normalize ambition. We soften one another’s fears. I have witnessed this truth again and again. When women intentionally uplift one another, we do not simply support individual success. We create ecosystems of possibility.

For me, this understanding began long before boardrooms and podcast microphones. It started years ago at a beauty counter, where I met my dear friend Florence Ferrat. We were both early in our careers, navigating an industry that moves quickly and demands resilience. What we built in those early days was more than professional camaraderie. It was a friendship rooted in mutual belief.

We stood beside one another through career pivots, personal milestones, and moments of quiet doubt. There is something sacred about friendships that grow in parallel with your life. You witness each other becoming.

In her own words, Florence shared “To me, friendship is defined by presence. It is the choice to truly show up for one another, not only in words, but in actions. We stand beside each other through distance, through challenges, and through growth. There is honesty, encouragement, and a quiet, unwavering support. It reflects the strength of women uplifting one another, creating a bond that reminds you that you are never alone.

Martina and I have been showing up for each other for over 30 years, and there is a bit of magic in that commitment.”

Today, Florence is an accomplished artist whose work is layered with intention and emotion. Recently, she gave me a piece I will treasure always. It is an abstract barcode representation of the people who matter most in my life. At first glance, a barcode suggests commerce or identity. But in her hands, it became something entirely different, a visual language of love and belonging.

Each line holds connection. Each space carries history. It is a reminder that none of us moves through the world alone. We are, in many ways, encoded with the presence of those who lift us, challenge us, and grow beside us.

This spirit of shared growth is something we explore often on The Giving Garden® Podcast. Over time, I have had the profound privilege of sitting in conversation with extraordinary women who are redefining what care looks like in their communities.

One of those leaders is Erin McAleer, president and CEO of Project Bread. Erin leads with both clarity and deep humanity. Her work centers on a truth that should never be negotiable, that access to nourishing food is foundational to dignity, learning, and long term wellbeing. Under her leadership, Project Bread continues to advocate for systemic solutions to food insecurity while meeting immediate needs with compassion and precision.

What moves me most about Erin’s work is her understanding that policy and programs are not abstract concepts. They are lifelines for families. When children are nourished, they can focus, learn, and imagine their futures more freely. Erin embodies what it means to gather with intention and to build systems where everyone has the opportunity to thrive.

I have also been deeply inspired by Demi Knight Clark, whose work creates pathways for women to access skills, mentorship, and meaningful economic opportunity. Demi is not simply teaching technical abilities. She is cultivating confidence and agency. Her leadership reminds us that when one woman advances, the ripple effect often reaches far beyond her own life.

And then there is Georgi Enthoven, who invites us to rethink our relationship with work itself. Georgi challenges the notion that purpose and livelihood must live in separate spaces. Instead, she encourages us to design careers that reflect our values and our desire to contribute meaningfully. For so many women navigating reinvention, her perspective offers both permission and possibility.

When I reflect on Florence, Erin, Demi, Georgi, and the many women who have shaped my path, a clear thread emerges. Growth is relational. It is fueled by mentorship, collaboration, and the courage to uplift others as we rise.

There is a quiet revolution unfolding when women gather with intention. We exchange stories that normalize both struggle and resilience. We model leadership that is strong and compassionate at the same time. We create circles of care that extend far beyond our immediate reach.

Gathering, at its heart, is an act of reciprocity. It is not only what we receive, but what we offer. A listening ear. A word of encouragement. A resource shared at just the right moment. These gestures may seem small, yet over time they accumulate into something profoundly transformative.

So I invite you into a simple moment of reflection. Think of the women who have shaped your journey. The friend who stood beside you when the path felt uncertain. The mentor who recognized your potential before you fully claimed it. The colleague who chose collaboration over competition.

Reach out to her. Celebrate her. Thank her.

Because when we gather, when we gather for good, we are choosing collective elevation. We are affirming that there is room for all of us to grow, to lead, and to flourish. And together, we continue tending this ever expanding garden of women who uplift, inspire, and lead with heart.

To learn more about The Giving Garden®, visit drhauschka.com/loyalty-program 

Discover more about Florence Ferrat’s art at FlorenceFerrat.com

The post When We Gather, We Grow Together appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

The work of visionary painter Hilma af Klint — erased from the art history she helped shape — gave Paola Yamel Lima permission to stop disappearing. 

Paola Yamel Lima will tell you she didn’t invent herself. “I didn’t invent this person,” she says. “I was there.” The circumstances just needed to get out of the way.

For a long time, the circumstances did not get out of the way. She is a mother, a partner, the person who kept everything running – the chef, the driver, the emotional anchor. Born of a Cuban mother and Argentine father who steered their kids toward law. A domestic life so complete it barely left room to notice what else was underneath. And then a relationship that worked to erase what remained. She describes it without drama: “I was almost deleted.” That’s what a person with that kind of pathology does to a partner — someone so full of vibrancy and life, of course, they want to squash it.

“I was raised to be pretty,” she says. “Here we are.”

Four words: A whole former life. And the quiet, total fact that she has walked out of it.

What cracked it open was a painter she’d never heard of. Hilma af Klint spent decades making some of the most radical abstract work of the twentieth century — visionary, enormous, unlike anything being made at the time. And then, at her own insistence, Hilma kept it hidden from the world until after her death. She didn’t trust the world to be ready. For most of history, her name was simply missing from the story. The art world is still catching up.

—

Paola went to the Guggenheim with her sister to see the retrospective and walked out holding onto the wall. She went home, and six days later had her Archimedean moment. She started pulling at threads — af Klint’s influences, her notebooks, the private cosmological framework she’d spent a lifetime building and protecting. Books, research, timestamps on every note. The research bled into drawings, the drawings into writing, the writing into everything. The work as a living organism. Timestamps going back seven years. It starts, she says, with not knowing what you’re looking for. It finds you. Like a whisper.

Then the pandemic, a separation, seven months turning forty at her parents’ house with her daughters. A lot, all at once. But on the other side of it something had clarified. She’d grown too isolated inside her own work — too alone with too many things and no one to think with. So she decided to go back to school.

She’d hesitated for two years. 

Worried she wouldn’t follow through, she knew she’d hate herself if she didn’t commit fully. She went anyway, escaped into her art — a one year MFA intensive in lower Manhattan at the New York Academy of Art, older than most of her classmates, already carrying years of self-directed research she’d built entirely on her own, followed by two more years of study as Tracey Emin’s inaugural scholar. She called and still calls her studio a lab. Curated miniature shows inside a found dollhouse for her professors and still their own work, printed small, installed at precise eye level. The head of the drawing department put his whole face inside and told her he hadn’t had a solo show in years 

“I taught it all to myself. All of it.”

Hilma af Klint made work of staggering vision, and the world wasn’t allowed to see it for decades. Paola was almost deleted by someone who couldn’t hold what she was, and handed a life before that which had no room for it either. Two women, a century apart, the same quiet erasure.

Her two teenaged daughters are watching. They’re both creative. They both write beautifully. Paola wanted them to see this specifically. Not just the art. The decision. The refusal to stay invisible.

“I’ve got to make a legacy for them.”

“There’s room for all of us,” she says. “Nobody makes the same thing. I just want to make things that people like to look at and make them think a little.”

Hilma af Klint hid her work and trusted the future to find it. Paola Yamel Lima is doing the opposite, making herself visible, making noise, making something her daughters can hold in their hands and point to and say: she was here. She did this. She was always this person.

She was. The third act is just where she gets to show it. But first, a website. Stay tuned.

Some histories get written after the fact. This Women’s History Month, Paola Yamel Lima is writing hers in real time, and making sure her daughters have a front row seat to write theirs!

https://www.instagram.com/paolayamel

From a transcript of a KARJAKA Exclusive interview in 2024.

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In 1925, Dr. Carter G. Woodson planned the inaugural week-long observance of Black history, an idea sparked by his belief that teaching Black history was essential to ensure the physical and intellectual survival of Black people within broader society. He said, “If a race has no history, it has no worthwhile tradition, it becomes a negligible factor in the thought of the world, and it stands in danger of being exterminated.” Little did he know that this week-long observance would evolve into a national reckoning, one we’re still fighting to protect.

A century later, we honor what Woodson started. But recognition didn’t come easy, and now, at this milestone, we’re still fighting similar battles he’d recognize all too well.

We’re watching a systematic erasure of books like The 1619 Project, Beloved, Between the World and Me & Black Boy by Richard Wright pulled from shelves. Monuments removed. Curricula stripped of honest analyses of slavery, Jim Crow, and systemic racism. This isn’t a coincidence. It’s a strategy. Because Black history is American history, the good, the bad, and everything in between. These stories enable possibility. These stories prevent repetition. These stories offer hope. And that makes them dangerous to those invested in maintaining a sanitized past and a curated future.

Woodson wrote, “When you control a man’s thinking, you do not have to worry about his actions. You do not have to tell him not to stand here or go yonder. He will find his ‘proper place’ and will stay in it.”

One hundred years later, the fight for whose stories get told, and who gets to tell them, continues. This issue highlighted the next generation of artists who refuse to find their “proper place.” They’re reclaiming their narratives, creating in spite of censorship, and insisting on a future where history cannot be erased.

In these pages, you met a milliner keeping a dying craft alive and flipping it on its head. A denim designer channeling Warhol and Basquiat, documenting his own becoming in real time. Each of them understands what Woodson knew: that to control your story is to claim your survival.

But progress is not inevitable. It must be protected, amplified, and carried forward. So I hope you enjoyed these stories. Share them. Speak them. Teach them. Because a century of honoring Black history means nothing if we allow the next generation to inherit silence.

The post CONTRIBUTING EDITOR’S LETTER: WHY A CENTURY OF STORIES MATTERS appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

When we talk about children and their future, we often speak in big, hopeful language, education, opportunity, potential. But the foundation for all of that is surprisingly simple. A child who is nourished can learn. A child who is hungry is carrying a weight no child should have to bear.

I know this personally, not as an abstract policy conversation, but as lived experience.

As a child, free school meals were not an extra convenience, they were essential. At times, they were often the most reliable meal of my day. Yet back then, access came wrapped in stigma. A different colored ticket, a heavy weight in a small hand. A quiet awareness that others were watching, and your simple need, made you different.

Those meals gave me something extraordinary, a sense of freedom and dignity that opened the door to learning. They helped me arrive in the classroom ready to focus, explore, and enjoy the simple wonder of being a child. That nourishment did more than sustain me, it nurtured confidence and curiosity, and quietly reminded me that I was worthy of care and possibility.

Today, millions of children across this country rely on school meals in much the same way. For many families, these meals are not supplemental, they are foundational. They are the difference between a child arriving at school preoccupied with hunger and the ability for them to readily engage with the opportunities to grow and flourish at school.

In the February episode of The Giving Garden® Podcast, I spoke with Erin Hysom, a child nutrition policy expert for Food Research and Action Center. Her work centers on ending hunger through thoughtful, compassionate policy. She described schools as environments where we are actively shaping a child’s future. Her message was clear; “children cannot reach their full potential if they are hungry.” Nutrition is not separate from education. It is education’s partner.

What struck me most in our conversation was how often we misunderstand school meals as an expense rather than what they truly are, an investment. An investment in public health, in academic success, and in the arc of a child’s life. Research consistently shows that children who have access to nutritious school meals demonstrate better attendance, improved concentration, and stronger academic outcomes. Teachers see calmer classrooms. Communities see healthier children.

Just as important is the role dignity plays in access. Programs that allow all students to eat together, without visible markers of income, remove stigma and create equity. They send a message that nourishment is a shared value, not a privilege reserved for a few.

Food has always been at the center of community. It is how we gather, how we care, how we signal belonging. When a school ensures every child can eat, it is doing more than filling plates. It is reinforcing the idea that each child matters, fully and without condition.

When I reflect on my own journey, I can trace a straight line from those cafeteria meals to the opportunities I was able to pursue. Hunger did not define my school day because someone chose to build a system that prioritized children’s well-being. That decision echoed forward in my life.

Ensuring access to healthy school meals is one of the most direct ways we care for our collective future. It is a practical act of compassion. It is policy shaped by humanity. And at its heart, it is a promise to children that their dignity, their health, and their ability to learn are worth protecting.

To learn more about how The Giving Garden works to create access to healthy meals for communities across the country, visit https://www.drhauschka.com/loyalty-program/

Listen to the episode of The Giving Garden Podcast on YouTube at https://youtu.be/L0gflPK1Z4U

The post There is Dignity in Nourishment appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

I wake up… I look around, and I see my bedroom wall covered in moments I captured. It was 2022 when I first started taking these images consciously. Four years have passed. Now, when I look at the original pictures, it feels like poetry. My mind reminds my body how I felt. Alone… I wish I could’ve told Omar (me) that it would be okay. That these moments captured would evolve into a greater art, and that my loneliness would only lead me closer to understanding the self, the art. Closer to the child I was. Denim became the language between us — through this practice, I revisit the novelty of childhood.

When I meet people and introduce myself as an artist, I mean it. This practice has guided me as long as I can remember, from drawing a stick-figure self-portrait in preschool to just having an interest in it and finding peace. I wonder if the term ‘artist’ is as meaningful as it was before… or has it become more meaningful? I find myself studying the greats — inspired by their stories of struggle and what they went through in the old world to make it as artists. Warhol knew he had to leave Pittsburgh for New York in 1949 to pursue his career. He knew the world around him was changing into a commercialized one, and he made the crucial move to not be left behind. Basquiat let his spirit speak, leaving his frustrations, questions, and answers on the canvas for the viewers to consume. As an artist working in denim, I resonate with their stories, struggles, and families.

Creating in denim has now become a habit of mine. A habit and art form that I like. I wore a uniform until I got to college, but there were times when I could dress down, and I always wanted to match colors. If I didn’t have a certain pair of jeans or pants that I liked, it wouldn’t work. In 2025, I completed the first set of PowerJeans. A self-documentation spanning almost a full year, and at its core, is denim jeans with differentiating colors representing emotions and elements of the self. The jeans and colored leather are meant to evoke one’s earliest childhood memories. It seemed like in 2023 and 2024, we saw everything in fashion, and at a certain point, I felt it all became regurgitated. The Power Jeans’ simple silhouette, matched with eye-popping color, was my direct response to all the complicated, exaggerated silhouettes. 

In today’s world with technology, I wonder how art will be transformed, connected, moved, shared, and digested. A part of me wants to continue blending art, life, and technology into one, and that’d be the transformation. But another part of me wants to get everybody off their phones and back to digesting things physically in the real world, not on a screen in the open air where art can breathe. 

We all have internal and external struggles that get in between us and our art. Over the last six months, I’ve been battling with putting myself, my art, or the external forces around me first. Sometimes I find myself getting distracted, looking for another “peace”. But honestly, there is no other. The art of denim is my peace. Making is my peace. Using my hands to create something out of nothing is peace.

At 23, I don’t want to wonder… I know I’m great, and I know I can make it for certain. It comes down to putting myself and my art into the world. A professor once told me, “Art is not done until it is displayed for the world to see, then it’s complete.” The world must see how I see — how Omar saw in 2022, and how he’s looking forward now. I remind myself to enjoy the journey and the hardships that come along with it. I remind myself that no matter how long it takes, I must continue to put one foot after the other. I look at the world around me and imagine that one day, I will be remembered as one of the greats.

The post The Power of Denim appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.