Is it the 4th of July?

Celebrating the 4th of July in Warsaw is a little bit like celebrating Christmas in Tokyo. Not much holiday action going on around you. No bunting, no mylar stars and glittering flags in storefront displays. The American Ambassador has a gathering. Other expat groups have picnics or parties. And, if you're lucky, you get invited to a genuine backyard barbeque. I've celebrated a lot of holidays in Poland but this one is the weirdest. You walk out the door in the morning and life is going on just like it does every other day. Horns honking, taxis weaving in and out of rush hour traffic. The metro is full, the bus isn't running a holiday schedule. All of my friends are going to work. Offices are going full tilt and meetings have been scheduled. Just another day. "Um, that day isn't good for me," I explained to Tad, who works for PriceWaterhouse, which has a significant Polish presence. He doesn't get it at first, when I tell him I have holiday plans. No disrespect, mind you. But the American Independence Day just doesn't register on the European radar. There will be no fireworks tonight. Granted, it is much different now than in the 1982 when, as I remember, there were anti-American goings on that day. It's hard to believe there was a time when our two countries were not allies, not even officially on speaking terms. Which is not to say the Poles haven't always felt friendly toward Americans, especially given that so many of them emigrated to the States. But it was also true that the U.S. was viewed with a good deal of wariness and suspicion, even outright anger, given the historical memory of the Yalta decision to give Stalin control over Poland after World War II. Why celebrate American independence when we had, in their view, given theirs away. There were no fireworks in 1982 either. The expats now living in Konstancin, a lovely suburb of Warsaw, have big homes with big backyards, patios and barbeque grills. There will be brats and burgers, homemade potato salad, corn on the cob, cherry pie and ice cream this afternoon. Lemonade and beer. A friendly game of croquet on the lawn, maybe some badminton, and softball over at the International School field. Rumors of sparklers and Roman candles circulate. But no big parade. My hometown in Colorado is so famous for its big 4th of July Parade it was a featured event in the American Bicentennial Celebration in 1976. I spent every single Independence Day of my childhood sitting on the curb with my cousins, chasing after Tootsie Rolls and bubble gum tossed by rodeo queens and clowns, admiring the serpentine drills performed by skilled horseback clubs and screwing up my nose at the abundance of 'souvenirs,' as my aunts called them, left by the hundreds of horses and cattle. Even today, a herd of longhorns led the parade and old friends sat on blankets they set out days ago, some sleeping out overnight saving favorite spots in the shade. I miss that. In fact, over the years, we've never really developed another tradition. If I can't do that, what else is there? My aunts are all gone, and my mom, makers of the world's best fried chicken and baked beans, potato salad, cole slaw and red jello. My dad's signature contribution, black cherry lemonade, is long gone. My cousins are all grown and we've scattered from coast to coast, and beyond. We won't be sneaking over to plant cherry bombs on the grammar school playground in the afternoon or taking naps before spreading out yet another blanket to watch the fireworks from Mumper Hill. Every year I get a burst of enthusiasm in late May and decide that this will be the year I invite the Anderson clan over for a reunion picnic on the 4th of July. And every year, I don't follow through. Some traditions belong to memory. It seems fitting to celebrate Independence Day in a place where independence is new again and cherished. What a difference! In that sense, barbeques aside, every day is independence day.

Polish Women Still in the Wimbledon Hunt

Lame, I know. But, hey, this is an angle to the Polish story. I'll get back to work soon. Let's hear it for the Radwanska's!

Wimbledon is the only thing...

...to derail my writing. Oops. Christie pointed out today that I had not updated this blog in a few days. There is only one excuse. Wimbledon. I am a tennis junkie. Two years ago, spending a summer in Warsaw, living without a television (and that is a whole other story), I discovered all of the sports pubs in town. And mooched some viewing time from friends. I even visited the art gallery owned by Poland's claim to tennis fame in years back, W. Fibak, multiple times, to feel a bit of Wimbledon vibe. Pathetic, I know. I'll be back at this now. Just watch.

Let's Hear It For the Ducks!

The Ducks turned 60! Picture your most petulant friend. Temper tantrums. Pouting. Insolent stubborn pettiness. That, unfortunately, goes a long way to describing Poland's President and his twin brother. Polish President, Lech Kaczynski and his mostly identical twin, the former Prime Minister (yes, they were in office at the same time), Jaroslaw Kaczynski celebrate their 60th birthdays this week. Cheers for the Ducks. Yip yip. The evening was settled and lovely, lazy white clouds floating around in the sky, the calm after another afternoon storm. Our coffees were still steaming as we sat around the marble table at Blikle and watched the world go by. Up the street, a sound of two-tone sirens alerted us to the coming motorcade. Three motorcycles led a procession of four black Mercedes, serious cars for serious business. Of course we looked. "Oh," he said, "it's just the Ducks." Presidential motorcades in Poland are not quite the dramatic affairs they are here in the States. No oversized SUV's, no press bus. Just the four Mercedes speeding up Nowy Swiat from the Presidential offices to the Presidential residence, or the Parliament or the opera. So went the Ducks, a twofer, both of them together, off to wherever they were wanted. Which is not everywhere, that's for sure. The Ducks are not terribly popular, especially in the capital. Which is why -- and you may have been wondering -- they are derisively referred to as "the Ducks." It's not a term of affection. And certainly not one of respect. The name "Kaczynski" is very close to the word for duck. Hence, you have it. They were child actors. Think Lindsay Lohen in high office. No, please don't. Lech and Jaroslaw became lawyers and then activists in the burgeoning Solidarity movement in the early 80's. After an infamous falling out with Lech Walesa, having to do with an admittedly crude joke Walesa made about matters pertaining to the brothers' sexual orientation, the twins went their way and were instrumental in the creation of a rival political party that has been consistently consumed with matters of personal morality and, more to the point, vendettas against the more liberal and outward looking politics of a long list of Polish presidents and parliamentarians. Of course there are substantive issues on which their political party, PiS -- and yes, Poles love to refer to it as such, knowing full well the meaning of piss in English parlance -- and other parties differ. Especially regarding the influence, directly or indirectly, of Roman Catholic teaching on issues of sexual morality. But it often seems that the main energy of PiS is all about antagonizing Walesa and whomever they view as allies of more progressive social policies. The pettiness has been laughable. And sad, disturbing and stupid. The Ducks are not in quite the same power position as two years ago. The PiS coalition in Parliament fell apart and new elections were held, from which a new party emerged victorious. Lech is still the country's President but Jaroslaw is only the leader of the minority party. Nonetheless, they manage to keep stirring the pot. Temper tantrums of late have included ridiculous posturing about their role in the celebrations of the end of communism. Several European leaders, including Angela Merkel of Germany, came to honor Poland's role in bringing down the walls around the Soviet satellites. But there was no President of Poland to welcome her. Oh, no. He was off in Gdansk, leading a counter-celebration set up to compete with the official one. Earlier, he chartered a plane to fly to an EU meeting where he was not officially involved because, he insisted, he should be. And the Ducks duo summarily cancelled an important international summit two years ago because they were angry at German political cartoons for making some fun of them. It would be like Bush refusing to go to France because, oh, wait, I think that happened too. Well, anyway. Pettiness and petulance are their hallmarks. And I tell you all this because it has had an unfortunate effect on Poland's continued development economically, culturally, and politically. Poland, twenty years beyond communism, is still spoiled to an extent by the continued suspicions and resentments of the past. Who did what, who was on what side, who got what when the country privatized its huge production plants and corporations? It will take until the next generation is firmly in charge, probably, for all of these old hurts and frustrations to stop standing in the way of basic reforms still needed to modernize the economy. How can you get anything done when everything is hamstrung by bickering, obstinance and stick-out-your-lower-lip, take-your-ball-and-go-home silliness? Poland's remarkable economic success has happened in spite of, rather than thanks to government leadership. So now Poland has only one Duck in high office instead of two. But both brothers keep up the barrage of bad behaviors. In spite of that, and in the spirit of cheesy bipartisanship, let me be among the well-wishers. Let's hear it for the ducks. Quack.

"We are not alone, the world is in Tehran"

The tweets come in at the rate of 2 per second. I would have died for this much information from Poland during its darkest days. As it was, we counted on National Public Radio and the television networks. They did what they could but it was never enough. It was never even close to enough. In the horrible days after Martial Law was declared in December, 1981, there were no telephones, no snail mail and we hung on every word of every foreigner who came out from Poland, "what about this street? were the photographs from the Academy of Science really true, were there tanks?" We were desperate for information about friends, colleagues. Who had been arrested? Where were they being taken? More than anything, I was overwhelmed with grief for my friends, for the trauma they were feeling and facing in the days to come. It was months before I had any useful information. Months. And that was, for then, normal. Now, in the time I've taken to write this, my TweetDeck reports that another 140 tweets have come in. I get a chirp every twenty seconds or so. Since I started this paragraph, I've received 40! And since then, 60 more. It's the middle of the night in Tehran and it's not quiet. Or peaceful. This only serves to remind that the peaceful transformations in eastern Europe twenty years ago were not then, and not now in memory, to be taken for granted. For those who wait here tonight for news from Iran, I'm not sure if it is better or not to have all of this graphic data in real time -- cars burning, gunshots exchanged between police and protesters firing from apartment windows. But surely this is good news, a tweet that just came, "we are not alone, the world is in Tehran tonight." We matter to one another. We do.

Pride

Europe will invade Poland. Again. Poland will host Europride next summer, the international gathering of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender groups and persons who work for an end to discrimination against homosexuality and for protection of human rights. As for this summer, Warsaw's Gay Pride Parade was held on Saturday, June 13, and a smaller than usual turn-out turned out. Nevertheless, it was a vibrant celebration of gay rights in a traditionally conservative Catholic country, which is to say, not the most welcoming of environments. (click on Pride title for link to parade video) It was illegal to be gay (figure out how to comply with that, lgbt friends!) during the communist era. Or more precisely, the topic (and the lifestyle) was taboo. I was invited to a very official high level church dinner in 1986, with local and international guests, including gloriously-hatted Russian Orthodox archbishops and metropolitans, and Orthodox representatives from the Middle East. As far as the other participants were concerned, my presence was the scandal du jour. But to my Polish friends, who drove me there and had to come in to be sure my information was accurate, the big scandal was the choice of Warsaw's leading (yet discreet) gay restaurant as the site for this ecumenical event. In the twenty years since Poland held its first free elections and left the straight-jacket of communism behind, Poland's gay community has been inching out of the closet. The first Gay Pride Parade was more of a huddle. In 1998, three brave individuals with hoods over their heads met at the Sigismund column in Castle Square. By 2003, four thousand marchers carried rainbow flags and demonstrated in favor of protection from discrimination. Then came the return of dark ages, as Lech Kaczynski, then mayor of Warsaw, now the country's President, banned the parade. By 2005, thousands of Polish and international marchers took to the streets in the largest illegal parade through Warsaw's streets, in its history. Clashes with police were tense but not violent. By 2006, ten thousand GLBT persons and other supporters of gay rights were parading peacefully. And so it has continued. But not without strong resistance. While President, Kaczynski was inducted into the Hall of Shame by Human Rights Watch, a group that monitors minority rights throughout Europe. He used "heavy-handed" language to warn of dire danger to the moral order of the country should Poland accede to the European Union's Lisbon Treaty, which does promise protections of human rights. A member of his government, Ewa Sowinska, took the Tele Tubbies to task, famously challenging Tinky Winky's use of a purse -- "a homosexual undertone" -- and warned that his behavior could have an adverse effect upon children. I was glad to see him along with the rest of the tubbies (pronounced tubeys or toobeys in Polish)when I arrived in Poland later that year. Phew! Large parades are back, along with much freer debate and dialogue. Poland's leading news magazine, Polityka, has an excellent article this week, an interview with a leading psychotherapist who specializes in treating GLBT persons. It is very sympathetic and sophisticated, about How to Live in a Homosexual Relationship. You might find something similar in The New York Times or The Economist. It notes that Poland is thirty years behind much of the rest of Europe with respect to GLBT issues, especially in terms of education and tolerance, but credits the internet for the explosion of positive developments. And now this article will be yet another step along the road to legalization of gay unions, protection against discrimination, and good education for the general public about homosexuality. And, meanwhile, as the struggle continues here and there and everywhere, it truly can be said that Poland, now after these twenty years, is normal.

Reaping the Whirlwind

"Where there is hatred, let me sow love." Why? Why do we hate? Why do we choose to believe the worst of one another? Why do we suspend disbelief and choose to believe what is not true? Three murders in three weeks. Hate crimes, whether or not they will be so determined by the courts. Of course, all murder is a hate crime, in one sense or another. But these three, the military recruiter, Dr. George Tiller, and the security guard at the Holocaust Memorial Museum this week, have this in common: their killers were not at home with truth. Delusion. Virulent hatred based on the choice to believe what is not true. America is not at war with Islam or all Arabs. Late-term abortions are not frivolous. The Holocaust did happen. We choose to hate. We choose to be intolerant. I don't know why. Do you? Theories I have, of course. Fear. Convenience. Laziness. The need for control. The need for surety. Greed. Jealousy. Poland knows too much about hate. The most hideous hate crimes imaginable were carried out by Nazis on Polish soil. Auschwitz. Treblinka. Majdanek. Sobibor. Those are infamous. They really did happen. The barracks and barbed wire at Auschwitz still bear grim witness to that reality. The crematorium is still standing; you can go inside it. Hate. Our human nature is profoundly perverted at times. Our logic is skewed. Our fears provoke us to irrational conclusions. We choose to believe things that are not true because it serves us somehow. Nazi's chose to believe that Poles were inferior, sub-human, that Jews were responsible for all that was wrong in the world. What to do? Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth. The Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. was a testament to awful truth. Dangerous, disturbing, disruptive truth. What to do in the wake of this tragedy? Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Hate kills. It reaps what is sows. In response, I can only think to pray, "Lord, make me an instrument of your peace....where there is hatred, let me sow love."

Bellybutton of Europe

"Pawlak: Poland Can Be Normal." Say what you will, Poland is an exceedingly normal, sometimes boringly normal place these days. The Deputy Prime Minister's headline caught my attention last year and reminded me of the desperate need we all have, to fit in, to be one of the gang, to be, in other words, normal. "We're a normal country now," my Polish friends tell me. "I always wanted to live in a normal country and now I do." I'm not always sure that normal is really all it's cracked up to be but I get the point. It is a good thing that Poland now has the same kinds of problems and issues and successes, too, that other European countries experience. Witness today's news from Poland. E! Entertainment Television is being offered free to analog viewers this month. Normally it is only available to digital subscribers. E! Get your gossip here folks. Level 3 Communications are expanding their network in Poland. Level 3, that's a Denver company. Level 3. Wow. The little village of Podkowa Lesna, near Warsaw, where I lived during my first stay in Poland in 1980, had the highest percentage turn-out to vote in the European Parliamentary elections on June 7 -- 50.86% -- and has been awarded the title, "Bellybutton on Europe." The European average was only 24.5% so I'd say the good folks of Podkowa did themselves proud. And for this they get a commemorative plaque. I can't wait to see it. "Bellybutton of Europe." How can you get more normal than that? Ernst & Young -- yes, that Ernst & Young -- reports from their offices in Poland that foreign investors continue to find the country an attractive place for their investments, even during the recession. The price of mushrooms decreased last week. But the price of tomatoes went up. Newspapers are having a hard time. And you'll find lively discussions about cooking, sex, patriotism, money and banks and finance, and poets. Poland, thank heavens, is normal. And perhaps, we can hope, almost cheerful.

"Prepare thyself to live"

A flash of brilliance. Stunning insight that bursts open the mind of an artist. Inspiration that is nothing short of divine overwhelmed composer, Gustav Mahler, on the morning of his friend's memorial service. Within hours he was at his work table composing music and words to sum up his Second Symphony, "Resurrection." From the moment I first heard this piece I was moved to my core and especially struck by this passage, "Cease trembling! Prepare thyself to live!" How do we prepare to live? Coming back from death to life. How to prepare? I nearly died. Seven years ago I was close enough to death to feel its gravity pulling me down, enveloping me in the sweet potential of not feeling, not hurting, not agonizing any more over the unbearable question, "who would do this? why would anyone delliberately inflict this much damage on another human being?" It was an attack I didn't see coming, leveling me as quickly as I could whisper the word, "help." In the aftermath, the damage to my psyche and my soul was worse than other physical wounds. But even in the moments of deepest suffering, I knew I wanted to live. I knew I needed to live. And, somehow, I knew I would. But how to prepare, to live again? Honest acknowledgement of the worst of the damage was an early step. And rest. My soul needed rest. My body surely needed rest. And my mind, traumatized and injured to the point I couldn't add or subtract, couldn't focus on anything, could not read or write or even follow a simple television newscast, needed a lot of rest. The steps back into life were not linear. And the steps into life rarely are. For any of us. We try this, then that. We go this way, then that way. We organize, plan, execute -- but inevitably something happens and we change the plan, again. Chaos. I've learned to love chaos. The swirl of possibilities. The untidiness of potentialities. Taking this, and that, from here and there, creating a glorious mess that somehow yields a new insight, a moment of movement. One of the reasons I can appreciate the Polish struggle and history so much is that it feels familiar. Especially these days. I look to the Polish stories for more than just an interesting read. In their long, long and seemingly unending experience of dying and rising, I find clues to the way back, for myself. "Prepare thyself to live." It's really not a bad way to start the day, every day. If only I can remember every day to start there.

Chill

The icy vodka went down easy. Very sweet, very smooth. Stories were told. Photographs were studied. Questions asked. Imponderables thoughtfully discussed. History is in our hands. Not every detail, not every moment, but in ways large and small, we are the makers of our days and times. We are invited, challenged, urged to take up the tasks of changing and forging, of building and, sometimes, tearing down. Many friends emailed me with comments about the June 4 blog post. Again and again you wrote, "I had no idea." "Thanks for educating me." I've whined here about this story being lost in the other news of that day twenty years ago. But that's not the main point I hope to make. That main point is this, we can do something. We can do something important together. We can make change. We can change history. In fact, I'm pretty sure we did. The other comment I got from many of you was this, "if only the outcome for China had been so promising." The dangers in Poland and throughout Eastern Europe were serious in those days, perhaps less so by the last years of the 1980's, as the USSR was struggling under a staggering economic load and the "perestroika" and "glasnost" policies of Gorbachev were underway. But there were Soviet tanks on Polish soil the morning of that election and there had been Soviet tanks on the streets of Eastern European cities within the memory of most everyone alive. It wasn't nothing the people of Poland accomplished. It was a defiant and courageous act, built on the actions of thousands over a decade, the wisdom and patience of women and men who took time to carefully prepare for a new era. Providence and good fortune smiled. And June 4, 1989 was just the beginning.

20th Anniversary Celebrations: High Noon in Poland

It went almost unnoticed. Quietly, simply, and not quite believing they were doing it, Poles walked into their polling places on this date, twenty years ago, and elected a non-Communist majority to their Parliament. They picked up pencils, marked ballots and left them for counting. Their bloodless, stealth revolution was all but lost in the horrific news of the day, the massacre in Tiananmen Square in Beijing. In fact, I googled "June 4, 1989" several months ago, just for fun, and had to scroll through over 300 entries before getting to a mention of Poland's first free election. Today, I tried again and got an election anniversary story within the first 125. There is no story about the anniversary in the New York Times. The Washington Post is covering it. Polish friends of mine report going to vote with a sense of hopefulness but still not expecting a decisive result, certainly not the outcome achieved. Solidarity candidates won 99 out of the 100 seats in the upper house, the Senate, and won all 161 of the contested seats in the Sejm, the lower house of Parliament. Round Table Talks earlier in the spring, between the Communist government and Solidarity, set up the election, and reserved two-thirds of the seats in the Sejm for members of the Communist party and its affiliates. Nevertheless, the election was an overwhelming victory for the Solidarity and anti-communist movement and set up the official changes that continued to amend the constitution, to omit the "leading role of the Communist party" and to set up a Solidarity led government, with a non-communist Prime Minister. Posters appeared all over Poland in the run-up to election day. Gary Cooper in High Noon, hands on hips, ready for a showdown, with a Solidarity banner, made it clear that the stakes were as high as they could be. Something had to give. And now. It did. "It all began in Poland..." The Iron Curtain came down later in the year. Events in Poland provided the impetus for the sweeping, historic changes, for the end of the ugly divide in Europe. Angela Merkel, who grew up in the former East Germany, spoke at today's celebrations in Krakow, and credited the Poles for the "decisive victory of democracy in Poland and finally in all of Eastern Europe." She expressed gratitude on behalf of the Germans for the Poles' "courageous stands," that led to the end of communism in her country as well. Vaclav Havel, the Czech playwright and leader of Czechoslovakia's "Velvet Revolution" later that year, also spoke at celebrations and praised the Polish leadership in the movement to bring down communist regimes and reunite a divided Europe. And George H. W. Bush, then President of the United States delivered a video greeting praising the Poles' "irrepressible spirit." It was high noon. The Polish people didn't blink. And that, in fairness, included the communist government. It was time. And they did what needed to be done. Historic, remarkable, and oh, what a gift to the world.

"Let's learn how to be cheerful"

It's true. Poles do need lessons in cheerfulness. Lech Walesa spoke today (3 June 2009) in the Polish Parliament and encouraged his compatriots to be cheerful and to "invite the society to be cheerful with us." Even as they celebrate today and tomorrow their 20 years of freedom, Poles are remarkably grumpy. In the same way that I confess to friends that, as a Swede, I am terminally nice, one of my good Polish friends laments that he is always irritable. Is it congenital? Who knows. Certainly their history gives reason to be almost permanently perturbed. If it wasn't one thing, it quite literally was another. They got it coming and going. I think I might understand this. How do you dare to relax, and be happy? The sky will surely fall in tomorrow. Or if not then, then the day after that. I do hope the Poles learn how to be cheerful. And it wouldn't hurt to start now. They did it! They did the unimaginable. They not only survived the Nazi's determination to wipe them out -- to wipe out not just the political state but the people themselves -- they strategized, got lucky, stuck with it and somehow managed to lead the way for all of Eastern Europe as it struggled to get free of the absurdities of Soviet Communism. Isn't that worthy of cheerfulness? I'd like to see my Polish friends go nuts today, get silly and even downright happy. To look up rather than always looking back, or over their shoulder. We've got vodka chilling and fresh strawberries and we're ready to party. Happy anniversary, friends, and cheer up!

Rubles? Who needs rubles?

The tiny white Polski Fiat with a lawn-mower motor putt-putted its way along the leafy lane and sputtered to a stop in front of the warehouse. Only then did we look at the gas gauge and see the needle hovering close to E. Neither of us said a word. It was one of the most humiliating ventures I'd ever been part of. Waiting in that prefab warehouse built with American money were soaps and meats and medicines, all sorts of necessities of life. My hard currency, American dollars, real money had been deposited into an account bearing my Polish friend's name. He could go in now and choose what he wanted, needed, had gone without for months, even years. My friend, a prominent and accomplished writer, with an earned doctorate and years of professional success, was thrilled beyond belief to find soap -- SOAP! -- and rice and tins of sardines. We left with good lean sausages, hams, some basic over-the-counter medicines like aspirin for his father, and probably even a few rolls of toilet paper, I don't quite remember. It was 1982. It was horrible. But wonderful. The Soviet-style and imposed, clunky economy in Poland in the 1980's failed. The country could not feed its people. "This is our last butter," he told me at dinner. And what he meant was, this is the end of the butter. For the month. Until I get more ration stamps. There is no more butter. At all. For two weeks. I stood one day in the market and cried. I wanted to buy bread. There wasn't any bread. Twenty years ago on Thursday, June 4, Poland voted for food. For bread. And butter. For dignity. Their money became real, convertible on the international market, useful. I read two articles today, June 2, 2009, from the Polish press, both from the same publication, Polityka. One is current. Poland is one of the three countries in the European Union with positive economic growth this year. They are struggling like the rest but surviving, holding their own. How ironic. The other article is from 1986. It laments Poland's debt crisis, even within the Soviet bloc. The Polish economy relied on the Russian ruble, and the community of other Socialist nations. I pasted a small part of it here, in translation... (The IBEC was the International Bank for Economic Cooperation, the Soviet bloc's financial connection to the 'outside' world and within its boundaries. CEMA referred to the community of Socialist nations within the Soviet bloc.) Here is an excerpt of an interview. [Question] "What credits has Poland obtained recently from IBEC and what is the role of the Bank in settling the Polish debt?" [Answer] "Because of the economic situation and particularly its complexity early in the 1980's, Poland was not able, and is still not able, to fully repay its indebtedness to its CEMA partners. Our bank assists importantly bygranting planned term credits to balance payments so that Poland's economict ies with its partners can develop normally. So that Polish import, which at the moment still exceeds export, can be paid for without hindrances. On anannual scale, credits for Poland make up 25 percent of the total sum of credits granted by us to CEMA countries. I would like to emphasize that recently, and especially this year, a favorable tendency has appeared, the tendency to reduce Poland's ruble debt to our bank. The basis of this tendency is the growth of export to CEMA countries due to the policy,conducted by the PZPR, of increasing Poland's share in the socialist international division of labor." Huh? That reads like ancient history now. It sounds like gobbledy-gook. To be honest, the response didn't exactly make any sense then either, despite the skill of the interviewer. How do you explain the inexplicable? These days, when I go to Poland, there are no humiliating trips to the warehouse. I buy all the butter I want, at the shop on the corner. (Don't tell my doctor.) The lawn-mower motors are saved for those machines used to cut grass. And the teeny tiny white Fiat has been replaced by a late model, sporty green Nissan with a gas tank that stays full. Happy anniversary, my friends! Ya done good!

Paging Dr. Nowatny

I spent the day today with a friend at the hospital. In less than ten years, a gazillion dollar state of the art medical center has grown up on the prairie near our home, with first-rate physicians and top notch medical care. My friend is gearing up for a new surgical procedure that makes use of technology and materials that have been created only in the last few years. We have got to the point of expecting, presuming to have this high standard of care. Of course, not all Americans can be so hopeful or confident. Or afford to pay. And this is a bad thing. We'd better get cracking and figure it out, soon. I can't imagine having to sit on the sidelines and watch, to see what is possible and not be able to touch it or get access to the life-saving surgeries, medicines, and treatments that are as close as the nearest hospital. It's infuriating, immoral, indecent. That's the way my Polish friends lived for a long time. On the outside looking in. So close, but not available. Medicine, food, homes, diapers, shoes. Socialism, Soviet style, didn't work. Life is not perfect now either, of course, but these same surgeries are as routine now in Warsaw as in Denver. I know a man in Warsaw who has the same kind of internal defibrillator - pacemaker as Dick Cheney. The hospital food is still terrible but the medical care is of the highest quality. When the Poles picked up their pencils on June 4, 1989, they set in motion the final phase of the revolution that changed their world and that of the rest of the Soviet bloc. I don't know if they were voting with pacemakers and CT scans and glucose monitors in mind, but these are just some of the benefits that have come along with the chaotic democracy and new economy. It's just not that far anymore, from here to there. Thank goodness.

Hide and Seek

Poland is part of Europe. But of course, you say. Just look at the map. There it is: Poland. Right smack in the center of Europe. As sixteen-year-old Annika says, “well, duh.” It’s there, all right, conveniently situated exactly where it has been for hundreds of years, stuck right there in the middle of the European continent, offering easy access to armies from east and west. Yes, indeed, that wide open field in the heart of Europe is Poland. Except for when it isn’t. Ah, there’s the rub. Poland isn’t always where it is. Or isn’t. Or was. Or wasn’t. Put simply, Poland has been hard to keep track of. Sometimes Poland wasn’t here. Or there. Or anywhere. There were times, whole centuries, in fact, when Poland went completely missing. Search any map. Look high and low, there is no trace. Poland is gone! Lost. You blink, you turn away for several decades and Poland has vanished. It simply isn’t there. Entire centuries, notably the 19th, passed without any evidence at all of a Polish nation on the map. It disappeared completely. Except that it didn’t. Turns out, Poland was there all along. Hiding. Or more to the point, hidden. Pushed underground, shrouded with obscurity, pounded down and then carved up into three pieces. The biggest chunk of Poland was hidden away within Russia. Another part in Germany. And the third was tucked neatly into Austria. Each of these three countries was determined to hide Poland most of all from itself. Formerly Polish citizens were forbidden from even seeing their own language, from speaking it, learning it and teaching Polish to their children. Poles were deprived of their own culture, history, and traditions; it was illegal to practice and celebrate ancient Polish customs. They were not allowed the basic rights of citizenship in any nation, including owning land and self-government. Ancient and rich Polish traditions of education, democracy, science, music and literature and other arts were hidden from the very cultivators of these precious treasures. Marie Curie, Frederick Chopin, and other brilliant Poles sadly realized they would have to find freer societies for their genius to flourish. For a time, these three partitioning powers tried vainly to disguise Poland, to make it look like another country altogether. Each attempted to dress it up as part of themselves, but the real Poland kept popping out. Even while Poland shared aspects of its identity, its ethnicity, religion and culture with all of these three usurping empires, Poland did not look convincing to outsiders, much less to itself, when fitted out as part of Austria, Russia or Germany. Ultimately, there was no hiding it. Whether disguised or hidden or hunkered down, Poland was unmistakably itself and eventually (after World War One) had to emerge from obscurity and oblivion. Poland also moved. Left, right, up, down, over, out and around, Poland, at least, was a moving target. It did and did not control the Baltic coast, then it did and didn’t again. It was and wasn’t east of the Bug River, west of the Oder, inclusive of Lithuania, Ukraine, parts of Slovakia. When Poland reappeared on the maps again at the end of World War I, its borders were not the same as they had been when it was cut apart, over a century earlier. And Poland at the end of World War II had still different borders, as if the entire land mass had taken two giant steps left (pun not intended, well, maybe, pun intended). The Soviet Union had taken for itself a big part of what had been Poland in the east, enlarging the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, and the victorious Allied powers had given Poland parts of what had been Germany in the west. People who had started the war in Germany, ended it – without moving – as Poles. Ironic, isn’t it. Vast numbers, however, of formerly German citizens were resettled westward, losing their lands, their homes, their livelihoods. Polish citizens in Lvov, if they survived at all, now found themselves with the dubious distinction of Soviet citizenship, although some Poles from the former eastern region, now in the USSR, were planted in these newly Polish areas in the west. Confused? Join the club. Which brings us to this. Poles have, from time to time, hidden themselves. Underground. Forbidden to be Polish, to teach or speak, to celebrate and carry on their own Polish customs, Poles of earlier eras took themselves to ground, doing whatever they could to speak and sing and read and teach, to practice their religion, to govern themselves and run their own affairs, tucked beneath the surface of things, away from the watchful eyes of their arrogant, ruthless official leaders. During the period of the partitions, under the Russian, Austrian, and German regimes, the Poles suffered terribly. At the same time, they cleverly outwitted and undermined their overlords. Children were taught in homes, in secret; they learned from an early age the cost of telling tales out of these clandestine schools. Higher education was carried out in what they called “flying schools,” or “flying universities,” a practice revived of necessity at points in the communist era of the 20th century. They operated without formal sanction but continued to provide not only an excellent education but also the various diplomas and certifications that prepared Poles for future service in the medical, legal, scientific and other professions, and in service of a once and future Polish nation. All of these earlier lessons served them well when, once again, in the 20th century during the brutal Nazi German occupation and again at critical times during the post-war Soviet-imposed Communist period. These flying universities and underground schools, press, businesses and professional activities, unions and even, to an extent, small self-governing civic units were reliable sources of social order and authentic Polish life. Poland was there, even when it wasn’t. Poland was on the map at the dawn of the 21st century. But, of course, you say? Consider this, Poland was missing, invisible, wiped off the map when the two previous centuries started. It seems safe now to draw these new, post-1945 borders in permanent ink but Poland, perhaps more than any other European country, teaches one to keep an eye on the horizon. Things change. They come. And go. For good, and for ill. One thing is for sure, nevertheless. Poland is stuck in the middle.

Leaping into history

Ready, set, GO! I landed in Poland just as Lech Walesa leapt over the shipyard fence and Solidarity was being born, in the late summer of 1980. No one yet dared to dream that within the decade communism would be done for. Gone. Kaput. And I had no idea that Polish history – and history-making – would become a life-long passion. I arrived in Poland, a graduate student, expecting to study history and ethics for several months in Warsaw, then return home enriched, but not completely transformed. Instead, I was hooked, fascinated and enthralled by the story of a people that lost everything, over and over again, yet managed to get up every time, again and again and again, to re-create their national culture and institutions and their personal lives out of literal mounds of rubble and ruin. And now they were about to risk everything to attempt it once more. How can you walk away from that? I found the Poles’ story compelling on a personal level, as well. My name, Erickson-Pearson, reveals my heritage as the daughter of Swedish immigrants, with not one drop of Polish blood in my veins, so this is not my story. Yet, on that first visit in 1980 and again over the years, and especially most recently, I discovered in the Polish experience many important parallels to my own. How to resist evil and survive betrayal? How to get back up again after deadly violence? How to deal with a difficult past? What to remember, what to forget? What to forgive, and when and how? How to rebuild, when to take risks? Whom to trust, and how much? How to tell the difficult and unwelcome truth, and when? How to stand up to bullies and indifference? On that first trip, I was stunned to discover the extent to which I could identify with and respect the Poles’ dilemmas and courage. My fascination with Polish life was fixed. “To choose what is difficult, all one’s days, as if it were easy; that is faith.” __W. H. Auden I inscribed the poet’s words as a caption to the photograph I’ve kept on my desk, of Polish friends who were never free of the burden to make consequential, agonizing decisions. Their cunning, cleverness, creativity and courage inspired me at work and in my personal life. How do you do that? I wondered and marveled at their resilience. Over time, I found Polish poets, artists, and writers who spoke with eloquence and power even more directly to my soul. No matter what else was supposed to be happening in Warsaw and the rest of Poland during the fall and winter of 1980-1981, the daring-do of a young electrician named Lech Walesa and his brave band of steel-workers, journalists, doctors, students, captivated everyone, as they stood toe-to-toe with the iron might of Soviet power. It was a seminal moment for Poland. Public impatience perfectly corresponded with the political maturity of the post-war generation’s anti-communist dissident leadership and the time was ripe for decisive action. Sympathy for the striking workers was almost universal and, for the first time in the communist era, serious support and active collaboration between the workers and intelligentsia created a perfectly unsettled situation, ripe for change. A propitious moment, indeed. The real problem, of course, was not in Poland but next to it. The times were as dangerous as they come. Earlier outbursts of frustration in Poland and in other Soviet satellites had been threatening to the Soviet Union’s aging, imperious and unimaginative leadership, and had been met with a violent response. One needs only to remember Budapest, 1956, and Prague, 1968, to know how disastrous it could be to challenge Soviet hegemony in Eastern Europe. But, in the late months of 1980 in Poland, the danger was more acute than ever before. The daily news featured two distinct, but absolutely related threads: what Solidarity said and did, and, ominously, what the Soviets were threatening. Polish citizens and visitors like me had to rely on sub-texts and rumors, street stories and underground news sources for most of the real information – about all sides. The heavily censored public press was thwarted in its efforts to describe Solidarity’s proposals and, more surprisingly, also in its presentation of the bellicose posturing of the Kremlin’s commissars and the paralyzed, scared-out-of-their-wits activity – or inactivity – of the Soviet-sponsored, Soviet-restricted Polish government. The looming question on everyone’s mind throughout the dizzying fall was not if, but when the Soviets would crack down and invade. It seemed as if the Kremlin was giving the Poles just enough rope to hang themselves. As the glorious autumn gave way to an early winter, speculation and fear about the imminent Soviet reaction rose to a fever pitch. More than half a million battle-ready Soviet soldiers paced impatiently on the Polish border, awaiting orders to invade, as I crossed the frontier from the USSR back into Poland on the frosty night of December 6, returning to Warsaw from a week’s study trip to Moscow and Leningrad. Forced to leave the train in the middle of the night, at Brest, the border station, I was stunned by the sight of troop transports and trains standing ready to take tanks and an overwhelming military force into Poland, an invasion force prepared to turn Poland into an armed camp, beaten into submission yet again. But that is not what happened. The troops stayed on the Russian side of the tracks, the “creeping revolution” continued and, a miserable nine years later, the Polish government was the first in Eastern Europe to hold free elections and shed its Soviet-style Socialist strait-jacket. Not that anyone noticed. When the Berlin Wall came down in November, 1989, twenty years ago, the world watched, transfixed as this enduring and imposing symbol of separation, desperation and despotism crumbled before our eyes, allowing the surge of stunned East Germans to rush through to freedom. Twenty years. It’s been twenty years since the Poles took up their pencils on June 4, 1989, and, ironically, on the very same day of the massacre in Tiananmen Square, in a much less dramatic and almost unreported scene, Polish voters quietly went to the polls to mark their ballots in the first free election in Soviet bloc history and elected its first non-communist government. The enduring impact of the Poles’ initiative is still evident every day throughout Eastern Europe, as the unimaginable occurred over the next few months and a peaceful, even “velvet” revolution changed history. The mighty Soviet Empire imploded. No tanks, no guns, and, most fearsome of all, no bombs. The Poles’ action – and the tacit sanction of the USSR and its remarkable leader, Mikhail Gorbachev -- emboldened East Germans, Czechs, Hungarians, and others throughout Eastern Europe, and even the citizens of the Soviet Union itself, especially in its western, Baltic republics of Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia, and by the end of that year, a new era had dawned. June of 1989. Twenty years. Twenty years of a free market economy, democracy, a free press, re-integration into the European mainstream, recovery from the stifling dictates of Soviet-imposed Communism. Twenty years of shoes, great shoes, Jimmy Choo’s, Manolo Blahniks, no less. Twenty years of fresh, top-grade beef. Twenty years, an entirely new generation, of forth-right public debate. Twenty years of vacation trips to the French Riviera, Hawaii, and Carnivale in Rio. Twenty years of chaos, deliriously normal chaos. Twenty years of freedom. And French fashions.

It all began in Poland. Yes, Poland.

Oh, for the love of Jonas. It has started. Already. We knew this would happen. But so soon? Poland truly is the Rodney Dangerfield of nations. It gets no respect. Let's do a quick history review. What popular movement took Poland -- and the entire Soviet bloc -- by storm, putting the fear of God (maybe even literally) in Kremlin leaders and setting the world on edge? Yes, that would be Solidarnosc. Solidarity. And it's charismatic leader's name, the one with the charming mustache, the Nobel Prize Laureate? That's right, Lech Walesa. And in what East European country were the first free elections held in June, 1989, resulting in the first non-Communist government in the Soviet-controlled bloc? Yes, again. Poland. Ah, so. Keeping all this in mind..... The European Commission has released a short, three-minute video commemorating this year's 20 year anniversary of the end of Communism in Eastern Europe. And guess who is virtually shut out? One more time, yep, it's Poland. The Poles have complained (they are good at this) and a spokesperson for the EC said, "If we find something from 1989 in Poland, we'll probably put that in." FIND something? Are you kidding? I walk past the gleaming white palace on Krakowskie Przedmiescie where a sullen soldier stands watch and two alabaster lions guard this site of the Round Table Talks, official meetings between Solidarity and Communist leaders in March of '89, during which the decisive elections were agreed to and planned, during which, for all practical purposes, the Communists gave up. This is where Communism ended. And at ballot boxes all over Poland. And later in summer, at the Parliament where a non-Communist Prime Minister was elected and charged with creating a new government. How about a glimpse or two of all that? And a tart sentence of commentary. Without the spring and summer of 1989 in Poland, and the power of Solidarity in the nine years preceding it, there would not have been Trabants tootering down the German roads or the crowds in Leipzig or, finally, the fall of the Berlin Wall on the 9th of November. How about the Gdansk shipyards in 1980 and Lech Walesa stirring up the workers? Even I have a photo of that, not that they are difficult to find. Show the Polish demonstrations, the strikes in that fall of 1980. I remember. We got off the tram at noon. It -- and everything else in the country -- stood still. Huge crowds defied the authorities and gathered to protest. And the Poles gathered by the millions to worship with the Pope when he returned to his homeland during those years. Perhaps that could be fit in. I know, I sound bitter. And it's not even my fight. I'm not Polish. But I care about the integrity of storytelling, of history, of getting it right. And I've come to deeply respect and hold great affection for the people of Poland. This time, the Poles have a motto that does set the tone for the year of celebration, remembrance and honor, "It all began in Poland." They're right.

Tag, you're it!

It's Saturday night in the suburbs. There's a mess of kids in the backyard, their expensive cars parked out in front. I just pulled in and junked up the landscape with my '97 minivan. I hear a lot of noise out there and it's all laughter, silliness, slipping and sliding and, no doubt, they're intimidating the heck out of the foxes cowering under the deck. I was invited to make a brief cameo appearance, and then uninvited, "mom, could you, like, go inside now?" Actually, it was more like an order, "go, bye bye." I like this, I like this very much. We are lucky beyond measure. Our high school daughters love to play silly games with their friends in the backyard. Or the family room. They're not out spending beaucoup bucks, or drinking, or being thugs. They are, at this moment, playing tag. These little things are the best parts of life. I'm closing my eyes to take it all in and record it in my mind, the sight of tie-dye shirts and redheads and plaid bermuda shorts and stripes and jeans and brown and blonde heads, and I'm listening intently to their goofy remarks and rowdy laughter, hoping to tuck it all away so I can still see them, still hear them long after they are all gone and I'm stuck away in a nursing home somewhere. Ooo, that's maudlin. Never mind. The shushing sound aspens make as they shimmer in the late sun, the true blue canopy of sky, the glint of silver leading a jet contrail, and the black and white blur of dog rushing around in the midst of the frenzy. Boys and girls voices, soft and loud, high and low, trills, fifteen teen-agers talking at once, more giggles, guffaws. "This way, no that, no this, over there, try that," and then it all dissolves -- again -- into laughter. Is this heaven? On this night I think, "I was made for this." This is what it's all about. Not the hokey pokey, not some bunch of titles and achievements, not the trophies and plaques and ribbons. But this. Not even the published titles for sale on Amazon or the bullet-points on a resume. This. This is what I was made for, to revel, to laugh, to love the life I'm part of. What a luxury! To be here, now, to listen and watch, and even -- when they let me -- to play with them! It worries me sometimes, do my Polish mom friends get times like this? Most don't have big grassy backyards that serve as volleyball and badminton courts, playing fields and dance floors (dancing in the grass, well it sort of works), and multi-purpose silly-making space. Do they get to listen in and watch as their kids have fun? I'm not saying my life is better or worse, just that it's right for me. This is the soundtrack I want, the life I want to watch flowing past. But it's very different from the way moms -- and dads, and kids -- live elsewhere. Living in suburbia is its own trippy experience and it's one I never expected, never planned. But here we are. Not in the city where, I imagine, there would be get togethers in a park, or downtown. More movies, concerts, museums. All good. All good. That is what I remember of nights like this in Warsaw, herds of teens laughing as they wander into the Square, spilling out of the theaters, sipping coffee at Cava. Whatever, wherever, the kids will find ways to have fun. But tonight I'm thinking about the moms. And dads. This life is especially well-suited to parental voyeurism and I'm glad. The soundtrack of my life includes lots of kid-noise and, boy, am I glad. I hope my friends Margaret and Elzbieta and Marcin and Jurek, parents all, get to enjoy it too.

Cape Town? No, Warsaw. Why Poland?

South African Airways flight 0207 took off about an hour ago for Dulles. I'm not on it. In fact, I've never been on a South African Airways flight. But it's not for a lack of trying. Thirty years ago I was bound and determined to take my anti-apartheid fervor to Cape Town and volunteer in the resistance movement. Do you know how expensive it is to fly to South Africa? And how poor I was, a graduate student, working part-time in a tiny, airless closet of a room at the hospital transcribing on a manual typewriter the information written on Emergency Room intake forms, illegible handwriting most of the time, listening all day to Bob and Betty on talk radio. No Cape Town for me. But soon, another option was presented. Poland. Poland? To be honest, I'd not given the country much thought. The Soviet Union, absolutely! East Germany, yes! But Poland. Hmmm. Frankly, it was the promise of getting to go to Moscow and Leningrad as part of the Polish study period that got me on a LOT Polish Airlines flight to Warsaw in the late summer of 1980. I wasn't sure I'd ever get excited about Poland but I was interested in Marxism and Soviet / Russian history and culture. And, importantly, the price was right! Well, as things turned out, Lech Walesa vaulted over the shipyard fence in Gdansk right about then and the unstoppable momentum and dizzying dangerous excitement of Solidarity got rolling and I was hooked. Still am. Those first months were exasperating and exhilarating and my new Polish friends joined me to their cause, their stories, their families, their improbable hopes. Let's set the record straight: the end of communism began in Poland. And now, twenty years later, I want to tell you about it. Yeah, yeah, everybody remembers the fall of the Berlin Wall. It was a huge moment for all of Europe. But, earlier, and unnoticed, as usual -- the poor Poles get no credit, in the Spring of that same year, 1989, Polish citizens made the first decisive move into the new epoch. June 4, 1989. The first free elections in the Soviet bloc. The Poles went to the polls (haha) and elected non-communist representatives to Parliament, winning every contested seat. The first non-communist government in Eastern Europe! That is when the wall came down. Poland's non-violent revolution (okay, Gorbachev, too) made possible the momentous events that followed: the hordes of Hungarians seeping through the borders into Austria, East Germans in tiny Trabants flooding the roads to freedom via Czechoslovakia, and then, as we know, the day, November 9, 1989, when the concrete wall itself was demolished. Unbelievable. But it happened. And now, my Polish friends' children have no memories of communism, of the way it was. Poland is part of the European Union and NATO, for god's sake. Starbucks is there. And every gourmet food you can imagine. I fly in and out with no more effort than if I were going from LA to Boston. Stay at the Sheraton if I'm flush, or in a modern apartment with eighty cable channels, a microwave, and high speed internet. And walk past the palm tree every single day. My daughter is on that flight from South Africa back to the States this morning. It is her life's dream she's pursued the past several months, ever since she was a regular, in her stroller, with me at the weekly anti-apartheid demonstrations at the South African Consulate in Chicago. The world is much smaller (and I am much richer) and I'm glad she's got her passion. Because I've still got mine: Poland. Where you'll find a palm tree at -- where else? -- the corner of Jerusalem Street and New World Avenue. Come with me and find out why Poland matters!

I am ambivalent about many things. But not about everything. In fact, I am not the least bit ambivalent about... Aspen leaves shimmering in the spring, cottonwoods leafing out with delicate, brilliant bursts of neon in the sparkling sunlight. Taquitos on the patio looking west, taking in the entire Front Range -- from Long's Peak and Mt. Ypsilon, the Snowy's, the Indian Peaks, and Mount Evans, south to Pike's Peak, over one hundred miles! Laughing, the more the better. Out of control hilarity is best. Foxlets pouncing and playing tag on the deck. Crisp, clean sentences and stories that carry me away. Poland's deserving spot in the light as the place that communism first went kaput, looking forward to the 20th anniversary on 4 June 2009 of the first free elections in the Soviet-bloc post WW II. Coffee in china cups at Cafe Blikle on Nowy Swiat, and not from the paper cup at Starbucks up the street. Plump grandmas in sensible shoes and stylish wool suits pushing the prams in Lazienki Park. Tween-age blond-haired girls roller-blading down the quiet lane, school bag over one shoulder, on the way home in Podkowa Lesna. Cherry blossoms. Apple blossoms. Forsythia. Honeysuckle. Lilacs. Grape hyacinth. Rich, dark dirt, furrows ready for planting. Speeding over mountain roads, chasing the sun through the Blue River Valley. Two black and white cows running -- running hard -- chasing a rabbit across a deep green hay field in northern Poland. The first ice-cold diet Pepsi of the day. Deliriously gorgeous turquoise Caribbean waters. Falling asleep to the click-clack on a speeding train rolling toward Paris. Kaia and Annika conniving to prank their mom. A just-right hair-cut. Frank Sinatra. ..... and so, so much more. What about you?

"Leafing greenly spirits of trees"

i thank you God

i thank you God for most this amazing

day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is Yes

(i who have died am alive again today

and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth

day of life and of love and of wings: and of the gay

great happening illimitably earth)

how should telling touching hearing seeing

breathing any --- lifted from the no

of all nothing --- humans merely being

doubt unimaginable you

(now the ears of my ears awake and

the eyes of my eyes are opened)

e.e.cummings

It's almost here and the signs are all around us. Leaping -- and leafing -- greenly spirits of trees! And today I went after them.

"i who have died am alive again today" so I crawled out from under the blankets and the dim safety of my tomb and took off for mountains and farms and canyons, and blood red sunsets.

I drove through three feet of snow along the Peak to Peak highway, saw aspens leafing out and hills covered in green pine, watched waterfalls cascade off the rocky cliffs, and drove down dirt roads past fields sprouting the first of spring's green. There was a blue dream of sky overhead and all the day through I found myself saying, "Yes."

How do you choose life?

Time to get out the boots

Time to find the muck boots. It's almost time for trampling. Trampling. It's not an easy image, not one I much care for. Too violent. It sounds like a capricious act, trampling everything in one's path, without discrimination. Sometimes, indeed, it happens that way. "Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death and upon those in the tombs bestowing life." I'm not much for religion these days. I spend my time among people for whom the church is a constant irritant, a source of pain and rejection and hurt. I respect their experiences and I'm not in any mood to try to talk them out of feeling anger and suspicion about the institution, as it is. But the story of this one who trampled down death by death is a compelling story, one I live with and by. I want it to live in me, to animate my comings and goings and thinkings and doings. So it's trampling time again. This Easter greeting from the Russian Orthodox Church inspires me all over again every spring. I've learned that the messy work of being kind and loving and doing justice and being merciful and gracious does, in fact, also involve some trampling. Trampling on the sensibilities of those who want order and to preserve power. Trampling on the impulses of avarice and greed, trampling down the deadly attitudes and deathly addictions that prompt me -- and others -- to hate and hoard, to look the other way, to fail to give and share and work hard for the basic human rights of others. Trampling on my fear of getting out of my little cocoon and moving back out into the world again, with humor and grace. So, it's not snow boots or ski boots (although I'd gladly strap those on one more time) or cowboy boots or even hiking boots I'm talking about. It's the muck boots. Those are the ones I imagine when Easter comes around. And I'll be out in the yard, trampling down those deadly and deathly impulses that live within and around me. The peeps and bunnies and dark chocolate rabbits will wait. I'm going trampling this week, getting ready. For new life. Maybe I'll see you out in the yard, too. There's muck enough for us all.

Give up?

I'm not giving up.

It is Lent. And even people who aren't particularly religious talk about what they are giving up for Lent. Ice cream, alcohol, shoe shopping.

I'm not giving up for Lent. That's right. I'm giving up giving up. For Lent. Forever.


The old old word that became Lent means "lengthening." There are lots of things in my life that need lengthening. And strengthening.

So I am adding rather than subtracting. Muscles. Discipline. Time to concentrate.

Some of us have already given up a lot. And not always by choice. In fact, I'm still grieving all that was stolen from me.

When so much has been taken, I honestly don't know what else I've got to give up.

I'm not giving up anything more.

Bring it on.