Saturday, July 23, 2011
Palm Tree in Poland: An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, and an Irishman...
Palm Tree in Poland: An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, and an Irishman...: "An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, an Egyptian, a Pakistani, an Irishman and a Syrian walked into a bar ... and it was just another normal..."
An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, and an Irishman walked into bar...
An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, an Egyptian, a Pakistani, an Irishman and a Syrian walked into a bar...
and it was just another normal, hilarious night at the bar.
My favorite scenes from Aspen this summer so far (and I'm betting they won't be beat) are the ones described above.
I will never forget. Never. I saw the future. Dare I believe it? I do.
Oh, and American or two. Given everything, we're the toughest ones to add into the mix. Odd, isn't it. Ironic. Given our view of ourselves, and our views of the world.
True confession: I am a bleeding heart liberal, if by that you mean a sentimental idealist who believes all things are possible EVEN given the complexity of human personalities and global politics.
My sentiments have been sorely tested. By all the usual things we could tick off right now. And also, sadly, by friends who give up on friendship or choose not to be bothered by those who are too different than themselves. It's a tough world out there. Wear a helmet.
But. Still in all. I saw it with my own eyes. Now, to be clear, it was only a small group. And an elite one at that. I did not see just any old Israeli, or Iranian, or Afghan, or Irishman, or American walk into a bar, I saw particular ones with a particular slant on things. A slant that says "yes" to being open, who says "yes" to listening, to speaking carefully, to being generous in their assessments and looks with new eyes at the habitation of his or her neighbors. And their needs.
I saw it. And it was the most beautiful sight in the world. The laughter, the silence as everyone thoughtfully considered another's idea, the more laughter, and more laughter. The eyes that looked carefully into another's. The ears that in some cases were rather larger than others but that mattered not at all, only what those ears did was important. And mouths that smiled big and long and crazily and lovingly, or kindly.
It was the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. After that I decided I'd skip my usual trek up to the Maroon Bells and then to Ashcroft. I'd seen it all.
Last night I saw and heard and felt the opposite. At my favorite bookstore. Pro-Israeli Jews insisting "there are no good Arabs," "there is no such thing as a moderate Muslim." When asked about Arabs in general, the speaker could only make reference to terrorism, nothing else. When asked if a positive Arab character could appear in one of the author's books, as a collaborator on a project with his clearly Israeli protagonist, he laughed at me. "No!" When asked if he could write a scene in which Arabs and Jews were depicted in one of their many cooperative, peace-making ventures he laughed again. I thought I might need a body guard. Daggers. The rest of the audience shot daggers with their eyes. Not quite the picture I was going for. Or expected, frankly, in this relatively well-educated community. Who knew.
As I reported in my last blog post, I walked out of my local indie book store and blah blah blah... whatever it was.
Last night I walked out of my local indie book store. Period.
I'm not sure when I'll go back.
I would much rather gather up an Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, an Irishman, an Egyptian, a Syrian and an American and walk into a bar.
There would be sisterhood and brotherhood and a lot of laughter.
Of course, we could meet up at the Tattered Cover. I just hope Gabriel Allon won't be around.
Salaam. Shalom. Paz. Peace.
and it was just another normal, hilarious night at the bar.
My favorite scenes from Aspen this summer so far (and I'm betting they won't be beat) are the ones described above.
I will never forget. Never. I saw the future. Dare I believe it? I do.
Oh, and American or two. Given everything, we're the toughest ones to add into the mix. Odd, isn't it. Ironic. Given our view of ourselves, and our views of the world.
True confession: I am a bleeding heart liberal, if by that you mean a sentimental idealist who believes all things are possible EVEN given the complexity of human personalities and global politics.
My sentiments have been sorely tested. By all the usual things we could tick off right now. And also, sadly, by friends who give up on friendship or choose not to be bothered by those who are too different than themselves. It's a tough world out there. Wear a helmet.
But. Still in all. I saw it with my own eyes. Now, to be clear, it was only a small group. And an elite one at that. I did not see just any old Israeli, or Iranian, or Afghan, or Irishman, or American walk into a bar, I saw particular ones with a particular slant on things. A slant that says "yes" to being open, who says "yes" to listening, to speaking carefully, to being generous in their assessments and looks with new eyes at the habitation of his or her neighbors. And their needs.
I saw it. And it was the most beautiful sight in the world. The laughter, the silence as everyone thoughtfully considered another's idea, the more laughter, and more laughter. The eyes that looked carefully into another's. The ears that in some cases were rather larger than others but that mattered not at all, only what those ears did was important. And mouths that smiled big and long and crazily and lovingly, or kindly.
It was the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. After that I decided I'd skip my usual trek up to the Maroon Bells and then to Ashcroft. I'd seen it all.
Last night I saw and heard and felt the opposite. At my favorite bookstore. Pro-Israeli Jews insisting "there are no good Arabs," "there is no such thing as a moderate Muslim." When asked about Arabs in general, the speaker could only make reference to terrorism, nothing else. When asked if a positive Arab character could appear in one of the author's books, as a collaborator on a project with his clearly Israeli protagonist, he laughed at me. "No!" When asked if he could write a scene in which Arabs and Jews were depicted in one of their many cooperative, peace-making ventures he laughed again. I thought I might need a body guard. Daggers. The rest of the audience shot daggers with their eyes. Not quite the picture I was going for. Or expected, frankly, in this relatively well-educated community. Who knew.
As I reported in my last blog post, I walked out of my local indie book store and blah blah blah... whatever it was.
Last night I walked out of my local indie book store. Period.
I'm not sure when I'll go back.
I would much rather gather up an Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, an Irishman, an Egyptian, a Syrian and an American and walk into a bar.
There would be sisterhood and brotherhood and a lot of laughter.
Of course, we could meet up at the Tattered Cover. I just hope Gabriel Allon won't be around.
Salaam. Shalom. Paz. Peace.
Monday, July 18, 2011
On the Borders
Now what?
Amazon.
I walked out of my local indie bookstore tonight, The Tattered Cover, after learning that a book a wanted was long out of print, and thought, I'll check Amazon.
Amazon. It is a great resource for occasions like mine. And, I confess, I'll order a bucket of used books from time to time when I simply cannot afford the list price, or, more likely, when the books I want are indeed old and out of print. And of course, it is convenient. It's a great place for folks who live nowhere near a bookstore.
And it sure beats the heck out of counting on Costco to tell us what is worth reading.
But that's the point, the problem, as stores with actual books with actual covers and jackets and pages with words close. One doomsayer claimed today, "The bricks and mortar bookstore is dead."
Over my tattered body.
This is what I can do at The Tattered Cover -- our Indie bookstore -- that I cannot do at Amazon.
1. Chat with the friendly staff about everything from books to sunsets.
2. Ask for advice about which translation of Chekhov is most authentic.
3. Watch little kids play with pop-up books and make their own choices.
4. Drink cappuccino.
5. Sit in an overstuffed chair and read from seven different books that I'm considering purchasing. There are no missing pages, and holding the book in my hand makes me feel connected in an odd way to the author.
6.My daughter and I browsed together for a bit and picked up books that intrigued us and discussed recommendations we'd heard. We would not be browsing on Amazon together.
7. I discovered a used copy of one of my favorites for $3 and no shipping fee.
8. I picked up and considered books I'd never heard of and would not likely be directed toward even though I have an extensive Amazon "like this" list. I bought one. The store itself is educational -- pointing out ideas via book titles and the books themselves.
9. I ran into a friend.
10. We walked out to another spectacular view of the mountains and a gorgeous sunset.
When I order a book they don't have in stock, it arrives within a few days, often the next day, and I don't pay a cent for shipping.
When I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for, I wander around actual floors filled with shelves holding actual books and I pick them up and read the jacket covers or the backs, and I have an entire array of books in front of me to consider.
The store does the work for me when I am in a fog.
It sells used books for practically nothing.
It gives me a wonderful place to sit and write with friends. And to talk with other writers about our work. And to sit in comfy overstuffed chairs and peruse magazines, books, and eat scones.
There are lots of good features about online bookselling. It is here to stay. And there are lots of good features about e-books. They're not going away either -- not until the next generation replaces them.
But,like movie theatres when VCR's and DVD's came out and we all shouted doom to the places with popcorn and Twizzlers and JuJuBee's, life wil change. Our options will increase. And, I bet you a pile of books, of whichever variety you wish, 'real' bookstores will not go away for good.
Amazon has not ever, not once, given me a comfy chair in which to sit and drink a cappuccino and chat with Christie.
And heaven forfend the day that the only books we have to buy are those Walmart has decided we'd like to read. Can you even imagine?
Amazon.
I walked out of my local indie bookstore tonight, The Tattered Cover, after learning that a book a wanted was long out of print, and thought, I'll check Amazon.
Amazon. It is a great resource for occasions like mine. And, I confess, I'll order a bucket of used books from time to time when I simply cannot afford the list price, or, more likely, when the books I want are indeed old and out of print. And of course, it is convenient. It's a great place for folks who live nowhere near a bookstore.
And it sure beats the heck out of counting on Costco to tell us what is worth reading.
But that's the point, the problem, as stores with actual books with actual covers and jackets and pages with words close. One doomsayer claimed today, "The bricks and mortar bookstore is dead."
Over my tattered body.
This is what I can do at The Tattered Cover -- our Indie bookstore -- that I cannot do at Amazon.
1. Chat with the friendly staff about everything from books to sunsets.
2. Ask for advice about which translation of Chekhov is most authentic.
3. Watch little kids play with pop-up books and make their own choices.
4. Drink cappuccino.
5. Sit in an overstuffed chair and read from seven different books that I'm considering purchasing. There are no missing pages, and holding the book in my hand makes me feel connected in an odd way to the author.
6.My daughter and I browsed together for a bit and picked up books that intrigued us and discussed recommendations we'd heard. We would not be browsing on Amazon together.
7. I discovered a used copy of one of my favorites for $3 and no shipping fee.
8. I picked up and considered books I'd never heard of and would not likely be directed toward even though I have an extensive Amazon "like this" list. I bought one. The store itself is educational -- pointing out ideas via book titles and the books themselves.
9. I ran into a friend.
10. We walked out to another spectacular view of the mountains and a gorgeous sunset.
When I order a book they don't have in stock, it arrives within a few days, often the next day, and I don't pay a cent for shipping.
When I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for, I wander around actual floors filled with shelves holding actual books and I pick them up and read the jacket covers or the backs, and I have an entire array of books in front of me to consider.
The store does the work for me when I am in a fog.
It sells used books for practically nothing.
It gives me a wonderful place to sit and write with friends. And to talk with other writers about our work. And to sit in comfy overstuffed chairs and peruse magazines, books, and eat scones.
There are lots of good features about online bookselling. It is here to stay. And there are lots of good features about e-books. They're not going away either -- not until the next generation replaces them.
But,like movie theatres when VCR's and DVD's came out and we all shouted doom to the places with popcorn and Twizzlers and JuJuBee's, life wil change. Our options will increase. And, I bet you a pile of books, of whichever variety you wish, 'real' bookstores will not go away for good.
Amazon has not ever, not once, given me a comfy chair in which to sit and drink a cappuccino and chat with Christie.
And heaven forfend the day that the only books we have to buy are those Walmart has decided we'd like to read. Can you even imagine?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Storming the Bastille
da da da dum dum dum dum dah de dum ta dum dum do dum dee dee dum
Oh to be young and whimsical again. Why have we stopped doing this? Dang.
Bastille Day. Precisely at six o'clock a.m. our radio would wake us -- loudly -- to La Marseillaise. Talk about a wake up call!
We'd sit right up, and salute, right there in bed.
"Allons enfants de la Patrie Le jour de gloire est arrive!
Come! Our day of glory has arrived!"
Those days of glory are always also days of blood.
Of death.
Risk.
Sacrifice.
One need only remember Les Miserables to be clear on this.
There are no days of glory without days of sacrifice and risk.
Lest these pages seem morose and bleak,let's remember the essential:
There are days of glory that follow those days of sacrifice, risk, and even blood.
* * *
Fourteen years ago today, July 14, 1997, was a Sunday. I have no memory of what we Erickson-Pearson's were doing, oblivious.
My brother Jim, fifteen miles away, was almost beaten to death with a brick. He escaped and ran down the street out of his house to summon help. The stains of dark red blood on his white shirt and shorts haunt my memory to this day.
The next several weeks were frightening for all of us, as his assailant threatened to finish the job and even harm others most precious to him.
I confess, I feared for my brother's life constantly. And for my children. Constant vigilance. It was exhausting. And excruciating. It continued to be a threat for several months. Tragically, the man who attempted to kill my brother succeeded at killing himself on Thanksgiving.
"Out of the rot and the ruin come the rumors of resurrection,"
and not only rumors.
Jim is more alive and more healthy today that he was for many years even before the attack. He is claiming the gifts of life every day.
Of course, it doesn't come quickly. There is no Oprah magic to this healing process. We want it to come on our terms. Quickly. And those around us want us to heal up fast. Move on.
It does not work that way. We each have our own narrative. And our own histories that factor into our new experiences. You can imagine that my trauma was made even worse after having gone through this experience alongside my brother. Trauma piled on top of another. And likewise mine triggered his "stuff," a few years later.
Jim can celebrate his recovery, ever vigilant, and today is a very significant day for us, one we remember with somber sadness and with deep gratitude for the gift of Jim's life, flowing freely and lively along with us, as he says, in the flow of the circles of life. It is a beautiful thing to behold! Life!
Storming the Bastille involves going up against abuse and structural violence. It feels like glory for about half an hour before dawn. Then it gets ugly. But eventually, France was free, and so are we.
Oh to be young and whimsical again. Why have we stopped doing this? Dang.
Bastille Day. Precisely at six o'clock a.m. our radio would wake us -- loudly -- to La Marseillaise. Talk about a wake up call!
We'd sit right up, and salute, right there in bed.
"Allons enfants de la Patrie Le jour de gloire est arrive!
Come! Our day of glory has arrived!"
Those days of glory are always also days of blood.
Of death.
Risk.
Sacrifice.
One need only remember Les Miserables to be clear on this.
There are no days of glory without days of sacrifice and risk.
Lest these pages seem morose and bleak,let's remember the essential:
There are days of glory that follow those days of sacrifice, risk, and even blood.
* * *
Fourteen years ago today, July 14, 1997, was a Sunday. I have no memory of what we Erickson-Pearson's were doing, oblivious.
My brother Jim, fifteen miles away, was almost beaten to death with a brick. He escaped and ran down the street out of his house to summon help. The stains of dark red blood on his white shirt and shorts haunt my memory to this day.
The next several weeks were frightening for all of us, as his assailant threatened to finish the job and even harm others most precious to him.
I confess, I feared for my brother's life constantly. And for my children. Constant vigilance. It was exhausting. And excruciating. It continued to be a threat for several months. Tragically, the man who attempted to kill my brother succeeded at killing himself on Thanksgiving.
"Out of the rot and the ruin come the rumors of resurrection,"
and not only rumors.
Jim is more alive and more healthy today that he was for many years even before the attack. He is claiming the gifts of life every day.
Of course, it doesn't come quickly. There is no Oprah magic to this healing process. We want it to come on our terms. Quickly. And those around us want us to heal up fast. Move on.
It does not work that way. We each have our own narrative. And our own histories that factor into our new experiences. You can imagine that my trauma was made even worse after having gone through this experience alongside my brother. Trauma piled on top of another. And likewise mine triggered his "stuff," a few years later.
Jim can celebrate his recovery, ever vigilant, and today is a very significant day for us, one we remember with somber sadness and with deep gratitude for the gift of Jim's life, flowing freely and lively along with us, as he says, in the flow of the circles of life. It is a beautiful thing to behold! Life!
Storming the Bastille involves going up against abuse and structural violence. It feels like glory for about half an hour before dawn. Then it gets ugly. But eventually, France was free, and so are we.
I got new ears!
My ears are new.
Who knew?
My ears are hearing differently.
Very simple: last night when Jay Leno was making fun of Iran and then said, given the lack of laughter in response to the joke, "I guess there are a lot of Iranians here tonight," I heard something I hadn't noticed before.
His words hit me as all wrong. Offensive. Making fun of my friends.
My Iranian friends. And, while I'm at it, I hear Iran differently now too. The name. I notice when it is mispronounced, I -ran.
I'd like to respect my friends and say it right, Ir-ron. That's not so hard.
Lots of words on this blog lately about speaking out. Betty Ford, spunky ladies, brave courageous women and men speaking the truth. Words. Using one's voice. Speaking for others.
But listening ranks right up there. Higher, maybe. I want to use my ears too. To hear truth, to hear the stories of those we ignore. And to hear with ears that are sympathetic to the concerns, hopes, and ideas of others, especially, for example, Iranians. My ears pick up the static now. And the put-downs.
To be honest, it would be good, to my mind, if lots of people got new ears. I think they're available. For free.
And, as a tribute to the spectacular friendship I experienced today, from someone who had no need to care about me, but did, I offer these wise words of Emily Dickinson,
"If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain: If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain."-Emily Dickinson
Given in a card by the Betty Ford family to all those who made the pilgrimage to pay our respects to the church where she was in repose. (shared from my brother, Jim)
I am one cool robin back in the safety of the nest again.
Pass it on.
Who knew?
My ears are hearing differently.
Very simple: last night when Jay Leno was making fun of Iran and then said, given the lack of laughter in response to the joke, "I guess there are a lot of Iranians here tonight," I heard something I hadn't noticed before.
His words hit me as all wrong. Offensive. Making fun of my friends.
My Iranian friends. And, while I'm at it, I hear Iran differently now too. The name. I notice when it is mispronounced, I -ran.
I'd like to respect my friends and say it right, Ir-ron. That's not so hard.
Lots of words on this blog lately about speaking out. Betty Ford, spunky ladies, brave courageous women and men speaking the truth. Words. Using one's voice. Speaking for others.
But listening ranks right up there. Higher, maybe. I want to use my ears too. To hear truth, to hear the stories of those we ignore. And to hear with ears that are sympathetic to the concerns, hopes, and ideas of others, especially, for example, Iranians. My ears pick up the static now. And the put-downs.
To be honest, it would be good, to my mind, if lots of people got new ears. I think they're available. For free.
And, as a tribute to the spectacular friendship I experienced today, from someone who had no need to care about me, but did, I offer these wise words of Emily Dickinson,
"If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain: If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain."-Emily Dickinson
Given in a card by the Betty Ford family to all those who made the pilgrimage to pay our respects to the church where she was in repose. (shared from my brother, Jim)
I am one cool robin back in the safety of the nest again.
Pass it on.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
"Hello, My name is Betty and I'm an alcoholic"
"Hello, my name is Betty and I'm an alcoholic."
Courage. Honesty. Kindness. Spunk. Determination. Speech.
Betty Ford made it okay to talk about the untalkable. To speak about the unmentionable.
First, it was breast cancer. Women in my mother's generation felt shame at a cancer diagnosis. It was whispered but not spoken aloud. Not only breast cancer but any cancer, the name that shall not be spoken.
No more. No more. No more.
Betty spoke and all of us began to. Be honest. Speak out.
Addiction. An abyss from which there was almost no relief, no cure, no recovery.
We joke about celebrities checking into the Betty Ford Center. It is no joke. I know people whose lives were literally saved at the Betty Ford Center. Scared, broken, lonely.
Renewal, recovery, the rooms, meetings, group, healing, confidence, new life.
Can you even imagine a nation without the influence of these institutions, these words, these inspirations?
People ask me why I blather here about my injury, my experience. Why I write about the abuse of power, about the scourge of clergy sexual abuse.
I take power and confidence and inspiration from Betty, from women like Betty who dare to speak truth, the unmentionable, the damnable.
She changed the world. She changed the world. She changed the world.
This is not to idolize a woman, but to pay respect and to be clear that some of us spunky, uppity, courageous women are not going to stop speaking the truth. However inconvenient. It's gonna keep coming.
About all manner of important, unmentionable but essential issues.
Bless you, Betty. And thank you. For everything.
Courage. Honesty. Kindness. Spunk. Determination. Speech.
Betty Ford made it okay to talk about the untalkable. To speak about the unmentionable.
First, it was breast cancer. Women in my mother's generation felt shame at a cancer diagnosis. It was whispered but not spoken aloud. Not only breast cancer but any cancer, the name that shall not be spoken.
No more. No more. No more.
Betty spoke and all of us began to. Be honest. Speak out.
Addiction. An abyss from which there was almost no relief, no cure, no recovery.
We joke about celebrities checking into the Betty Ford Center. It is no joke. I know people whose lives were literally saved at the Betty Ford Center. Scared, broken, lonely.
Renewal, recovery, the rooms, meetings, group, healing, confidence, new life.
Can you even imagine a nation without the influence of these institutions, these words, these inspirations?
People ask me why I blather here about my injury, my experience. Why I write about the abuse of power, about the scourge of clergy sexual abuse.
I take power and confidence and inspiration from Betty, from women like Betty who dare to speak truth, the unmentionable, the damnable.
She changed the world. She changed the world. She changed the world.
This is not to idolize a woman, but to pay respect and to be clear that some of us spunky, uppity, courageous women are not going to stop speaking the truth. However inconvenient. It's gonna keep coming.
About all manner of important, unmentionable but essential issues.
Bless you, Betty. And thank you. For everything.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Memories, dreams, reflections: "Don't challenge the USA on July 10"
Memories, dreams, and reflections
Our hearts were so full, our minds on fire.
Kaia was the world's number one US Women's World Cup Soccer Fan. She knew all the players' statistics, their backgrounds, their strong points. She was one of the thousands of little girls who looked up to these young women and counted the hours until her own next soccer practice and the next televised game. She was good. Had a strong leg, a mean mid-field boot. She could score from there, and was a master at corner kicks.
Kaia and Annika both wore their autographed World Cup tee-shirts. They'd met Mia Hamm and Kristine Lilley and I forget who all else.The girls had watched the US Team practice at a field close to our house, fell in love with the whole phenomenon.
We'd gone to the teams' hotel, also nearby, collected more autographs, met Swedish and Brazilian players as they headed out to the bus; Annika -- at age 6 -- was interviewed on Brazilian TV. Marta impressed us then.
Dave and Kaia were at Soldier Field in Chicago when the US played a penultimate game. We scheduled our lives around tournament matches. We did not miss even part of one. There is still a special box of memorabilia -- programs, tickets, autographs, noise-makers, souvenir mini-balls -- in Kaia's closet. Her passion and joy were so infectious it could not help but capture and move us all.
July 10, 1999. The Finals. The Rose Bowl, Pasadena California. 90,000 in the crowd in Pasadena, millions of us completely enthralled at home. Even I remember all the names of all the starting players. We had finger foods to munch on while we watched in the family room but none of us could manage a bite. Too much excitement, tension, uncertainty. Each one of us had our spot. And I don't think we moved so much as a finger. The telephone went unanswered. A thief could have driven off in the car. We were there. In the zone. All in. Just the four of us. No distractions.
The game itself was a thrill, tight, tense. China seemed to have our number. Kaia was curled around a commemorative soccer ball of her own. Annika had her game face on.
Dave and I had our own reason for sweating bullets. We were as eager as anyone to see the US win. And, as parents, we couldn't imagine the heart and soul our daughters were pouring into this and their heartbreak if the US lost.
But we were down to the wire on another front. Today was T-Day. The day we had put off and off. The day we finally had to Tell the girls we were likely moving to Littleton. Kaia with her best friend, Jenna, would be crushed. She had such a wonderful, full life in Naperville. It was wrenching, awful to think of pulling her away from friends, her soccer team, her special school programs, church, piano lessons, oh, STOP! Jan. Really. I can go downhill fast when I think along that line. I felt guilty as all hell.
But moving felt right, overall. Annika seemed more flexible, I wasn't as worried about her transition as I should have been. Annika would be in 2nd grade that fall, Kaia in 6th. Oh, the whole thing felt unreal.
Today, that day, July 10, 1999, however, was the day we HAD to tell them. We were all making a trial, audition trip to Denver in two weeks. They needed time to get their heads around the idea and we had to make specific plans. So Dave and I had an extra reason for hoping and praying the US would win. A loss and bad news, both on the same day would be really bad news. We had our hearts in our throats. Or whatever it is we say about those moments. Sweating bullets seems to cover it.
And the US won. In the most dramatic way possible. The ecstasy. The whooping and hollering we let go on and on and on and on.
Then, later in the day, we told them. They were more sanguine than I expected. We talked about the details.
Today, July 10, 2011. We watched another miracle finish by the US. There is no big news looming. Kaia has graduated from college and is living in a lovely house in Minneapolis. She even had her grandparents over for lunch today. Annika is visiting her and the two girls are doing well. They watched the game together with Grandma and Grandpa and life goes on.
Moving to Littleton was a good thing and a bad thing for them, for us all. It took me a longer time than anyone else to get used to all the change. And then I got whomped. Who ever could have foreseen, or even imagined that? No Hollywood screenwriter would have accepted the script; too over the top.
In truth, it is a painful memory for me. All that followed. Too much pain, too much hate. Too many encounters with evil. As much as we protected the girls, it has had an impact on them both. But they are doing well. And they learned more than we ever bargained.
Despite Oprah's insistence on "moving on" and catharsis and just getting on with your life, the centuries before her wisdom hit the small screen suggest to us that there is a time for letting go, AND a time for holding. A time to laugh and a time to cry, a time to get over it and a time to linger with the grief long enough to learn its lessons.
My body woke up grieving today before my mind even had a clue what for. It took hours and an explicit reminder before my heart and mind caught up with my emotions and my guts. "Oh, that day." Some bodies have a mind of their own. Mine does. It told me to take time, for the memories, the dreams, and the reflections.
Nothing can excuse hateful, evil actions. It takes time to absorb the blows. But now, here we are. Not immobilized anymore. Not overcome by grief. But mindful, reflective. Sober. And, having counted the cost, all in all, grateful to still be here.
And ready for a nap. I'll go conquer the world tomorrow. You can be on duty today.
Our hearts were so full, our minds on fire.
Kaia was the world's number one US Women's World Cup Soccer Fan. She knew all the players' statistics, their backgrounds, their strong points. She was one of the thousands of little girls who looked up to these young women and counted the hours until her own next soccer practice and the next televised game. She was good. Had a strong leg, a mean mid-field boot. She could score from there, and was a master at corner kicks.
Kaia and Annika both wore their autographed World Cup tee-shirts. They'd met Mia Hamm and Kristine Lilley and I forget who all else.The girls had watched the US Team practice at a field close to our house, fell in love with the whole phenomenon.
We'd gone to the teams' hotel, also nearby, collected more autographs, met Swedish and Brazilian players as they headed out to the bus; Annika -- at age 6 -- was interviewed on Brazilian TV. Marta impressed us then.
Dave and Kaia were at Soldier Field in Chicago when the US played a penultimate game. We scheduled our lives around tournament matches. We did not miss even part of one. There is still a special box of memorabilia -- programs, tickets, autographs, noise-makers, souvenir mini-balls -- in Kaia's closet. Her passion and joy were so infectious it could not help but capture and move us all.
July 10, 1999. The Finals. The Rose Bowl, Pasadena California. 90,000 in the crowd in Pasadena, millions of us completely enthralled at home. Even I remember all the names of all the starting players. We had finger foods to munch on while we watched in the family room but none of us could manage a bite. Too much excitement, tension, uncertainty. Each one of us had our spot. And I don't think we moved so much as a finger. The telephone went unanswered. A thief could have driven off in the car. We were there. In the zone. All in. Just the four of us. No distractions.
The game itself was a thrill, tight, tense. China seemed to have our number. Kaia was curled around a commemorative soccer ball of her own. Annika had her game face on.
Dave and I had our own reason for sweating bullets. We were as eager as anyone to see the US win. And, as parents, we couldn't imagine the heart and soul our daughters were pouring into this and their heartbreak if the US lost.
But we were down to the wire on another front. Today was T-Day. The day we had put off and off. The day we finally had to Tell the girls we were likely moving to Littleton. Kaia with her best friend, Jenna, would be crushed. She had such a wonderful, full life in Naperville. It was wrenching, awful to think of pulling her away from friends, her soccer team, her special school programs, church, piano lessons, oh, STOP! Jan. Really. I can go downhill fast when I think along that line. I felt guilty as all hell.
But moving felt right, overall. Annika seemed more flexible, I wasn't as worried about her transition as I should have been. Annika would be in 2nd grade that fall, Kaia in 6th. Oh, the whole thing felt unreal.
Today, that day, July 10, 1999, however, was the day we HAD to tell them. We were all making a trial, audition trip to Denver in two weeks. They needed time to get their heads around the idea and we had to make specific plans. So Dave and I had an extra reason for hoping and praying the US would win. A loss and bad news, both on the same day would be really bad news. We had our hearts in our throats. Or whatever it is we say about those moments. Sweating bullets seems to cover it.
And the US won. In the most dramatic way possible. The ecstasy. The whooping and hollering we let go on and on and on and on.
Then, later in the day, we told them. They were more sanguine than I expected. We talked about the details.
Today, July 10, 2011. We watched another miracle finish by the US. There is no big news looming. Kaia has graduated from college and is living in a lovely house in Minneapolis. She even had her grandparents over for lunch today. Annika is visiting her and the two girls are doing well. They watched the game together with Grandma and Grandpa and life goes on.
Moving to Littleton was a good thing and a bad thing for them, for us all. It took me a longer time than anyone else to get used to all the change. And then I got whomped. Who ever could have foreseen, or even imagined that? No Hollywood screenwriter would have accepted the script; too over the top.
In truth, it is a painful memory for me. All that followed. Too much pain, too much hate. Too many encounters with evil. As much as we protected the girls, it has had an impact on them both. But they are doing well. And they learned more than we ever bargained.
Despite Oprah's insistence on "moving on" and catharsis and just getting on with your life, the centuries before her wisdom hit the small screen suggest to us that there is a time for letting go, AND a time for holding. A time to laugh and a time to cry, a time to get over it and a time to linger with the grief long enough to learn its lessons.
My body woke up grieving today before my mind even had a clue what for. It took hours and an explicit reminder before my heart and mind caught up with my emotions and my guts. "Oh, that day." Some bodies have a mind of their own. Mine does. It told me to take time, for the memories, the dreams, and the reflections.
Nothing can excuse hateful, evil actions. It takes time to absorb the blows. But now, here we are. Not immobilized anymore. Not overcome by grief. But mindful, reflective. Sober. And, having counted the cost, all in all, grateful to still be here.
And ready for a nap. I'll go conquer the world tomorrow. You can be on duty today.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Land of the Titans
"Lift off
Titan Road begins just three miles from our house. Our neighborhood and the ones surrounding it are filled with engineers and project managers, inventors and technicians who work at Lockheed and, for the past decade or two have been at work to send space shuttles into space, create deep space vehicles (Mars), and prepare the Orion space capsule for eventual use to carry humans into deep space.
There is a bitter sweet feeling all around this morning. Pride in work well done and remarkable accomplishment. Concern for the future of a mission they believe in and, frankly, for their own jobs. Will we see more For Sale signs soon?
Consider me naive. Dumb, head in the ground naive. During the entire period of time that these same Titan missiles were developed and built a few miles away and being prepared to carry unfathomable nuclear destruction across the globe, when another generation was immersed in the Cold War mission of annihilation -- or Mutually Assured Destruction, as the official policy was called, or MAD -- I spent dozens of weekends here in Littleton and had no clue.
In the 1950's, the Martin Company of Baltimore, sent a man I met and really liked, a spunky soul, to find property in these foothills for a plant at which to create the Cold War hardware. Especially the Titan missiles. He nailed it. A perfect site so out of sight, tucked in behind the hogback in a pristine valley, before suburban sprawl encroached, that many of us had no idea it was here. You heard about Rocky Flats and their production of plutonium triggers but not as much about The Martin Company. Then it became Martin Marietta and word spread, and then eventually Lockheed and now we all see its signage as we drive past to favorite hiking spots.
The incongruity of the world. We don't, we can't separate danger zones, dare I say immoral zones from the rest of life. It is all mixed up together.
I had no idea Martin was nearby, no idea that Littleton was the source of the ICBM's I protested long and loud in the late 60's and 70's and 80's. Consider me naive. My cousins lived here. What I knew about Littleton then was Barbie dolls in their spacious basement, a model train set created by my cousin Bert, the Rexall Drug in the shopette on Orchard near University, and racing popsicle sticks down rain swollen gutters in front of my cousins' house.
I had no idea that their neighbors were living in homes built on paychecks that came from destructive creativity. Or that the church I would eventually come back to serve was full of men who made their living planning for the killing of millions on the other side of the world.
My uncle had no such job so I was oblivious to it all. Perhaps my cousins were too. But I've often wondered about what it does, did, to one's soul to spend all of one's creative energy on the minutiae of death. Delivery systems, guidance systems, triggers, all of it perfected in those years of the "hot" Cold War.
The shuttle is the happier outcome of their labors, and the Mars Lander, the Mars Rover, and other reaches into deep space. The generation at work now has had a much more constructive mission. I only imagine they sleep better at night.
Titan Road begins just three miles from our house. Our neighborhood and the ones surrounding it are filled with engineers and project managers, inventors and technicians who work at Lockheed and, for the past decade or two have been at work to send space shuttles into space, create deep space vehicles (Mars), and prepare the Orion space capsule for eventual use to carry humans into deep space.
There is a bitter sweet feeling all around this morning. Pride in work well done and remarkable accomplishment. Concern for the future of a mission they believe in and, frankly, for their own jobs. Will we see more For Sale signs soon?
Consider me naive. Dumb, head in the ground naive. During the entire period of time that these same Titan missiles were developed and built a few miles away and being prepared to carry unfathomable nuclear destruction across the globe, when another generation was immersed in the Cold War mission of annihilation -- or Mutually Assured Destruction, as the official policy was called, or MAD -- I spent dozens of weekends here in Littleton and had no clue.
In the 1950's, the Martin Company of Baltimore, sent a man I met and really liked, a spunky soul, to find property in these foothills for a plant at which to create the Cold War hardware. Especially the Titan missiles. He nailed it. A perfect site so out of sight, tucked in behind the hogback in a pristine valley, before suburban sprawl encroached, that many of us had no idea it was here. You heard about Rocky Flats and their production of plutonium triggers but not as much about The Martin Company. Then it became Martin Marietta and word spread, and then eventually Lockheed and now we all see its signage as we drive past to favorite hiking spots.
The incongruity of the world. We don't, we can't separate danger zones, dare I say immoral zones from the rest of life. It is all mixed up together.
I had no idea Martin was nearby, no idea that Littleton was the source of the ICBM's I protested long and loud in the late 60's and 70's and 80's. Consider me naive. My cousins lived here. What I knew about Littleton then was Barbie dolls in their spacious basement, a model train set created by my cousin Bert, the Rexall Drug in the shopette on Orchard near University, and racing popsicle sticks down rain swollen gutters in front of my cousins' house.
I had no idea that their neighbors were living in homes built on paychecks that came from destructive creativity. Or that the church I would eventually come back to serve was full of men who made their living planning for the killing of millions on the other side of the world.
My uncle had no such job so I was oblivious to it all. Perhaps my cousins were too. But I've often wondered about what it does, did, to one's soul to spend all of one's creative energy on the minutiae of death. Delivery systems, guidance systems, triggers, all of it perfected in those years of the "hot" Cold War.
The shuttle is the happier outcome of their labors, and the Mars Lander, the Mars Rover, and other reaches into deep space. The generation at work now has had a much more constructive mission. I only imagine they sleep better at night.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Take all the lost home
Take All the Lost Home
One of these days I'll become proficient enough at this techie business to know how to link the song to this post: "Take All the Lost Home by Joe Wise
Why do I do this?
Blog. Write what and as I do?
At the recent Aspen Writers' Conference we talked of the variety of reasons for tweeting, blogging, and using other social media. It was easy for me to articulate my purpose. Let me say it again here.
You. You. You, any, all of you who have become victimized by the abuse of power.
Clergy sexual abuse is the particular area of my expertise. I have not myself experienced it but I speak at the request of, and on behalf of many who have known this shredding of their soul. I encountered those victimized over a period of fifteen years, directly, and realized in the meanwhile that I'd known victims of clergy sexual abuse all my life.
It is hidden. It is misunderstood. In Protestant, or non-Catholic churches, where most of the abuse occurs between a male pastor and an adult female parishioner, it is often 'simply' thought of as an affair. Women are most generally blamed. Pastors are viewed as the victims, seduced by the 'wiles' of manipulative, needy women.
Not true. Not true. Volumes of data, rooms of statistical evidence, acres of women could stand together and bear witness to the truth. They were manipulated. They were used. And then cast off. Blamed. Ignored. Thrown away.
"All the perpetrators ask of us is silence," says Judith Herman in "Trauma and Recovery."
I will not be silent.
These women and men, children and teens rarely get a voice. They get lost from our midst, frankly, by our own decision. We don't want them among us as a reminder of what, at some deep place, we know to be true. Or could be true. And so they are lost. From us. From the church. From their faith. From the joy of life.
My mission is expressed by Joe Wise in his beautiful simple song, "Take All the Lost Home." I won't be able to find all who are lost but I will be here, "a voice of the living God, calling them all to live," and calling the rest of us to repent. To welcome, to love, to care, to embrace.
"Their faces are grey 'til you call."
I speak of my own experiences as a victim of a different kind of abuse of power for one reason: what happened to me occurred to shut me up. It is not my own pain I express most deeply. It is yours, it is theirs. I speak not for myself but because I am called to use what voice I have to tell the truth of abusive power, to be a voice for the silenced, and to do whatever I can to reach out with strength and empowerment to those who are shattered and lost.
More of this to follow in the days following.
Meanwhile, will you be a partner, to take all the lost home?
One of these days I'll become proficient enough at this techie business to know how to link the song to this post: "Take All the Lost Home by Joe Wise
Why do I do this?
Blog. Write what and as I do?
At the recent Aspen Writers' Conference we talked of the variety of reasons for tweeting, blogging, and using other social media. It was easy for me to articulate my purpose. Let me say it again here.
You. You. You, any, all of you who have become victimized by the abuse of power.
Clergy sexual abuse is the particular area of my expertise. I have not myself experienced it but I speak at the request of, and on behalf of many who have known this shredding of their soul. I encountered those victimized over a period of fifteen years, directly, and realized in the meanwhile that I'd known victims of clergy sexual abuse all my life.
It is hidden. It is misunderstood. In Protestant, or non-Catholic churches, where most of the abuse occurs between a male pastor and an adult female parishioner, it is often 'simply' thought of as an affair. Women are most generally blamed. Pastors are viewed as the victims, seduced by the 'wiles' of manipulative, needy women.
Not true. Not true. Volumes of data, rooms of statistical evidence, acres of women could stand together and bear witness to the truth. They were manipulated. They were used. And then cast off. Blamed. Ignored. Thrown away.
"All the perpetrators ask of us is silence," says Judith Herman in "Trauma and Recovery."
I will not be silent.
These women and men, children and teens rarely get a voice. They get lost from our midst, frankly, by our own decision. We don't want them among us as a reminder of what, at some deep place, we know to be true. Or could be true. And so they are lost. From us. From the church. From their faith. From the joy of life.
My mission is expressed by Joe Wise in his beautiful simple song, "Take All the Lost Home." I won't be able to find all who are lost but I will be here, "a voice of the living God, calling them all to live," and calling the rest of us to repent. To welcome, to love, to care, to embrace.
"Their faces are grey 'til you call."
I speak of my own experiences as a victim of a different kind of abuse of power for one reason: what happened to me occurred to shut me up. It is not my own pain I express most deeply. It is yours, it is theirs. I speak not for myself but because I am called to use what voice I have to tell the truth of abusive power, to be a voice for the silenced, and to do whatever I can to reach out with strength and empowerment to those who are shattered and lost.
More of this to follow in the days following.
Meanwhile, will you be a partner, to take all the lost home?
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