" Workers of the World........

....Forgive Me." ___Karl Marx So went the joke making the rounds in Poland in the 1980's. Karl Marx is famously quoted as rallying the "Workers of the world, unite!" It didn't turn out as he planned. But frankly, it didn't start out as he planned. It never does. And therein lies the problem. Nothing ever goes according to plan. Scientific socialism depended on things going right. It assumed, yea, it asserted, that history would move as expected. Oh well. Today is May Day, International Workers' Day, a holiday that is rarely noted in the U.S. but has been celebrated with great fanfare around the world for eons. The Soviets celebrated with an annual parade in Red Square that featured the latest military weapons and technology. Missiles were mounted on flatbeds, that's what I remember most. So, Happy May Day! And workers of the world, it really sucks, doesn't it. How many jobs have been lost in the past two years? How many families have lost livelihoods and homes and relationships due to the economic stress caused by greed and stupidity? Not a very happy workers' day for too many of us. Marxism fascinated me. It hit all the notes that mattered. Fairness. Justice. Equality. But it couldn't be imposed. Certainly not in a Leninist-Stalinist manner. There is this pesky little thing called human nature. And it is always the wild card. The variable. "Saddling a cow" is how Stalin described trying to rule Poland. Frankly, the image seems apt in describing Marxism as imposed Communism all over Eastern Europe. Not a pretty sight. And just not possible. But is it possible, could we, might we consider the values lifted up by Marx as we continue to tinker with our own economy?

Radio Waves

"The radio works only when the lights are on." In the old days, we blamed it on communism. In the old days, we blamed everything on communism. My landlady in Warsaw explained the radio problem with a sigh, as if to say, "there is nothing to be done." I was struck by how quickly and completely resigned she was to the apparent inevitability of inconvenience. It was a response I remembered well from the days of communism, saying in effect, "who knows why this is? It's just another one of life's annoying and inexplicable mysteries, having music only when the overhead light is switched on." It's not that she's stupid. She simply assumes that some situations are beyond her control. The moment she walked out the door, I unplugged the radio from its socket and found an outlet that wasn't wired to the light switch. I'm an American; it's what I do. On the one hand, Poles are incredibly resourceful, doggedly persistent and downright militant in their determination never to ever give up. But, about some things, surprisingly, many Poles of a certain age are all too quick to shrug, sigh and give in with passive acceptance to inconvenience, frustrating circumstances, and even injustice. Their resignation in the face of arbitrary vexations is a sad side-effect of growing up in a system where logic was irrelevant and relevance was altogether illogical. I am still surprised, occasionally amused, and most often unsettled to see some of my old friends' unwillingness to push, to look around for solutions, and by their failure to be assertive in figuring out problems like radio power. Or government power. Conditioning. Too many people my age were imprinted too early and for too long with this devilish notion that nothing can be done. "Resistance is futile." Today's forty and fifty-somethings are too young to have caught their parents' and societies' fervor for rebuilding in the immediate post-War period. They came of age after the drama and activism of the late 1960's when, in 1968, student strikes and protests in Poland were the first to launch that tumultous year of student activism around the world, from Paris to Berkeley. They missed the moments of collective energy and the synergy for change. They tended not to be the leaders of Solidarity when it set Poland on 'tilt' and began unraveling the communist world. Many, in fact, left Poland during that period and emigrated to Australia, England, Sweden, Paris, and the United States. Not that one could ever blame them! I was surprised to return to Warsaw in 2007 for the first time in 20 years to discover that many of my old friends, once lively and resourceful, were feeling displaced and still at sea in the new world. Confused, resigned, and passive. Still living, in a way, in the old world where capricious, illogical, and dominating external powers thwarted and disabled their own capacities to make things happen. My landlady visited me once that summer and was shocked to see that I'd moved the radio, that it was on, even while the overhead lights were not. She was shocked when I explained how I solved the problem, and shook her head, as if to say (as Poles often do), "those crazy Americans!"

The Speed of Poland

I've said it before. I love to go fast. Roller coasters, planes surging toward take-off, speed boats, and yes, cars. I love the sensation of speed. I was first stopped for speeding late in my senior year of high school. Doing about 60 in a 30 mph zone on a narrow road between my home and the school. Ironically, I was in a hurry to get something to my mother. I was let off with a warning. Maybe that was a mistake. I am dutiful and careful in town, especially in neighborhoods and on city streets. But out on the road, an open road, it's easy to get into the left lane and just fly. It feels wonderful. I'm prudent, watchful and careful and have never done anything really dangerous, except for the fact that speed alone can create its own conditions, making it harder to react. I'm not aggressive or rude. I don't weave or (rarely) pass on the right. I don't sit on somebody's bumper and I signal when changing lanes. Driving from Denver to Aspen, or anyplace west on I-70 is a low-fly zone, with well-engineered highways that make it easy to go along at 80 mph and often even 90. The sensation of freedom and movement is one I've always craved. So, driving in Poland is an exercise in absolute frustration. Absolute. There are no good roads. I believe I've complained about this before. Interestingly, I just read an interview with a Polish emigre, now the director of The Macquarie Group, an Australian investment bank with assets of more than 340 billion dollars. Arthur Rakowski works from the London office and oversees infrastructure investments that include ownership of the London sewer system, airports, electricial grids, waterworks and roads. The Group also has the ownership stake in the container port at Gdansk, Poland. Rakowski, who left Poland in 1981, as martial law was declared, is the son of the late and last Communist Prime Minister of Poland and the long-time editor of the widely respected newspaper (now magazine) Polityka, Mieczyslaw F. Rakowski. He's been away from Poland for a long time and has few close ties there anymore but still has an interest in seeing his native country be successful, most certainly. In fact, The Macquarie Group tried to invest in the development of roads, of highway infrastructure in Poland for years. They worked at it for ten years. But never in those ten years were the policy makers able to overcome petty grievances and partisan grudges and make a deal, "who, how and with what to make them." Hence, there are still no good roads, no expressways, no autobahn in Poland. That does not, however, stop Polish drivers from trying to treat their two-lane, unimproved roads, where tractors and geese still cause accidents, as racetracks. And city driving is, well, not for the timid. Or the less than fleet-footed pedestrian. A week has passed since President Kaczynski's funeral. Two weeks have passed since the tragic plane crash near Katyn Forest. It's a respectable time to talk some difficult truths. "My view is that Poland is difficult to rule and the nature of the Poles is not conducive to the development of the country," Rakowski says. "The whole story shows how much we lost, we can not reach a compromise." This despite great intelligence, highly educated leaders, and a real sense of urgency to move forward. To be sure, Poland has the strongest economy of any of the former Communist countries and has made great strides in the 20 years since it accepted a "shock therapy" instant immersion into market capitalism. I have been known, myself, to go on and on and on about the marvels of Prada and Ikea and Cheetos and Nissans and Bose speakers, and everything one could hope for now available -- and almost affordable -- to Polish people. The private sector is moving along. Despite continuing bureaucratic obstacles to privatization of large enterprises, to say nothing of the bungled mess of simply trying to get a license to open a beauty salon, for example, or a car repair shop, Poles on their own have been remarkably resourceful, and successful. Resiliency at work. But. But but but. Politics. Government behavior (I don't know what else to call it) in Poland is still churlish, petty, petulant, and always always always obstructionist. Spinning their wheels. Refusing to compromise for the sake of a greater -- and attainable -- good. "They still talk about who said what in a bar on the corner 20 years ago." I danced around the matter in writing my initial posts after the tragic plane crash. It seemed a bit too crass too quick to say it out loud, to say what I said to my spouse the instant I learned the plane went down. Kaczynski didn't have to make that trip. It was churlish and, frankly, childish. And I'm the least of those who have said so. Roger Cohen in an excellent NYTimes article this week spoke directly. The President of Poland needed to make his own statement, to stand apart from any Russian overtures at reconciliation. Had he wanted, he could have been invited and taken part in the official ceremonies at the Katyn Forest memorial earlier that week, when Russian President Vladimir Putin and Polish Prime Minister shook hands and words were said that moved the relations between the two countries forward. But he would not. Politics is not "the art of the possible" for such persons. It is the act of obstinacy and vindictiveness, revanchism and vengefulness. In such a case, nothing positive can happen. And tragically, in this instance, it is fatal. So that's the reason, in a nutshell, why there are no good roads in Poland. And that's the reason why, in a nutshell, 97 people died in Smolensk. And that is the reason why some of the most brilliant people in the country, who still try to make it work, to contribute to its growth, tell me over and over, "I am irritable all the time I am in Poland." "Poland makes me all the time irritable." These are the true patriots. Not the man who was buried last Sunday in Krakow. Not his twin brother who will now try to exploit the tragedy and continue the behaviors of their political party. Whatever good they have accomplished, it is undermined by the short-sighted and tragic (there's that word again) and petty and even stupid behaviors that seek only to avenge, to obstruct, to punish their old foes. I remember a long ago speech by Australian physician, Dr. Helen Caldicott, and her warning, "If you don't like the other guy in your boat, you don't drill a hole in his end." Sadly, that's been going on in Poland ever since the country saw its Communist government wither away. Lots of drilling, lots of holes. And no roads. There are lessons in here for all of us, whether our ancient enemies are near or far, personal and private or public and political. There are lessons for Americans here, as we move toward increasingly strident and dangerous public behavior, and for us as individuals who have reason -- but perhaps not purpose -- in hanging on to our old anger, our desire for revenge. It doesn't go anywhere, fast.

Lenin For Sale

Lenin is going for practically nothing. Several volumes of Lenin's works were for sale on a sidewalk table in the university district of Warsaw recently. Just beyond the stairway of the church, where first you encounter the pulp trade -- boobs flashed on the covers of magazines and DVD's barely outside the church doors -- on Krakowskie Przedmiesce, down the street from the Presidential Palace, and across from elegant gates of the University of Warsaw, Lenin is for sale along with Winnie the Pooh. You can pick up a few of his volumes for little more than a quarter a piece. What do you do with old college textbooks? Some can be sold back to the university bookstore, or by notices on the campus bulletin board. Now we sell them online. Some we give away, others sit on a shelf, supposedly for future reference, and some we toss -- as far and as hard as possible. A popular option when I was in college was to sell them at the annual community garage sale, in the book stall. The only down side to this option was, well, the community aspect of the enterprise. Lois put out a box of her books with a sign that read, "25 cents each." She hovered close by as they disappeared a few at a time. Late in the day most of her books had been snatched up. Only a few lonely volumes languished, left in the box, rejected time after time, hour after hour. She was ready to give them away. In fact, she now rather wishes she had packed it in right then but she stood watch as a late browser wandered in. He pawed through several of the other boxes, from different donors, before turning his attention to Lois' box of leftovers. Now, let's say he was the author of one of those books. Let's say he was the president of the university. Let's say he sees his own book, the one he wrote, the one he used as a text for the one course he taught, in that box of rejects. And let's say that he wondered, "who would sell this?" He is curious. He opens the book and is about to check the inside front cover. He is thinking of the quip he will make to Lois, the joke he will make at the expense of whatever clod lacked the good sense to keep it, or, at the very least, to unload it someplace else, out of the neighborhood. "Ha, ha, is he or she in trouble now!" Lois stands frozen in place. Lois, now a junior level administrator at this very same university stands frozen in place, across a narrow table from her former professor, this man who is now her boss. She watches as he finds her name penned in ink inside that front cover. Disbelieving, he looks up at her, as if to ask, "how could you?" The blood drains from her face. She is mortified. Until. Until she recovers her wits and remembers that it was a stupid book and, anyway, shouldn't he be the more embarrassed? And so she gives him a look back, a shrug and a wry smile, as if to say, "hey, it's worth a quarter!" Lenin isn't even worth a quarter, at least not here in the market economy of post-Leninist Poland. A few days later I pass the table again and his books are still there. Winnie the Pooh is gone, a Polish edition of a Danielle Steele novel there in its place. But Lenin is stuck in the same spot, between the porn and the commonplace. Would he sell at any price? I imagine the encounter Lenin would have with the bookseller, a brawny man with a few days' beard and flannel shirt, looking, in fact, like he belongs in Brainerd, Minnesota, with Paul Bunyan. There are no plaintive looks, no pathetic gazes. No shrugs or wry smiles either. Lenin is furious. He might shoot the guy on the spot. The bookseller is adamant and dismissive. "You had your chance. It got corrupted. And it didn't work. You had your day. Now we're done. We've moved on." And so it is in Poland today. Except for me. I decided that two-bits of Lenin is a worthwhile souvenir.

Officially, There Is No.....

Problem. Officially, there is no reality, not one anyway that really happened. Officially, nothing happened. History was a problem. In 1940. 1956. 1968. 1970. So much happened. That didn't. Not officially. Officially. Everything must be official. Truth was not a matter of what really happened but only of What could be admitted. 1956. 1968. 1970. No memorials. No admissions. Why were workers shot in Gdanks? They weren't. And the Jewish intelligentsia kicked out? They weren't. The students silenced, arrested? Did that happen? I don't know, I don't think so. And Katyn. Who could say, not Agnieszka, not about her brother, not about him Who died in an open grave, shot in the back of the head by a Soviet NKVD Killer who was made up like a Nazi for forty years, impersonating a beast Of another tribe. Did it matter, anyway? Who killed him? Anyway, he was dead. Whispers, rumors, bold declarations. Prison sentences, harsh interrogations. No Grave markers told his story. Or Jozef's. Or Bronek's. Or Marcin's. It was not, officially, what it was. Their death was a lie. Created to create the myth of brotherhood. Only now, in recent years does the official and the real find a way to co-exist. And there is a great danger, emerging again, of a myth, a legend, an Official story arising to trump the real one. Lech Kaczynski was a good man, with strong ideals. He was so committed to his ideals and his mission of vanquishing once for all the old dictatorship of Communism that he betrayed those same values not infrequently in the service of his goal. He was petty and small as much as he was wise and good. He was, as one writer said, a patriot in the only way he knew how. Which is not to say, the most useful way for Poland. Only history will finally judge the damage and the success of his term in office. In death, once again in death it is the Poles find themselves caught up in the ancient act of mythologizing and ritualizing death, creating legend and official stories that become what's taught and told. How ironic. That Lech Kaczynski went to Katyn to undo the damage of decades of only official truth only to become in death the object of historical mythologizing of the same kind.

"Bringing Forgiveness"

Forgive. Forgive. "Do you want to wake up slowly or fast?" I was asked early Saturday mornnig. "Slow," I said, and the speculation began. What happened? I feared the worst, which for me would be a major terrorist attack (domestic or foreign) against our own President Obama. I decided Dave would have been crying had that been the case so my mind moved on. Nothing personal, there was no hint of that in his tone. He disappeared for a little while and after cranking open the creaky channels that flow within the frontal lobe, I picked up my iPhone, my usual source of immediate news each day. Click on mail. "Polish President killed in plane crash." News flashes from several sources. Shock. Details emerged. The mind (mine, anyway) becomes insatiable at such points. Details, facts. But lurking, always near, was interpretation. Or the temptation to interpret. To judge. And my interpretation, along with that of several dozens of Polish journalists and other leaders, as it turns out, went along these lines: churlish, pugnacious, stubborn, petulant President has to organize his own trip to Katyn, can't participate in the official one with Russians (horrors!) present. And so this happens. More or less, that's true. At a time when the theme of healing and reconciliation was being commemorated, on the 70th anniversary of the massacre of 22,000 Polish officers, professors, doctors, lawyers and other 'elite' leaders by the Soviet Secret Police, the Polish President would insist on his own terms, no compromise, no presence of the Russians who were at least moving toward owning up at last to this mass murder. The official celebration had been held days earlier. Polish Prime Minister Donald Tusk and Russian Prime Minister were together at Katyn, and Putin went further than ever before in acknowledging the crimes committed by Soviet NKVD. It should be noted that he stopped short of apologizing, a sore point, but this was progress, nonetheless. In April of 1940, less than a year after the start of World War II, some twenty-two thousand Polish leaders were shot in the back of the head, execution style, at the edge of trenches into which they then fell, their bodies covered immediately by huge land-moving machines. No word of their fate was ever officially offered. They had been taken prisoners by the Soviet (Red) Army shortly after the Soviets invaded Poland on the 17th of September, 1939. Their families heard from them for several months before all communications stopped. The prisoners then disappeared into the ether. Until 1943, when the German Army (Nazi's) held that ground, near Smolensk, and discovered the mass graves, from the ravaging of wolves within them. Word began to seep back into Poland, "Katyn," "Kharkov," and other sites, filled with bodies. I cannot even begin to get my head around a loss of that magnitude or that type. Accusations went back and forth between Nazi and Soviet forces. Who did it? When the Soviet Army finally prevailed and routed the Germans, their version of the story became official truth. And there would be no challenge. Any questioning of this account brought severe penalties, imprisonment, even death. And so it was until 1990. But everyone, quietly, everyone knew the truth. Even those who were rather sympathetic toward the USSR. I don't know anyone in Poland who did not have a father, grandfather, uncle, husband who perished in Katyn Forest. No one. I realize that says something about who my friends are, from what strata of the society, but still. It was a pervasive wound. Each friend told me their family's story in hushed tones, even within their own homes, and prevailed upon me not to disclose their 'secret knowledge,' that the Soviets perpetrated the crimes. Ironically, because of this new tragedy, more people will learn of Katyn that would have had the ceremonies gone on, unnoticed in the West. That is something good to be salvaged from this catastrophe. But this word, "forgive," presses itself on my spirit. I found myself thinking, "if only," and I wasn't alone. If only the Polish President had not been so churlish, unforgiving, had been willing to accede to the Russians' hospitality, and made the trip the few days earlier. This wouldn't have happened. The problem, of course, with that logic is that it isn't entirely logical. Fog settles in. Or not. Planes crash. Or land safely. Thankfully, no one taken seriously within Poland is suggesting that this is, in any way, the will of God. It is an accident. A tragedy. But one that could have been avoided. By a spirit of humility, of forgiving. Not of forgetting, no, the two are distinct and must never be confused or conflated. The homily prepared by a bishop who perished on the plane was printed in a Polish newspaper today. In it he gently encouraged the family members of those murdered, and the Polish people, "to be about forgiving." Citing Pope John Paul II's words to a delegation of Katyn Families at the Vatican several years ago, Bishop Ploski was going to remind those present, "what is your task, the task of Katyn Families. It seems that it is just bringing forgiveness. Yes, it is the storage in the memory of this national tragedy, personal and family, but it is also, through this memory, forgiveness." How ironic. The failure to enter into that spirit was the reason for the flight on Saturday morning. And now it is left to those who live on to pause, ponder and consider this word of mercy. All around us -- who are not Polish, who do not suffer necessarily the effects of hideous, brutal war crimes, who live more or less ordinary lives -- are reminders of how "we been done wrong." I certainly live with those daily thorns. Lesson One from this tragedy. Forgive. Let go the churlish and petulant behaviors that bespeak our hurt and resentment. Reconcile. Accept the hospitality of even the most repulsive former foe. Abandon the reckless and short-sighted reactions that lead to yet again a new cycle of suffering and tragedy. As humans, we are, of course, free to interpret and see things as we will. We don't need to draw conclusions of causality in this case, or any other, to be moved to reflection. I wondered in the early hours after this tragedy if I was alone, arrogant and inappropriate, with my first thoughts, these you read above. I read in today's Polish newspapers some very similar responses. These give me courage to offer then my own reflection. Stop the cycle. Be humble. Forgive, forgive. What is our task? "It is just bringing forgiveness."

"Miracle Fair"

The commonplace miracle: that so many common miracles take place. The usual miracle: invisible dogs barking in the dead of night. One of many miracles: a small and airy cloud is able to upstage the massive moon. Several miracles in one: an alder is reflected in the water and is reversed from left to right and grows from crown to root and never hits bottom though the water isn't deep. A run of the mill miracle: winds mild to moderate turning gusty into storms. A miracle in the first place: cows will be cows. Next but not least: just this cherry orchard from just this cherry pit. A miracle minus top-hat and tails: fluttering white doves. A miracle (what else can you call it): the sun rose today at three-fourteen a.m. and will set tonight at one past eight. A miracle that's lost on us: the hand actually has fewer than six fingers but it's still got more than four. A miracle: just take a look around: the inescapable earth. An extra miracle, extra and ordinary: the unthinkable can be thought. ___Wyslawa Szymborska, 2006 Nobel Laureate for Poetry, a Polish poet.

Mercy

Is Mercy. The first word, and ultimately the last, at a time like this is mercy. And for now, all between is silence.

Stand in the wind!

Get in the way of the wind! Yep, that is the way to go. And let it blow you forward. Soar! I shocked my husband a few years back when I told him, "I'm pissed at Jesus. He makes it look easy." This rising. Getting up out of the tomb. Rising. Rising up. Now, be patient, hear me out. No heresy, honest. But honesty, yes. Rising. I believe the story of rising, of new life after death, of a new, open future after closed broken despair is hard-wired into the DNA of the universe, as I believe Carl Jung has also proposed. And I believe that whether or not we are Christians -- and whether or not we are still folks who can handle being part of the church, with all its abuse and hypocrisy -- this story of dying and rising is archetypal and paradigmatic to our human really being. And so, with e.e. cummings, I can affirm this morning, "I who have died am alive this day." It is, as it always is, a new day, "the first day," as one preacher put it. For us. For the world. This spirit of life is moving us forward, up, out, on. But, not long ago, as I lay dying, as I lay in the pit, broken, in agony, betrayed, crushed, and, for all practical purposes (not exaggerating) dead, I confess to having a empty spirit. No hope. No stirring. Abuse and betrayal can do that to a person. They have done it to the thousands who are protesting today in Germany and around the Roman Catholic church and, as we know, the Lutheran and other Protestant churches and religious traditions have nothing to brag about either in that regard; it just doesn't get the coverage. Power is deadly when it is abused. We know. As have generations going back to the dawn of time. I was an empty shell, a spectral barren ghost of myself. And then Easter came. That first Easter afterward. Ha! Easter indeed! There was no Easter in me and none found me that year. I wanted it but it just wasn't coming. Except I see in retrospect, the smallest stirring of life, imperceptible at the time, and apparent only in its effect, and barely. I was pissed at Jesus for making it all look easy. The rising, that is. Yes. He died an outlaw, a dumped on, despised and pathetic broken man. An agonizing, prolonged, cruel way to die. Strung up. And, as the wonderful mythology of Holy Saturday goes, he struggled for a day, in hell, fought mightily against the devil, against the powers of evil. For a day. For a day! One flippin' day. And then he got up. Or was raised up. It looked too easy. And folks expect humans to recover that quick, as well. Doesn't happen. Now, several years later, I still find it annoying but, well, that's Jesus. And so be it. For me, for many of the folks I know and know about, it takes longer. In fact, it goes on day after day after day. We die, we rise. we fall, we get up. We lose, we win. We lay down our lives, we are given them back again. What an amazing story. What powerful images to impel us to keep going. But. This life Spirit, God, however you wish to describe or name it, the Spirit blows us along and moves us along, into ever new and newer life. We are called to let ourselves be lifted up by the drafts of spirit life, the Holy Spirit, if you will. So, I'm not Jesus. It goes differently for me. No angel, no rock magically rolled away, no earthquake. Just a life, struggling against the powers of evil. And asking for the grace to be lifted up, risen. It comes. Yes, it does, it comes. And one of the better ways to help this process along, is to get in the way of the wind. Let out the string, and fly! I have not done a great job of that lately. Time to go stand on a cliff. And let the drafts catch me up! That is where I'm headed, in fact, this very minute. Stand in the way of the wind! Soar! And much loving lively lovely new life to you all! Peace.

True Confession

It's the dissonance that gets me. I can live with paradox, irony, contradictions. In fact, so far as I can tell, they explain life. But I'm hung up on this specific dissonance: It has been eight (yes, that would be eight) years since I've been able to listen to my favorite music, the music that stirred and lifted my spirit for more than a decade. It was the music I had on in the car, at home, in my office, in my mind. A sweet mellow folk-music type Christian music emerged in the 80's with Marty Haugen, Michael Joncas and David Haas representing my favorite expressions. It was loving, gentle, expansive, gracious. And it was altogether too Peter, Paul, and Mary like for the girls. "Not that again," was a common refrain in our car. But I loved it. The music itself is beautiful, filled with gorgeous poetry, dynamic metaphors and images of lively life, generous reconciliation, and sccoops of courage. Two of the tapes (before CD time) actually wore out from overuse. You get the idea. When I left the parish I've told you about, I left that music behind too. Sadly, we used it there, some, so I had some awful associations that recurred every time it came on. But worst, most of all, it was the dissonance. The disconnect, profound and complete, between these songs that celebrated kindness and tenderness, generosity of spirit, a concern for justice and reconciliation, of unity and taking care of one another, in the spirit of Jesus and the horrible experience I had of church that belied all of these gracious gifts was too much to bear. Excruciating. Most of all, heart-breaking. Hearing a song, All Are Welcome, while living in an official church with silver-tongued charmers who, nevertheless, could not in eight years respond to any of my overtures, requests for conversation, who chose not to reach out to me in any way --- well, it was just too much. Clearly, I was not welcome. Now, a few things. I realize that the church is a lot bigger than the officiaries in one part of the world, in one smallish community. And I am beyond grateful to the 'church' that I've found here on Facebook and as a blogger who remind me daily that I DO belong to something loving, something generous and tender, Goddish, if you will. You all out there, those of you who are followers of Jesus, are now my church. And the ELCA Board of Pensions. You are my church. My only church. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I also realize that I can move on (I'd sure better!!!) before hell freezes over, er, I mean, before somebody from this corner of the church makes a move in my direction. I am moving on, out into a wider expression of grace. And thank goodness for that. I also realize that I can be the one to move in their direction. I have done that but I'm sure I could do it some more. "Excuse me, I'm the lost sheep. You didn't come looking for me but I'm here and I'd like shelter from the storm, please." I could batter down the doors. But this is part of my confession. Be gentle with me, okay. I am waiting. Not because I must but because I may. I am waiting for a word. It's due not to bitterness, or hurt, I figured out --- although there has been plenty of that and it swings by on a regular basis. But I am waiting. For their sakes. To give them the opportunity to feel moved, perhaps humbled, perhaps compassionate, perhaps curious, to move toward a reconciliation. Lord knows I am "owed" apologies, scores of them. But I'm beyond that. I think the experience of being humble, of apologizing, of offering contrition is life-giving. It restores the soul. And, there's this. Before I can be part of this community here in this place I need to know if it is a community that can humble itself, turn itself outward, welcome the lost home. Now. I keep saying this and it is absolutely true. Finally, this is not about me. It is about the thousands upon thousands of "me's" who have been shunned, pushed away, shut up and shut down by the official officials of the church. It is about the deaf boys who were sexually abused by their priest. It is about the hundreds of women in Protestant churches in this country, and their families, who were sexually abused by their pastors. It is about the scores of men and women who have been screwed more figuratively by the officialdom of the church. It is about us all. We need to know, is the church a trustworthy community? Can we invest our hearts and souls with you? Who are you? Mean and vindictive, or humble and generous? I spent a small fortune purchasing all my favorite music from iTunes the other night. I made a playlist on my iPod and have started taking small steps to listen to it. Oh my god, it is so so painful. It is so healing. I love it, I curse at it. I sing at the top of my lungs. I weep. The dissonance. All are welcome? "We are many parts, we are all one body..." Really? Not me. Not a boatload of other folks I know. The world is filled with warm and generous souls. Some say they are followers of Jesus, some not, many are done with the church. Some are journeying on other paths altogether. It is their loving and happy company I keep these days. And yours, many of you readers who are Jesus' people, you are Christ to me. And all of you, all of you, you're the people I want to belong with! And, as I listen to these wonderful songs I know I need still to be part of you. Whatever we call ourselves, we are about the things that make for peace. There is no dissonance as I commune here with you. True confession: I like this music and I'm not going to let the dishonorable and duplicitous behavior of some define reality altogether. Nope. Not their right. So, if not everywhere, then here, and out among you, all are welcome!

" I shoulda rode in on a donkey."

If I'd only known. I feel like a real ass. "I shoulda rode in a donkey," I told a friend. "You what?!" she replied. "To have had any credibility at all, to come across as a big whompin' deal, to look strong and worthy, I should have come into the church on Palm Sunday morning riding on a donkey. "That's what a predessor did, rode in on a donkey, basking in all the adoration of Palm Sunday, children waving palm branches, laying down their robes to make a smooth way for the ass to move through the aisles and up to the front of the church." A donkey. The pastor, the pastor of the church rode a donkey into church on Palm Sunday. The phrase Messiah Complex comes to mind. I believe the words she used were "boundless narcissism." The crowd loved it. They ate up his messianic theatrics and powerful, charismatic personality week after week. Unfortunately, they also covered up the multiple transgressions that ruined a vast multitude of lives from before that day to this day. Christian people are called to follow Jesus. To imitate him. But not in triumphal glory. Rather, Christian people are to follow Jesus in service, humility, love, and even in sacrifice. Putting their needs, their desires in submmission for the good of others, the community. Not for personal gain or self-aggrandizement. The first time I related this story to an outsider, she almost fell off her chair, laughing. Except we agreed, it isn't so funny after all. Pretty pathetic. On all accounts. I was sitting in the church's library going through old photo albums with long-time members when we got to the donkey photos. I burst out laughing, thinking it was a joke. But no, it wasn't, and these stalwarts were rapturous in their remembering, filled with longing for those good old days. Of abuse. (Eer, never mind.) I had no idea about this incident when I agreed to become pastor of this particular church. I had no idea about a lot of the boundarylessness of the congregation, its incestuousness with former clergy, the emotional affairs, as well as regular explicit sexual contact. Would I have agreed to the job, had I known this, and also known a lot more of the background than the bishop or anybody else dared to tell me, Not without certain very explicit conditions. Including the unconditional support of the bishop's office. Oh well. We know now how that went. A community of people earnestly seeking their messiah, even if it's an imitation, a fake, a deeply troubled soul who wants to serve himself more than God, is a dangerous community. They will fall over at the first feet that come down the pike. And, after his disatrous fall, they will seek another and another and another, another messiah. Clearly, such a community is also one in great pain, confusion, carrying and probably hiding older and deeper wounds that only a Superman can fix. A community desperately seeking such a messiah of their own is a vulnerable community and one that deserves appropriate, informed lovingkindness. Which was why I was sent there. With conditions agreed to, common perspectives understood amongst the regional church's leaders (my support team, in theory), promises made. And we know how well that turned out, now, too. Following a false prophet -- even if the words are kosher, the behavior belies them -- creates chaos that continues unto the fourth and fifth generations. It's one thing to have a healthy self-image, to reflect the glory of God. But this pastor's act was one of presumption, entitlement, privilege. Unbridled narcissism. Arrogance. So. Think about this for a moment and work with me here, to catch a better glimpse of the perversion of clergy sexual abuse. The minister claims for himself the triumphal entry, -- whether or not on an actual ass, -- the power, a very real identification as God present. But riding on a donkey, for mercy's sake! The choir is singing, the pipe organ is at full volume, "All Glory, Laud, and Honor to you, Redeemer King...." The crowd joins the song. They wave the palm branches, the children are overawed and delighted, waving and shouting "Hosanna!" I know in such a case that my head would be too big to fit through the door. My messiah quotient would be off the charts, my grandiosity would be boundless. The minister's act was sheer arrogance. When Jesus said, "Follow me," he didn't have this in mind. Jesus didn't invite us up on the donkey, at least not in this triumphalist way. Okay, so we have the minister all dressed up, a palm wreath, robes, sandals, flowers, waving palms heralding his entrance. Young children, I've discovered, get mixed up between Jesus and the pastor him/herself. "Are you God?" It happens. Even to women, it happened to me! So, yes, in this instance, in the Palm Sunday spectacle, we'd have to say that we've got a minister pretty much setting himself up to be (almost, virtually, like) Jesus. Now, imagine this minister seeks to be inappropriate with you, sexually, or in any other way. And you have this visage of him, up on the donkay, the "Hosanna's" ringing, "Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord." And you are at a vulnerable point in your life. Confused, lonely, rejected by another lover. What do you say? How do you respond to his winsome, powerful charisma? Sadly, thousands of women every year are seduced by their pastors. Thinking it is the answer to their prayers, a special liaison with God. No, only a selfish offer from a predatory pastor, and their only real liaison is with his narcissism, his "user" personality. Hence, the work I did for seven years at the ELCA churchwide offices: seeking to stem the tide of clergy sexual abuse all across the country, to assist bishops and other church leaders as they resisted the temptation to fop these guys off on some other unsuspecting parish, to stop offering easy access for perpetrators to those upon whom they could prey. Hence my work with others of the ELCA in supporting bishops who needed to deal out the appropriate discipline (NOT, read excommunication or ostracism) but appropriate discipline to those clergy who misused their power, who abused it and their parishioners. (Work that fell on arrogant, frightened and deaf ears in some regions.) Hence the work of empowering congregational members to recognize and resist boundary violations attempted by their clergy, and the work of interpreting this behavior to vulnerable women (and children) who might think that having the pastor's "special" attention is a positive, not a disastrous thing. And hence the work of helping clergy and potential clergy understand the stakes for their parishioners whenever they became sexually, emotionally or otherwise inappropriately intimate with them. And, hence the complex reactions in a congregation like the one I served for three years, where abuse occurred at a such a scale for such a long period of time, a length of time that boggles the mind. And no such perspectives were provided, no healing offered, no transparency regarding this tragic history. I think Pope Benedict has an inkling whereof I speak. I hope. I hope. And other bishops too. In the aftermath of donkey rides on Palm Sunday and the violations that occur in the shadow of night, congregation members experience, such as a bishop or elder or superintendent, helps them to understand what has happened, their pounding impulse is to sweep things under the rug. To prevent anything or anyone from even attempting to agitate the waters. And in an instance like the one I encountered, to stop at nothing to prevent the shameful secret from coming out, to be so driven by fear they lose all reason and lash out in ways that I'm sure they would be embarrassed by in other circumstances. It wasn't them, their best selves, who attacked me. It was the scared, hurt, angry selves who were flying blind and mean. I actually don't feel bittnerness or anger toward them, the parishioners on the front lines, so much as at the regional leaders who could have helped them, helped us all, to move through a tumultuous time. As far as I'm concerned, the parishioners were set up, turned lose like a mob and told, "You will do what you will do." Such is the tragedy of the parish I served. Their woundedness. Their pain. I grieve for them as for myself. Their suffering has gone on longer and continues, for the most part, without benefit of understanding, of perspective. They did a horrible thing to me. But it was because a horrible thing was done to them. This is the grief, the sin that continues unto the fifth and sixth generations. My heart weeps for them this day, "If only you knew the things that make for peace." Healing peace is not easy. Not formulaic. (Note to professionals who intervene: Family systems theory doesn't work here, not as a template to impose. It's way more convoluted than that!) It requires hard work and slogging through swamps and across exposed deserts. But it is worth it! As we enter another Holy Week, within the Christian tradition, my real hope for those who are still stuck in the aftermath of clergy sexual abuse is that the promise of rising to new life will embolden you, inspire you to take a step, just one, then rest, then another, rest again, and then another, and find pilgrims to join you as you move into the healing, dynamic resurrection power of God. Jesus bet yes. He went all in to say yes. I trust that. And, finally, just to be clear, if you are a Christian, a follower of Jesus, you do not belong in a parade on the back of an ass. You belong on your kness, scrubbing. And just leave the donkey out of it altogether. Okay

Again

And again. A young life gone before we had the chance to enjoy the fullness of his gifts and grace, before he had the time to realize his dreams, fullfill all his passions and love. Too soon, too soon, we know. Peder Hedberg died of cancer earlier this week. He was barely out of college, a bubbling giving loving guy whose smile, even looking out from a photo, is so brilliant you can't help but smile back. (Photos coming, hopefully soon) Peder is the son of old friends, Hope and Paul, with whom we went to grad school and even worked on-campus work-study jobs. As these things go, we've drifted off to new vocations, locations, and close friends. But I still count them among the best people I've ever known and whose influence on me really stuck. They don't deserve this -- of course, no one does. But my heart just aches and aches for them. Please remember to pray for them. I never met Peder -- we were on the far side of the moon by the time he was born, a year before my oldest daughter -- but I can see his parents in his face and in all of the tender and funny tributes that have been written about him this week. All of us who missed knowing Peder really missed something unique, someone very special. Funny how these tragic moments bring us back into the presence of life we have lived a long time ago, smiles and laughter, earnest sincerity, sparkling intelligence. Hope and I spent endless hours typing invitations to Gala Dinners and Concerts and Receptions and later, the thank you letters in the school's Development Office. We were blown away by these new-fangled typewriters that allowed us to input the text of the letter and then, one by one, address each letter by hand and push a button to produce the rest. Were they IBM Selectric's? I don't even remember. Proto computers. We were there in the office to hear the news on the day Elvis died. And Hope, who is a therapist/counselor introduced me to Murray Bowen and family systems theory in the early days of his career, the year his most important book came out. It is the only book on counseling / therapy that has been in my small collection of must-have-availabe's at all times through the years of my professional career. It changed everything. I was grateful to get in on his wisdom at the very start of that career and to use his approach to family -- and other -- systems whenever the occasion called for it, which was often but not quite always. Paul is a chaplain and a trainer and supervision of chaplains. His gentle spirit and clear-headed thinking always pushed discussions further and deeper than we might have been content to let them be. We were two couples who managed to put in our years in "Fertility Flats" -- married student housing -- without doing our part to populate the neighborhood. It was a good time. And of course, they were parents to two boys. Wonderful parents. It is not just the earthquakes and violence that rip our children from us too soon. It is also accident, illness, flukes. We don't count one loss as more important than another, depending upon the circumstances. Our children are always in the process of moving on, out into the world. And that is of course dangerous. And exhilarating. Our children don't belong to us. They belong to the world, to themselves, to the One who breathed life into them and called them good. They are original blessings to be cherished and held, but, as it turns out, not held too tightly. Not forever. I want to put my children -- who are not children anymore -- into protective bubbles. But even that won't save them. We know this. And don't like it much. A sparkling soul was taken from our midst this week. We grieve, we mourn, we -- even we who didn't know him personally -- cry over the loss. Yet we celebrate this gift of God's grace to his family and to all of us, and the dynamic, fully alive living he did for all his years. I rather get the idea that he didn't miss a thing. Not anything important anyway. May it be so for our children, regardless the number of their years, and may it be so for us. Join, if you would, in remembering Peder tomorrow as a community gathers to grieve, give thanks and say goodbye. And pray for his parents, his brother, his girlfriend, and all who mourn, consoling them with the consolation we ourselves have received from God. Peace to his memory. And to my friends, Hope and Paul.

There was something I was going to write about tonight. I wish I had a clue what it was. A few things are in process, both for novel and blog, and they feel too heavy for today. The last few posts have been just a tad serious, don't you think? Life is like that. But life is also deliriously gorgeous and delightful. And funny. I took my clean self out on a good long drive --- okay, my carbon footprint for today is gigantic but I really do make up for it on days when I am a slug. Now that everyone who follows me on Twitter and all my Facebook friends know that I took a bath this morning, only after checking with the rest of the fam to make sure I wouldn't mess up their schedules by draining the hot water tank, because that is what I do when I take time to soak and think, it is likewise obvious to you that our family communicates by text messages within our house. Pathetic? Kind? Unintrusive? Impersonal? You judge. I won't pay any attention to it though and I don't really care because it works for us. But isn't this a weird world? We do this all the time. Dave has a very fine paneled executive office on the first floor of the house. He is often on long telephone calls so it is best not to disrupt him and sneak in a text to his cell phone instead. Annika was at her computer, twenty feet away from me, but she was in the midst of filling out her housing forms for school next fall --- oh my lord, she really IS moving to New York! We don't always not talk to each other but we do it often. My writing space is upstairs and, well, it's just easier. "Time for lunch?" "Did I leave Daisy outdoors?" "Who rang the doorbell?" Mundane stuff. Life is weird. So. Back to my drive. It is really spectacularly beautiful here right now! All the rocks are spackled with snow and the big wide meadows are covered, with fence posts sticking up through the two or three feet of white stuff like match sticks. I saw four deer, including Bambi herself, in Deer Creek Canyon, eight miles from home and I watched horses nuzzle and try to stay warm, even in their heavy coats. Favorite CD's were cranked to top volume; did the car rock at stop signs? Perhaps. I am relieved to report that Linda Ronstadt did not today literally blow out the speakers. as she did at home. No, it was the tuner that blew up. Do you know how much emotional ground you can cover singing along with Linda and Sheryl and Janis and Mick and Sir Paul? I remember now. I wanted to wish you a respite in all the heaviness that covers you. It is a heavy time for many, for many reasons. Your resonance with what I write is a somber confirmation that telling my story might be cathartic and helpful, and before that, it will stir up stuff. My wish for you this tender night is a lot of laughter, yes, even in bed if it comes to that, or tomorrow. And something spectacular to catch your spirit and lift it up. And while you're at it, take a long hot bath. And text someone to let them know. Oops.

Let the mob run

"They will kill you." I remember the moment, the atmosphere in the room, the intensity of sunlight coming in through the west windows over the mountains into my colleague's church board room, the faces of other clergy around the table, and the resonant silence that met his words. "Jan, you know they will kill you if you don't leave." The only reason I can remember that scene now is that: I didn't believe it at the time. My fellow pastors, who knew my setting better than I did, (that's for sure!) urged me for months to leave. But Miss Naivete, Miss Innocent, didn't believe it. I was unnerved, (that's for sure!) but I didn't believe it, not that, not that serious a threat. I didn't sleep, didn't focus, didn't function at my usual level for all of those following months. I was already traumatized. People don't function well while truly traumatized. We may rise to heroic actions when we are threatened,or those around us are threatened, but the Chinese water torture, as we call it, or the "white torture," as we also call it, or the "extreme measures," as we often now call it, none of these lend themselves to high functioning. The extreme rhetoric, the behaviors I described yesterday, the harassment --- all of these create distractions and undermine clear thinking, are, as they say, "crazy-making." They are more than threatening. They are traumatizing. And the two are different in kind. So. I was traumatized for months before the final blows. A mob was being stirred up. Riled up, manipulated. And the smooth-talking magistrate never once called them out, never challenged either their outrageous perceptions or their escalating behaviors. And in the end, he made it explicit, You will do what you will do. (Those of you who remember the Christian story will recognize that line.) They did. Do what they would do. Not isolated incidents anymore but a pattern. A terrifying pattern. And finally, it wasn't one of their leaders who delivered the last of their blows. It was a fringe guy, one of the mob, dare I say, part of the rabble, who acted, I think, more out of confusion and unorganized anxiety than his own clear motivation. Ah, but finally, this is not about me. This is about what is going on in our country right now. And it horrifies, terrifies me. Is it only a matter of time before a fringe guy, part of the rabble, the mob, shoots off more than his or her mouth. I am afraid. Death threats, including the call to hang Senator Patty Murray, use of the "n" word, the "f" word addressed directly on Capital steps to members of Congress, and spitting on Members of Congress as they entered the building, and now this afternoon, a gas line cut to the home of a brother of a Member of Congress who has... four young children at home (the brother's address was given by mistake instead of the MOC). And the leaders of the Republican Party are namby pamby about criticizing it. They must CALL OUT this violence and the threats to violence loudly, unequivocably, and with all of the authority and determination of the elected positions they hold. To do less is to leave the mob to run its course. Which will not end well. For anyone. Not one. Democracy is messy. But for the love of God, these are NOT isolated incidents in the sense that they are so far out of the mainstream, they are becoming a pattern. And the GOP must CALL THEM OUT. Mob mentalities are easily manipulated, and when they are not discouraged ---- ask me, check my medical records --- they ACT OUT THEIR HATE. What do we do? Maybe I start by calling my GOP Congressman and asking him to speak up, to condemn this behavior. Not the opinions or the persons themselves, but the behavior, over the top, dangerous. Deadly.

Stunned

Loss does nothing so much as it stuns us. Disbelief. Paralysis. Betrayal empties us of more than trust. We are left grieving, knowing more loss than our minds can comprehend. The maw. Chasms opening into yawning caverns that ache like a cavity, strained, distended beyond natural time. We don't feel this all the time. thank god. We can move through many days with only a vague awareness of pain or, better yet, a bare remembrance, or none at all, caught up in what is now. But then. Then we explode into paroxysms of staggering sadness. And we do remember all that was gone, all that is beyond retrieval. Moments lost, relationships strained, time missed, all that was taken. Stolen. All that screwed us over. Today I remember. Today I feel my soul drained and spilled out. You lose your senses in the middle of this grief, you forget to take perspective. What good has come, quite frankly, what good has been won, dammit, with determination, courage, grace, and luck. All of the stupidity. All of nastiness. I'm remembering it today. I am remembering them today. I am remembering the acts of cowardice, duplicity, manipulation. I am remembering names. Faces. Specifics. I am remembering words, lies, looks. I remember the woman who was unspeakably mean and manipulative to my child, confusing her, seeking to drive a wedge between us. I am remembering the invasions of my office, my email, my voice mail. I am remembering the violations of the altar, the stolen bread, the missing wine. I am remembering the distinguished man who stood in front of the mob and washed his hands, "what you will do, you will do." But worse, far worse, I am remembering how much I forgot, how much I missed. The 20 hour days at work, the seventy hour weeks. The bedtimes stories not read, the silly little outings for ice cream not taken, the stories at the dinner table I wasn't there to hear. I could go on and on and on and on. and it would be deadly to do so. The man with gray hair, and the one with a clownish manner, and the earnest face that dared not know the truth. I remember today. What was taken. What I gave up willingly, all on my own. Thinking it was for the best. Waste. Today it feels like waste. No, not today: this moment, this moment, right now, it feels like waste. I am so angry I wasted my time, three precious years of my life being set up sabotaged, cut apart, and finally, cut down. I am so angry. And inexpressibly sad. But that's today, this moment. But. There was yesterday. And there is tomorrow. In fact, there is fifteen minutes from now. We are going out, this child and I, the one I missed. And we have these wonderful moments, days, even. Days built by grit and determination and courage. To rise, reclaim. Rebuild. We are together. We were not pulled apart. Sorry, 'miss you know who you are'. We survived. All through it, through every moment. And she gets you, she's got your number too. We all do. Petty. Mean. You all screwed with us as best you could. And there are days when the cavity aches as much as it did once. When the cavern of loss extends out beyond light into deep darkness. And I cry. Rant. Moan, suffer. But, beyond remembering all that was the good that also came to us -- eventually -- and all that was good that God in Her grace did through those awful times, in the lives of others who were open to Her, and who, mostly, moved on, beyond remembering that, the fuck you days and memories we have made a new life as god does. At least that's what the story tells us. My girl needs some new duds. And, fuck you, men in velvet robes with vacuous titles, I am going shopping.

I just don't know

The sign says, "Bring people together. Study theology." Or maybe it says, "Study theology. Bring people together." Either way, one or the other, I don't remember and it doesn't much matter. But, seriously. Last I noticed, we were not too together when we come to theology. Or perhaps it's best to say, we are too together here on this side of the wall. And 'they' are too together there on the other. The big bold white words set against a verdant leafy background as high as a building trigger my cynicism every time I pass. Whose theology shall we study? Of course, issue one is getting to any semblance of agreement that there isn't only one theology (yours). That there are who's, many who's who bring a theology to the table. Issue two is the question of knowing. I don't know anything. But maybe you do. I think knowing is dangerous. But maybe you think knowing is required. I'd like to think we could come together and study theology. But I just don't know.

"take care of one another"

No matter where I go around the world, the issue of Native Americans comes up. We white European-Americans have no moral credibility around the globe with respect to our relationship to the First Peoples to inhabit this land. It is a matter I do not think of often. I don't dare. It is too painful. It is too humiliating, too terrible to remember. We, who dress up so nicely, who turn out so elegantly, who speak with grace and eloquence, we, who can be immensely gracious and generous, kind and compassionate, we, we. We are the perpetrators of horrible crimes against the native peoples. In a torn and depleted world, amazing things happen sometimes. I was part of a moment, a relationship, an event in time, on Friday that stirred me deeply and is worthy of consideration. "Warriors take care of one another. This is our common pledge. We are here to honor you, Warriors, as you carry on the name and the hallmarks of the Arapaho people," says Tribal Elder Leonard Moss to the 2100 cheering Arapahoe High School students. Tribal Elder Moss, wearing the dignified face paint and ceremonial headdress of the Arapahoe nation, his wizened face conveying kindness and conviction to the students, reminded the Arapahoe Warriors that "the Arapahoe and the Arapaho are two communities with one heart." The Arapaho came to Arapahoe today. And oh,what a day! A reverent and joyful celebration of the uncommon relationship between a high school community and the Native community whose name and heritage they bear. Gifts, dancing, lots and lots of dancing, drumming, singing, affection and respect exchanged between us all. Dozens of Arapaho traveled in white vans and Suburbans from the Wind River Reservation in central Wyoming to Littleton, Colorado, to a suburban high school where more than two thousand students are reminded every day of their identity and heritage as Arapahoe Warriors, part of the Arapaho community. "Warriors take care of one another." Words posted all around the school, recited daily in the student announcements, and reinforced in countless ways to the point that it is a message internalized by these students, as a part of their identity and commitment. "Arapaho are known as a 'people who teach,' and it is our privilege to be here to teach you something about the culture of the people whose name you carry," the Tribal Elder told them. You might think this is a schmaltzy, schwarmy, hokey and tokenistic, feel good experience. But, au contraire! Everyone about this relationship is profoundly serious. honest, and gracious. There is no artifice. It is remarkable to see a gym filled with 2100 teenagesr who are wildly proud to be Warriors, and when I say Warriors I mean Arapaho Warriors as much as Arapahoe Warriors. It is "Warrior pride" that these students learn to feel about themselves, and now, by Warrior I mean, strong, tenacious, pride for yourself (self-esteem)and your tribe, and respect for yourself and for your Elders. Your actions, your life reflects upon your people, and by their actions, your people are expected to honor you. And, as the motto for both nation and high school reminds them, "Warriors take care of one another." I have seen these words every day for the four years my daughter attended Arapahoe. Nice, thoughtful. I had no idea the freight they carried. And even though I knew from the start about this uncommon relationship between the Arapahoe and the Arapaho, I didn't understand the extent to which each community identifies with the other, the sense of solidarity and unity. How remarkable is this! In this country, on this land, given this history, our children acknowledge the forfeit that has given them privilege. Our children, through this relationship, accept the responsibility of caring for one another. Our children, because of this unparalleled relationship with the Arapaho nation, are graciously blessed and given the opportunity for learning and living. Indeed, the words that touched me most deeply, from Tribal Elder Leonard Moss, were as gracious as I could imagine, anywhere, anytime. "We are glad you can use this land that once was ours to learn, to grow," to become more human. Can you imagine such a blessing? If every people in America was as humble, grateful and respectful, and overcome with affection for the Native community on whose land we now learn and live and make our livings as the community of Arapahoe High School, and if every Native community was, by some miracle of forgiveness and acceptance, as gracious and kind and giving as the Arapaho community of the Wind River Reservation in central Wyoming, this country would be very different. Think, if you will, about what the world would look like, if other conflicts were so resolved, if other vanquished peoples were given the grace to embrace the children of those who stole their land, their livelihoods, their world. And what if we, the children of those who violated and stole and ruined, desecrated the world of others had the grace to embrace with gratitude the legacy that has been ravaged but not finally obliterated. What if we shared a common conviction, "Warriors take care of one another." So far as I can tell, the House of Representatives in their vote tonight, affirmed this vision, that "we take care of one another." How ironic, that these words first found me in the voice of the First Peoples who have changed my daughter's life over these past four years as an Arapahoe Warrior. I never imagined how proud I would be, never imagined, not at all, how happy and proud I would be to hear my daughter tell a family friend again today, "I'm an Arapahoe Warrior." Let's be like them, and take care of one another!

Wherever you go

...there you are. Even when it is not where you planned. My cousin Bev and I were pregnant at the same time and due in March, 1992. I had a miscarriage but she continued a healthy pregnancy and gave birth to a sweet little boy, Mark. I remember every year when Mark's birthday comes around, with a pinch of pain, remembering the baby I did not have then. I saw Bev shortly before Mark was born and shared joyfully in her expectations, honestly, and did not make mention of my pregnancy that had ended too early. As it turned out, I was pregnant already again when I saw Bev that day and was thrilled beyond imagining when Annika was born in August and even more thrilled that she turned out to be Annika. What a kid! That is always the thing about a miscarriage; the grief for what wasn't is almost completely swallowed up in gladness and delight about the child who was born, the daughter who, along with her sister, has grown up to completely own my heart. Back to Bev. And Mark. In the days after his birth, Bev and her husband, Tim, sent out a birth announcement that said something like this...... Imagine for a moment that you have planned a trip to France. You have made careful preparations, learned everything there is to know about France, even some of the language. You have drooled over photographs of the French countryside and the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. You have picked out a spot on the Riviera for a few days of rich living and chosen a lovely chic hotel for your days in Paris. You dream about the fields of lavender and the rich food and fine wines. Oh, yes, you have it all set up, you are going to France. You have your tickets and a little bit of French currency and the perfect itinerary. You find it hard to concentrate on anything else, as the days count down... You pack your clothes, the special dress you got for an elegant evening, the chic touring outfit, and, of course, the shoes. The day arrives. You get to the airport early, in your excitement, find the proper queue, have your passport stamped as you leave the country, board the big Air France jet, settle in for a first glass of cabernet, some crusty bread, even, believe it or not, a little escargot. You squeeze your spouse's hand, lean your head on his shoulder, smile at each other like you've got a secret, and you've won the lottery. "Here we go!" You settle back, your dream is coming true. In a few short hours, you will land in France. Only you don't. You land in Bruges. Belgium. And there seems to be no question but this is where you get off, this is where you are going, where you will stay. This, not France, is your destination. Bruges is a lovely city too. Not Paris, mind you, but interesting, You don't know Flemish and you have no idea what to look for and you don't have any hotel reservations and no map and, really, you're completely flustered. "What do we do in Belgium?" This was the gist of Bev's letter, Bev's and Tim's, as they wrote to announce the birth of their son, Mark. Who was born with Down's Syndrome. Not what they were expecting. And, as they explained from the start, "this is not a bad place we've landed, just not the one we planned for." Not, quite frankly, what we envisioned, not what we imagined parenting would be like. Mark had a number of urgent health issues, as Downs' babies often do. He had several surgeries in his first years of life. His heart. A colostomy, a reversal of the colostomy. Some of his health issues were critical. It was an all-consuming process, to care for Mark. And so it has been now these 18 years. Mark is also graduating from high school in May. It is a season of "lasts" for Bev and Tim too. His last high school football season: Mark was a manager for the Grandview High School Varsity football team all four years at Grandview. That includes the year they won the state championship and Mark was down on the field at Invesco Field at Mile High, where the Broncos play, sharing in the excitement of that big day. He has a letter jacket and wears it with obvious pride. Individuals with Downs Syndrome generally live somewhere along a continuum of capabilities, capacities. Mark is a fine swimmer, and bowler, and does well in the Special Olympics where his parents so faithfully support and cheer him on. He doesn't do as well on cognitive skills. Bev told me last fall that their goal for him before graduation was that he be able to use a cell phone, even to text, so he might have a feeling of a bit of independence. He works at a Chik-Filet as the person who cleans up after you, if you left junk on your table, spilled sauce, forgot to throw out your napkins. Wouldn't it be cool if he could call when he was ready to come home? Bev wrote to me after my post last week about "lasts," about how different it is for her, for Tim, for Mark. Because in some ways, life will go on very much as it has. Mark cannot be left alone. He will be living at home. Despite catastrophic cuts in funding for 'special education,' they are hopeful Mark will be able to go on to a post-high school program that teaches more life skills and perhaps even simple job skills. Bev wrote, "We're having a last school year with Mark but we're on a different journey from your family. The positive is that we don't plan to send him off anytime soon and we have more time to enjoy him at home." It seems to me there were words to read between the lines. Poignant ones. I cried. It's been 18 years in "Belgium" for Bev and I'll be honest. It's not been easy. It is a very different way to be a parent. It is exhausting. The rewards look very different for them than for us. She and Tim have always been on a different journey from our family. It is with enormous feelings of admiration and respect that I write, as I often think, of my cousin Bev, her husband Tim, and their son, Mark. I can tell you that they are the most incredible parents I've ever encountered, much less known. Their patience, lovingkindness, their clever and effective way of giving Mark the boundaries he needs, the affirmation and opportunity he thrives on, the playfulness he delights in ---- well, I can't imagine anyone coming close. Mark's job for the football team was to run out on the field and collect the kicking 'tee' after kickoff's and he has done his job with careful dedication. But there was not a Friday night or Saturday afternoon that Tim wasn't with him on the sideline, helping him zone in on his moment, and sometimes reminding him to come back off the field. You wouldn't believe the gracious manner in which Tim interacts with his son. Well, I hope you do. And Bev, too. Sundays and Saturdays at the pool, at other special activities, at home. Their last's are quite the same only different from ours. Their future looks very different from ours. They will be staying on in 'Belgium,' a place they've found their way around, skillfully. They've found all the hot spots, the groovy, funky places, and the boring but necessary ones too. We sat together, Bev and I, in the bleachers when Grandview played Annika's school, Arapahoe, last fall. Tim was on the field with Mark, of course. I thought it was pretty cool that Mark was out there being a manager for his school's team while our daughter, Annika, was on the opposite side, being a manager for her's. The same only different. After the game ended (Grandview beat Arapahoe, badly), Mark and Annika came up to see us and to horse around like kids do. Annika had her letter jacket on. Mark had his letter jacket on, too.

There will be no carnations today

Not a one. There will be no carnations today, not in Poland, not given to women, not if you want to save your skin. Happy International Women's Day! May 8. I didn't pay much attention to the news today so I can't say if the occasion got much play in the States. Some years it does, others it goes by without a peep. In years past I was involved in special events designed to teach women's history, or call attention to continuing issues of sexism, whether that be pay inequity, or glass ceilings, or sexual harassment and abuse. But, to be honest, International Women's Day has never had a big following here in the States. We take for granted all that we have and we are in denial about the problems that live on, and on, and on. So our attitude is pretty much just "never mind." Not so in Poland. Oh no, not so at all. International Women's Day is a big deal there. It is all about patronizing women, being extra chivalrous, even more condescending in the attention paid to "our women who work so hard for us." It is still a sore point. A major demonstration was planned this year, to call attention to specific injustices, a demonstration that most Poles managed to ignore. A recent magazine article reported the hardships women faced during the Communist period. But Polish women will tell you that the challenges are not gone. However, there are flowers. Never mind the issues of pay and power and housework, the women all get flowers. We get flowers from husbands and sons and brothers and fathers and friends and bosses. The corner kiosks selling flowers prepare for a brisk business and sell out before mid-afternoon. Women walk up Nowy Swiat carrying small bouquets, sometimes more than one. They have received flowers at work, at lunch, from sweethearts and co-workers. One would feel neglected,and embarrassed, to be seen outside today without flowers, evidence of someone's respect and affection. Men rush to deliver their flowers during lunch hours, on quick breaks, and it is a bit of an odd thing to see them out carrying bouguets of flowers too. If all else fails, there's always the supermarket. Yes, the market has a supply of roses to hand out to its women customers today. Touching. But heaven forbid you hand out carnations. Carnations are absolutely not allowed. Not one. Back again during the Communist period, every woman was given a red carnation at work on International Women's Day. These flower hand-outs generally took up work time, which had to be made up, as the "top dogs" (Poles love this term) would call a general assembly of the entire staff, spend an hour or two extolling the virtues of women, then send them back to finish their day's work, which often kept the women there longer than usual. How thoughtful. Charming, really. Needless to say, the carnations weren't particularly popular at the time. Tokenism. Boring, empty rhetoric. A longer day than usual. And a wimpy little carnation. Resentment, sarcastic wit, disgust were the order of the day. Symbolized by a red carnation. You'd have to look extra hard to find a red carnation anywhere in Poland today. If only the culture had made so much progress.

The Farewell Tour

Tonight we made the farewell tour at Arapahoe. This is a season filled with "lasts." The last choir concert. The last musical (Cinderella), the last basketball championship run, the last winter dance, and tonight it was the last Parent-Teacher Conferences. Mrs. Gerlich, the girls' AP US History teacher suggested we go out and drink a champagne toast. It was a lovely idea, but it doesn't mix well with the percocet. So we pretended. "Drink a toast to yourselves," she said, "you've done a great job, raising two exceptional young women." See, this is why we go to Parent-Teacher Conferences. Whenever we need a little boost, whenever our self-esteem is flagging, we talk to the girls' teachers. It gets a little bit embarrassing, but not so much that I'd turn it down. I used to joke that if I needed a hug, I'd just go find one of the teachers who would be so happy to tell me how great my kids are, and how much she appreciates having them in class, she's jump up from her desk and give me a big squeeze. I don't joke about it anymore, I just go. We are so lucky. With one or two exceptions, our girls have had terrific teachers. Many of them have been over-the-top excellent. We've seen the development of maturity in personality as well as intellectual growth. I love going over to Arapahoe and, meeting someone new, saying, "I'm Annika's mom." In a school of almost 2400 students, that's all it takes. "Annika's mom." I could not ask for a more honorable title, for a surer guarantee of respect by association. So tonight we went to make the rounds, our farewell tour of the teaching staff. And it was nice to hear one correct me and say, "no, it's a victory lap. Congratulations!" Somewhere in the mix of our encouragement and support and the girls' own maturity, talents, and commitments, the alchemy of this parent-child collaboration has created a couple of very cool kids. Together with their teachers and other mentors, we've done what we hoped to do: bring to life the best of their passions and quirks, their intelligence and good sense, their talents and openness, and their engagement with life at a level of thoughtful, careful, and joyful enthusiasm. And the girls, to their credit, have given it their best, their highest, and their mostest. And here they go. Again. There will be several more lasts this Spring, and not only for Annika here at home but also for Kaia at Macalester. The last prom, the last exams, the last research project, the last meals and times with friends. And for us, parents, who feel it all very differently, these are poignant last times. I have already cried, more than once. This is what we do. We go and go and go, and teach and teach and teach, and love and love and love, and listen and listen and listen. We comfort and harass, encourage and put on brakes, we nudge and throw up our hands. We laugh, we cry, we sing, we speak and we keep our silence. We say yes and we say no. We point things out, we keep things in. We hope, we cringe, we celebrate, we fill up with gratitude. We take a farewell tour, or maybe even a victory lap. We soak in the goodness. And then, they go. As we planned. As we prepared. They go. They go. They go.

Now that I'm not dying....

I started making plans. It's the not knowing. Only two weeks of uncertainty. Not bad by any standards. Except mine. Not knowing is better than knowing something terrible. I'll take not knowing for two weeks anyday over knowing, having lethal, devastating information, information that I feared but did not receive. Time falls into a different rhythm. One feels suspended. In fact, it feels a lot like the experience of being more literally 'dissociated,' as I was in the months after the attack in 2002. Dissociation is that eerie and awful experience of feeling outside yourself, outside your mind, outside your life. It is the sensation of watching your life go on, and you with it, but without being on the inside of it. During the months after the attack, the experience of dissociation was a safety mechanism, a gift from my mind to myself, a protective layer between my reality and the reality of what had occurred. It was hard enough to go on, being conscious as I was, of what had happened, what had been done, what other humans were capable of doing to one of their own, the evil that was perpetrated in a sacred space. It was a shock. But there was still this lovely layer, like gauze, a sheath, protection. Because there are times when life is too much to take in. We cannot stand too much reality, as the playwright has said (Bertold Brecht). Sophie's Choice is a devastating portrait of a life severed from reality, a reality that is too diabolical, that feels overwhelming, beyond redemption. I just read the book again in the company of some very talented writers, and we were really struck by the way the author wove together life and death so close, so interwoven that the lines became blurred. Like too many of her peers, Sophie was dying from the moment the Nazi's crossed the border. Reality was far too much. She never found her way back. Some of us split away from our personalities, our selves, forever in the wake of extreme shock, trauma, violence. And some of us just take a break, a time-out from the reality of what is in the world, what the world can do, of how harsh and stupid and destructive the world can be. And then we come back for more. Daring to step back in, to take steps in the direction of living, of life, of trusting and loving and playing around with life again. These last two weeks of not knowing what was going on inside my lungs was scary like that, the temptation to step outside for just a little while. To wait and watch. And not make any big plans. Not like before, not like I felt for the years it took before I dared to move outside a very small circle of trust, after being attacked a few years ago. And not quite like it still feels today when I come too close to what my animal brain perceives is danger. Not that bad, but weird all the same. No cancer, no embolisms, no creepy stuff. Just this one stinkin' rib that broke. I can live through that. In fact, now that I'm not dying, there's a list I've got to get back to. Poland is on it, of course, and Sweden. And, by gum, there's a novel..... It's good to be back! And thanks again for all your notes and concern! This is reality that is easily better than bearable. You make it good. Thanks!

It IS a broken rib!

No goat. This disappoints some of you who were eagerly awaiting the freaky outcomes and tabloid coverage of your friend with a goat in her chest. But, no, no goat. It is a broken rib. You'd think they could have just told me. But this is what happened -- because it is all so fascinating. I had a bad cold, a bit of a pneumonia even, terrible coughing. Difficulty breathing because of the respiratory infection. This went on for awhile. I sounded scary. The dog still hides. But that isn't the meat of the matter. Two weeks ago I felt something break or crack or crunch or tear or rip or something. And that hurt like labor. Which is to say, a lot. I went to the doctor. She ordered xrays. They took xrays. But not of the area where the rib was. Oops. So I went back later that day for a CT scan and they did their thing. But missed the rib. Oops again. But for some reason --- one can't account for what one can't account for --- nobody followed up on the broken rib angle. I was sent to a pulmonologist. He ordered a bunch of tests to check on the lung inflammation, pneumonias, cough, lung issues. Swell. But meanwhile, the rib the rib. However, the docs started talking like maybe the pain wasn't a broken rib. Maybe it was something really creepy like an embolism, cancer, that that sort of thing. Well, that was scary. And meanwhile, the pulmonologist's office lost my paperwork so the tests weren't in fact ordered, as he ordered. Big mess. It got really confusing. But this is it, the bottom line, what is actually happening. I have a broken rib. Pretty badly broken. So it's gonna hurt a lot. But that's all. The other, respiratory stuff is over. Or almost. But at least I know, we know. It's just a rib, a lousy broken rib. Thanks for being concerned. I really appreciate your care and your patience, as the confusion reigned. Knowing isn't everything. But knowing is good. Let's talk about epistomology now. Or after the percocet wears off.

It is a goat!

The CD from the CT scan of my thorax (yes, Kaia, it is a word!) is in this laptop. It is surely a good thing that a radiologist or two will take a look at it because this is all I can tell from my analysis. I have a heart. And lungs, two of them. The heart is on the right side, except when looked at from the back view, which worried me for a moment. There are ribs, well defined, but none of them look broken or cracked. There is a spine, always a relief. And fat. Yeah, fat. And there, tucked in behind a little pillow of fat is the goat. I knew it; it was either a broken rib or a goat. And it looks like a goat to us. It also looked like a little fetal head in the middle of a lung but we decided that is a physiological impossibility, for several reasons. So. There is not a black hole in my heart, also a relief. But not a golden glow around it either. Pretty normal looking to me. But something weird is going on in there. And tomorrow perhaps the veterinarian -- or my doctor -- will give the word. Stopping the percocet will be welcome. Feel free to keep me in your thoughts and join me in giving thanks to Dave for the amazing tender loving care he offers effortlessly and without ever any reservation.

Chopin's Heart, the Heart of Poland

Happy birthday to Fred! Bless his heart! Speaking of which, I sat next to it. Chopin died in his adopted France but his heart was lovingly returned -- and rather creepily returned -- to rest in repose in an urn in the church of the Holy Cross, built into a pillar in the nave of the sanctuary. I dashed in late for worship and looked up after a few moments and found, at my left hand, Chopin's heart. You can't see it -- thank the lord, but the urn is there with a red satin bow of honor. Now if I were to tell you that the heart was still beating, "The Telltale Heart," -- all I could think of the first time I saw it -- that would be really creepy. But it's not. Thank goodness. This is the 200th Anniversary Year of Chopin's birth. And today, this very one, 22 February, is the day. There is a lot to say about Chopin that I don't have time to tell today but, please, take some time yourself to listen to some etudes, a concerto, a polannaise. Perhaps the soundtrack of The Pianist is the most accessible popular source of Chopin's music. And you hear, you sense the romantic wistfulness of the Polish heart in every note. Poland was not a hospitable home for its 18th and 19th century geniuses. Chopin, Marie Curie are but two Poles who had to leave in order to find freedom for their creative forces to flourish. But Chopin remained a Pole through to the end. His soul is reflected in the plaintive, poignant passages and the brave chords of a concerto. Go to Poland today, find its heart, listen to Chopin! (from the Sunday, February 21, 2010 Washington Post) After 200 years, classical composer Chopin's music still holds mysteries Elliptical style: Polish-born Frédéric Chopin's music can appear simple, but his work is intricate and challenging. By Anne Midgette Washington Post Staff Writer Sunday, February 21, 2010 Monday, Feb. 22, is Frédéric Chopin's 200th birthday. That is, it's Fryderyk Chopin's birthday; the Polish-born, Paris-dwelling composer's name is more commonly spelled these days with Ys. And that's his birth date according to a baptismal certificate; the composer said he was born on March 1. Even 200 years after his birth, things that appear simple about Chopin are actually more complicated than they seem. Including, and above all, his music. Chopin's piano pieces -- all of his pieces involve the piano: no symphonies or operas here -- are lyrical and lovely, poetic and, therefore, seen as accessible. Yet they can also be harmonically intricate, technically challenging. His 24 Op. 10 and Op. 25 Etudes, far from being simple "studies" for students, are so difficult that the great pianist and Chopin specialist Artur Rubinstein avoided playing some of them. And they can be elliptical to the point of impenetrability (take the final movement of the Second Sonata: a whirling cloud of sound less than two minutes long). Taken together, Chopin's pieces represent a towering hurdle, the benchmark against which a classical pianist is measured -- in part because of the difficulty of finding a way to plumb the music's depths while sounding simple. * * * "Proper" Chopin style is at once a seal of approval and the subject of endless debate. It involves lightness and clarity of touch, something evinced by one of the latest crop of Chopinistes, Rafal Blechacz, in his new CD of two rather conventional piano concertos. It requires a singing legato: the illusion that the pianist is creating an unbroken line of sound, like a human voice. This is particularly true in the Nocturnes, which are incessantly compared to the operas of Chopin's friend Vincenzo Bellini. But Chopin style can also evoke the kind of stormy outbursts the young Martha Argerich gives in her just-released CD, a collection of previously unreleased radio recordings from 1959 and 1967. Most important, and most elusive, Chopin style involves rubato -- changing tempo or rhythm for expressive purposes. The question of rubato dogs Chopin performance. The composer was said to be quite free as a pianist, but it's not clear what this meant: There are indications that he kept a fairly steady left-hand beat at all times. Still, generations of performers, following the misguided notion that a piece of music is a canvas upon which they are to express themselves, take Chopin's advocacy of rubato as license to slow down and speed up almost at will. Hearing a lot of Chopin -- even in some cases very good Chopin -- can leave me seasick from listening to too many phrases being stretched out as if going slowly uphill, then tumbling helter-skelter down again. Chopin's music has sometimes been branded effeminate, or "salon music": not quite serious, not quite healthy, not quite German, since it departs from the structural conventions of the great Viennese classical school. Even the two powerful sonatas are unconventional, playing fast and loose with the structural conventions upheld by Mozart and Beethoven. Indeed, some of Chopin's ardent defenders have implicitly bought into the idea that the music is weak and needs defending, trying to emphasize its seriousness (and manliness) by playing the works in sets -- all 24 preludes, or the 24 etudes of Op. 10 and 25 -- and thus casting them as long, weighty pieces rather than salon entertainments measuring three or four minutes long. * * * The view of the work as fragile and sickly is also linked to the pervasive idea of Chopin as a prototypical Romantic genius: pale and dapper, doomed to a tragically short life (he had tuberculosis), needing the care of a strong mother figure (his lover, best known by her literary pseudonym, George Sand), receiving the divine flash of inspiration at the keyboard (though a brilliant improviser, he labored over his compositions). After 200 years, classical composer Chopin's music still holds mysteries The work isn't fragile, though. Although Chopin himself was said to shrink away from too-loud playing, there's plenty in it that thunders and plenty that's assertive. It's also strikingly original. Chopin, unlike many composers of his day, wasn't under the sway of Beethoven. He abhorred, for instance, the start of the last movement of the Fifth Symphony; his primary influences were earlier, particularly Johann Sebastian Bach. Like Bach, he wrote music in sets: for instance, the 24 Preludes, a set of short pieces in every key like "The Well-Tempered Clavier." And pre-Classical keyboard music was an influence in some of the forms he particularly developed -- even the Nocturnes, that quintessentially Romantic expression. Chopin pioneered other forms, as well, like the Four Ballades: long dramatic monologues without words, at the intersection of tone poems and sonatas. Particularly his own were the polonaises and mazurkas, based on the idea of Polish folk dances, that are perennially held up as an example of the expatriate composer's patriotism. Chopin took his Polish nationalism seriously, but he was also capitalizing on a perennial interest in local folk color that turns up in Mozart's "Turkish" concerto or Brahms's Hungarian dances. There's certainly nothing sissy about the A-flat Polonaise. * * * There's a hint of the pragmatic in Chopin's 19 waltzes, as well. When Chopin went to Vienna as a young man, before settling in Paris, he disdained waltzes as the epitome of popular bad taste and complained that it was impossible for a composer to publish anything that wasn't a waltz. He may have looked down on them, but he was practical enough to start writing waltzes -- not, certainly, waltzes that one could actually dance to, but pieces that evoked the ballroom atmosphere, the whirl of gowns. The waltzes seem to be getting particular attention this anniversary year. New recordings have recently come out by Alice Sara Ott and Ingrid Fliter, two pianists worth knowing about, and Dinu Lipatti's classic set from 1950 is going to be rereleased yet again at the end of March. Listening to all the waltzes at one go is like eating a box of chocolates, leaving you feeling ever so slightly bilious; yet each of these recordings has its strengths. Fliter has a gorgeous, light, easy touch that appeals to me instinctively, but she gets a little carried away with the rubato, tugging at and prodding every phrase. Ott, too, sometimes sounds willful, but she has a wholesome directness. With a big sound that feels reined in, she embodies, in the Grande Valse Brillante in E-flat, the slightly coltish exuberance of a young girl at her first dance. In comparison, French pianist Alexandre Tharaud, who recorded the waltzes a few years ago, offers a drier, cooler approach: The playing is admirably clean and slightly distant, and very much a tonic after too much emoting. The waltzes epitomize one of the hardest things about playing Chopin: walking the fine line between emotion and sentiment, between feeling something and looking back, fondly, on the way it felt. Chopin presages Ravel's "La Valse" in his expression of slightly ironic nostalgia. The dance forms Chopin used had particular connotations; his works were a kind of social commentary. Today, the nostalgia threatens to trump everything. One big secret of playing Chopin may simply be to remember that it's not as pretty as it sounds.

"The Pants Heard 'Round the World"

"Look at your pants!" says the Queen to the King in Cinderella, begging him to schedule a festive ball to introduce their Prince to the eligible young women of the kingdom. Annika was rehearsing this dialogue yesterday when the Norwegian Olympic curling team appeared on the television screen. Meredith Viera called them "the pants heard 'round the world," and all we could say was, "Look at your pants!" I have the typical Swede's issues with Norwegians to begin with and this just doesn't make it easier. On the other hand, one of the issues Swedes have with Norwegians is that they are just too damn serious, and take themselves way too seriously. These pants definitely go the distance in rebutting that stereotype. So go Norwegians, wear those pants. Just don't expect us to ever take you seriously again. But this is not really about pants. That was just a teaser. This is about falling. And getting up. As much as I love Canada, I have to agree with the Salon writer yesterday who was inclined to tell Canada, "you're fired." The downhill ski course was a disaster. I keep envisioning these women whoooshing through the powder at Steamboat, snow worthy of an Olympics competition. But no, instead, they are sliding down a frozen concrete slippery slope that took six of the women out. Downhill skiing is an edgy, dangerous sport. That's a given. But taking out six of the best skiers in the world? One wonders. This is the thing, though. They got up. All but one who required an airlift off the course, the women got up, released their bindings, gathered the broken pieces of their skiis, and walked off the course. They're younger than me. Younger than most of you, too. That counts for something. But it is this getting up business that impresses the heck out of me. Getting up is good. Getting up is amazing. Getting up is normal -- much of the time. But it's not always possible. At least not right away. And it is certainly not always easy. One of my theme songs in the months after I was attacked and quit working was, "I get knocked down, and I get up again, I get knocked down, and I get up again..." Sometimes you can sing at the top of your lungs and push as hard as you can and grit your teeth and push and resolve, be determined, and still, it doesn't always happen right away. Resiliency is about bouncing back. I used to be so resilient I was a damn trampoline. Bounce, bounce, bounce. But then came a time when bouncing was no more possible than flying off into space. It's frustrating to be in a different time and space, to have to deal with an experience that is profoundly, intrinsically different from the challenges I'd faced before. But I learn new ways to be resilient, to grow those resiliency muscles. I keep saying that one of the big draws for me to Poland is the resiliency I've seen, as they bounce back, or build back, recover, return, heal after outrageous devastation: the destruction of World War II, the imposition of a communist regime for forty years post WWII, and earlier, after the Partitions of the 19th century. But it's not an even process. Some are more resilient than others. Some are more resilient in some ways, less in others. And some are more resilient now, others later. I thought I knew all about resiliency. But I was humbled. Broken beyond the point where bouncing back was easy, quick, straightforward. Sometimes it feels like I'm still just reverberating, absorbing the shock. That is the way it is. For all of us, in various ways. It varies. The least helpful thing we do when others fall is judge their response to it. We don't know what else they have endured, encountered in life. We don't get to tell others how long it will take, what exactly they must do, how much it will hurt. We see this as military veterans return home from war and respond differently to their experiences. The best thing we can do when others fall is attend to them. Listen. Honor and respect their interpretation of what happened. Then encourage and support them as they begin a healing process. I see this in Poland too. I have friends and acquaintances there who are still stuck, have not been able to move into this new era and embrace all that it offers. And others who jumped up and seized the new opportunities even as they were just beginning to emerge. Some are frozen. While others have been flying. And so it is with those of us who have faced violence and danger, hostility and harassment. We respond in various ways. I'm not a trampoline anymore but I got one. And I guess if it makes them feel better about not being Swedish, those crazy Norwegians can go ahead and wear those bizarro pants. Whatever it takes. Just so long as they don't mind hearing Annika shout, "Look at your pants!" What works for you, what have you learned about strengthening your resiliency muscles?