All over

Mothers are tearing out their hair trying to perfect their daughters' hair. Dads are saying, "let's just get on with it." Chubby legs no longer than my forearem are being stuffed into lacy tights and crisp taffeta and silky velvet dresses with itchy collars are being pulled over tiny heads overflowing with copper curls. Legions of tiny Tim's are clipping on ties and pulling at their long sleeved dress shirts. Their new shoes are too tight. Older children are fidgeting with hairbows and goofing around with the dog as they wait for the signal that "it's time to go!" Young 'tween girls have argued with their mothers about getting to wear nylon tights for the first time and have secretly put on a smudge of mascara. Boys are pulling lint out of their pockets and wondering what is something interesting they can put in them to ward off the inevitable boredom. Tomboy daughters are being bundled into the least frilly dress their mothers could find. A younger brother is about to bust out the seams of his too-small borrowed-from-cousin sport coat. And all across America tonight families are smushing into cars and driving over to school for the Christmas concert. Mr. Nelson in rural Minnesota got the car started ten minutes early, to warm it up and has brought it over to the front walk. Four kids and two frazzled parents listen to the tires spin on the icy farmyard before catching traction and moving out. The yard light, high on a pole, always their beacon that home is near, shines a halo of sparkly white light across the garden and out toward the feed pens. A single star is visible in the sky. Mrs. Johnson in Cleveland recovers two stray barrettes from the table at the doorway as she hustles her children out into the cold night. The girls walk gingerly in their new patent leather t-strap shoes, while their brother tries to pretend he's not cold by offering his scarf to Mama. They meet up with the Silvio's and the Mahoney's at the corner and slip-slide their way across, numb knees and stinging cheeks red from exposure. The yellow light in the school yard beckons them and they scuffle along, trying above all not to fall. In upstate New York and southern New Mexico, Delta Mississippi, spongy Seattle, and wooded Arkansas, in tiny hamlets and the nation's biggest cities, in rural Iowa and hilly Pennsylvania, from Anchorage to Miami, families of all kinds and all sizes and all ages and degrees of dysfunction are going to school music programs tonight. As I sit here in the crowded auditorium of Arapahoe High School in suburban Denver, where anyone arriving less than forty minutes before start time is not going to get a seat, it dawns on me that we here are participating in a ritual that is shared across this land and, no doubt, many others. Parents are rifling through the programs, making sure their child's name is spelled correctly, noting that Laura must have dropped orchestra this year. Dad's are fidgeting with the buttons on video-cameras and moms are chatting about the latest ordeal, or delight. As we slid over slick roads to get here tonight, I thought of all the cars in other towns and along rural highways and the subways and buses and sidewalks that were carrying other families to similar scenes. The old Chevvy pickup packed with a family of four up front, crunching over the frozen snows of Wyoming, the Volvo in Naperville, the Taurus in Chattanooga. All of us engaged in this ageless ritual that I hope will go on and on and on. Somewhere tonight someone else's two-year-old will rock back and forth on her heels as she sings "Mary had a baby boy," thankfully leaving out the virgin aspect for the moment. And somebody else's second-grader will be dressed up in a black and white checked outfit with matching tights and cool boots, leading the long line of students into the auditorium singing about Christmas around the world. And another family will be grimacing, but still pleased, by the sound of a grade school orchestra playing White Christmas. A clarinet will screech. A drum will beat one beat too many. Somebody will stand in the wrong place and somebody else will fall off the risers. Out there in America tonight is a child whose parents fought all the way over to the school in the car and who wants to just disappear. And a child whose dad didn't show up, or mom didn't. And a child who looks out into the asssembled crowd, freaks with fright and starts to wail. And another child who looks out into the audience and sees her mom and dad and can't help but say, "Hi mom!" and wave. A toddler will pull her dress up over her head and her parents will be mortified. Another tyke will play with his pants zipper all through the performance and, of course, both of these children will be -- no matter what city or town -- in the front row. A high school senior with curly black hair and an Irish lass charm of smile will hit every note of her solo with bell clarity and the audience afterward will gasp with satisfaction. Beauty, perfection. A choir will sing its hardest song so well -- and so surprisingly perfect -- that the conductor will have tears running down her face. Parents of the youngest and the oldest of these children have something precious and poignant in common. That first pre-school pagaent, the first wiggles, pushing the child standing next to him into the right place, even if it knocks said kid over. The sheer unpredictability of it all, the wonder, this tiny creation, up in front, standing on carpeted steps singing about frost and stars and the magic of a baby. This wisp of a person, so recently so small, small enough to be inside you, is now standing up in front of a crowd and belting out the words, wishing us a Merry Christmas. And the parents of the high school (or college) seniors are remembering every single concert -- or feeling a smack of guilt because they can't -- and tearing up at the thought of this being the last Christmas concert and then the last Winter Dance and the last Prom and, whoooosh, it's over, this school time, this very precious and, as it turned out, fleeting schooldays time of life. The girl who stands with poise and presence in the center of the choir, who sings with honest emotion and expression, who has learned the value of discipline and rehearsal, this girl with a gorgeous face and flowing hair, this girl who is going away to college in too few more months, shines like the sun and her mother and father wonder what on earth they are going to do when she moves away. When there are no more school concerts to go to. Savor. Savor, savor every moment.

Happy birthday, Kaia! We got you pipe cleaners

She will be thrilled. Short of actually hacking into a human brain and watching the process in real time --- which of course wouldn't happen because, if you actually hacked into the human's brain it wouldn't work anymore now, would it? so this really is better --- the best way to recreate the process of glycolysis is with pipe cleaners. On the wall. Kaia will be spending part of her 22nd birthday today -- December 9 -- glorying in the wonders of biochemistry. She just aced the test and says it is because she used the pipe cleaners to make three-dimensional diagrams of the processes and then put them up on the wall for her housemates to enjoy too. I too was there to bear witness and what this girl can't do with a diagram of glycolysis simply then can't be done at all. 22. 22 Decembers. 22 summers. 22 years of wide-eyed discoveries and 22 years of unexpected adventures and 22 years of carefully planned expeditions. She has made her way, discovered her way, followed a way forged by others, all of the above. She has decided that "to whom much is given much is expected," and that there is no way but "you make the way by walking," and that what the world really needs is someone who has come alive -- so figure out what makes you come alive and do that! I get all soppy and sentimental on the girls' birthdays. I have nothing profoundly poetic to say, nothing of that nature to do justice to the glory of their existing and breathing and singing and laughing and learning and loving. I treasure their being, their being alive, their being who they are. And so, Kaia, I treasure you. From Italy to Estonia, from Berlin to Paris, from South Africa to South St. Paul, you make the world better by offering yourself to it, by being part of it. From the funky lofts of Printers' Row to kid heaven in Naperville to life in Littleton, to the mountains and oceans and deserts that have called to you to explore, to learn, you have covered a lot of territory. But it's still just beginning. Can you imagine that? Twenty-two. I can hardly wait to see what evolves out of your interests and skills and talents and sense of responsibility. Choose, always choose what makes you come alive! And happy birthday! Have some chocolate. Love you, Mmo

The cost of a sweater

I'll never know for sure. But I'm pretty sure that the price for that rich, warm, gorgeous Afghani (or was it?) sweater I was almost persuaded to buy 29 years ago would have been higher than the thirty American dollars I was asked to pay. My first trip to Moscow. December. 1980. As Ellen Goodman once wrote, "the last westerner to be invited to Moscow in the middle of winter was Napoleon. And we know how that turned out." My visit was enchanting and successful. The snow sparkled on the trees, the steam rising from thousands of boilers looked magical. Gorky Park had none of the sinister connotations it has in the novels of Martin Cruz Smith. Skaters skated, sledders sledded, and the golden domes of the Kremlin towers and cathedrals gleamed. I cleaned up on cut-rate Mischka the Bear Summer Olympics souvenirs. As you may remember, the U.S. had boycotted those Olympics because of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Tourists stayed away in droves. So sweet little bears filled the shops and I brought home marble bears, wooden bears, and lots of Mischka pins. They still show up around here and make me smile. Day three. Ukraine Hotel, Moscow. One of the statuesque and Stalinesque monstrosities that loom over the skyline. It felt so Soviet, so completely Soviet, right down to the bugs in the walls and the monitors at the doors and the "floor ladies" who kept your key whenever you left your room. It was Advent and, as a guest of the Russian Orthodox Church, my meals were strictly in keeping with the Advent fast. Lots and lots of fish. No meat. Creamy red borscht. A menu that most Moscovites could only dream of. After dinner, I took time to browse the Berioszka shops in the magnificent lobby. More bears. An amber pin. Carved toys. Marble angels dancing together. Lots of tiny inlaid boxes. And an attractive man, also shopping, who became very chatty, friendly, as we wandered from one display to another. Finally, far away from the attendants, he spoke in a low voice, "I have sweaters, Afghani, and carpets, my room. You see. Room 712." If I didn't have a heart for adventure I wouldn't have been in Moscow at the height of the Cold War in the first place. So his invitation was a temptation that I could not resist. I dragged a colleague along. We wandered the halls a bit, a labyrinth of hallways that turned in on themselves and led to elevators that took us up and down and finally to Room 712. Sure enough, this charming, exotic, Omar Sharif-looking character was waiting, offered us tea. "No thank you." He was in Moscow, he said, from Afghanistan, a civil servant learning how to rebuild his country's infrastructure according to the Soviet plan. And he had a room absolutely stuffed with carpets, woolen blankets, mittens, and sweaters. It was his own private store, and the prices were attractive. He showed me a sweater, a heavy, fisherman knit type, with a marbled pattern, tan and white. It was very very nice. And I stood there thinking, wow, what a story. "Yeah, I bought this on the black market from an Afghani in Moscow who was there officially to learn to be a good Soviet diplomat but was secretly critical of the USSR and running his own underground scam market out of his hotel room." The sweater had a flaw. Not a big one, and it could have been repaired by a good knitter. But I hesitated. He lowered the price. In fact, he kept lowering the price so much that I began to wonder. Just how desparate was he to unload this sweater? He spoke of supporting his family at home. But I knew the rules, the protocols. How would he get this money back to Kabul? And, moreover, how would I get this out of the USSR, through customs, when I left in a few days. Still, the story was compelling. Every time I shook my head and said, "no," this inky voice inside said, "oh, go for it!" My friend, Fran, shot me looks that said, "DON'T" and finally I thanked "Omar" profusely for the generous offer but said that it would not be possible to buy a sweater, or mittens, or a large carpet, either. He was crushed. We backed out the door and took our leave. We left the hotel for a brief walk -- that's what you did when you needed to talk without 'minders' or 'ears' listening in. Perspective. The frigid air and the wide boulevards gave me a necessary perspective on the experience. What had happened in there? Was I being set up? I'll never know for sure. But probably. Given everything, what are the odds that he could have been selling all this loot with impunity. What would I have faced when the train crossed the border in the middle of the night again at Brest? It was a good idea to not buy that sweater. But I miss it every single day.

The new family photo

* this post deserves a new title Christmas cards are arriving already. You will never offend or annoy me by sending one of 'those' Christmas letters filled with adventures and accomplishments, of your kids, of you, of your mother, of your dog. It's all good. I saw the best family Christmas photo I'd seen in years the other day. Story has it, three hours at Target, arranging the three kids, searching for the discount coupon, rearranging the three kids, running home to get the forgotten discount coupon, rearranging the kids again, adding the parents, turned the process into something of an ordeal. But what an outcome! A gorgeous photo. Gorgeous, wonderful, lively family photo. You know those kids from their pictures. Impish, magical, responsible kids. Adorable. A little red hair, a halo of curls, taffeta and velvet for the sweet girl. Boys looking serious, and, sometimes, silly in bowties. I need to ask permission to share a copy here. Check back. These three wonderful children and their parents have turned out some terrific family Christmas photos. I especially like the one where both moms are sitting with the kind of look on their faces that says, "quick! snap it quick! this is the one still moment of the day!" Poland's leading magazine has an adorable baby on its cover this week. With the question, what about homosexuals who want to be parents? I invite Polityka readers to take a look at some of my friends. Not just a look but a long conversation is in order. This is not some impossible lifestyle. It is life. Just life. Family life. Juggling workloads when the kids are sick. Getting sick from the kids. Making dinner. One mom is in charge of tennis lessons. The other mom is in charge of shopping for bows and frills. They clean, they negotiate. They help each other figure stuff out. They both help with homework. I don't know who does windows. They read to the kids and put them to bed, they stay up all night with a sick child. They have birthday parties for the twins that create giggles that won't stop. They go to parent-teacher conferences and school programs and help make exploding volcanoes (okay, that hasn't come up yet but, oh, my friends, it will, it will!). It's a family. Three kids, two parents, both of whom happen to be moms. They love and nurture, feed and clothe, laugh and discipline, hold and hug their children. As I do. As my husband does. What's not to work? Life in America has changed. I have many such friends, most of my friends have many such friends or acquaintances. It's life. Poland is finally struggling honestly and assertively with gay life. This magazine cover -- adorable baby or no -- is challenging and disturbing to many. More than it would be here by now. It took us awhile. It is still taking us awhile. Not every Target photographer is so nonplussed and accepting of two moms showing up with their three kids in tow. Or two dads with their brood. But now sexual orientation is a protected human right in this country. The way I see it, if the Poles could get rid of communism, they can surely change their culture, their hearts and minds about homosexuality. Homophobia makes people act in ways that would otherwise embarrass and upset them. Long-term vendettas, family fractures, church splits, blackmail, and bullying still plague us. Prejudice, derision cause us to be childish. We're not any of us where we want to be. But I saw a vision of that new world in Palm Springs last year. Gay couples being as properly affectionate in public as my husband and me. We kissed goodbye in the parking lot of the restaurant as we go our separate ways. We held hands. So did the gay couples we were with. And I'm not talking the fake kiss on the cheek, I'm talking lip-smacking, "love you, see you later," kiss. I cried. It was a beautiful sight. Right there on main street in front of God and everybody. Normal. Normal. Haven't seen too much (well, really, not any, none at all) of that here in Littleton lately. But it will come. It will happen. And, I hope the next related cover I see on a Polish magazine has an affectionate family, three darling children and their two dads. It will happen. Keep those cards and letters -- and especially those great photos -- coming, friends. I love seeing you with your kids. In all of the variety those families are configured. Just don't pinch the kid's cheeks to make her smile. "Mice twice" seems to work magic for photos around here.

.25 percent, that's point two-five percent

Point two-five, .25 percent is all. One quarter of one percent is the amount of the U.S. budget designated for foreign health aid. The U.S. government partners with organizations and foundations like the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, Nothing But Nets, Lutheran World Relief, the Central Asia Foundation (3 Cups of Tea), Rick Warren's charitable relief non-profit, the Paul Carlson Foundation and others, to provide vaccines, anti-malarial nets, clean water, health clinics, schools, and more in Africa, Asia and other impoverished places in the world. Point two-five percent. As it turns out, that's a lot of money. Compounded by the funds given from the not-for-profit faith-based sector and other monies, these dollars save millions of lives already. Perhaps that is the message we most need to hear right now: it works. This action works. "We are most like God when we are giving." It was my good atheist -- or maybe not so atheist anymore -- friend who told me a few years ago, "the God created you with specific talents. It is your job to use them," and continued, "for the good of people." As it turns out, he's an editor. And he told me I needed to write. It seemed perhaps I might take his encouragement seriously. As I do. Making money is not a particular talent of mine. I still give some of it away, along with other material gifts in kind. Giving is a way of life, as you know. I put money in the kettle every time I walk past a Salvation Army bell-ringer, not to feel righteous or because my bits and pieces are such a great contribution to the cause. But to keep me in the habit, of always giving, reaching, going beyond myself. I don't carry a lot of cash so it might be a quarter or a dollar I put in but it is something. And my something and your something and the Salvation Army's something and Urban Peak's something and Angel Heart's something and the church's something and even the .25 percent of the government's budget add up to something that changes lives. The first fantasy I ever had about becoming enormously wealthy came one morning as I was driving up the Tri-State Tollway in grinding traffic, on my way to work in Chicago. What blurb on the radio prompted it I don't remember but I do remember my mind racing with the ways I'd give that money away. I'd have plenty to give to Mattie Butler's organization, WECAN, and to the Chicago Food Depository, and to the Nature Conservancy, and to Lutheran World Relief, and the Heifer Project, and on and on and on it went. I got greedy for more money at some point because I remembered other places I wanted it to go. Honestly, that was the most fun I'd had in ages. And it still is. One of my favorite little games to play in my mind. New needs and realities have occasioned new ideas for the recipients of my gifts. But it is one of the best antidotes for self-pity I can think of. Better yet, of course, is the actual giving. When one is depleted, physically, financially, emotionally, the natural instinct is to preserve. There is some basic nature involved, we need to do some conserving, building up, restoration. And there are humbling moments when it is remarkably more blessed to receive. But even in the middle of the mess, there is the possibility of giving. Reaching, extending, looking beyond oneself, giving beyond oneself. I believe we are never so depleted that we can't give something. It may be only a smile. I believe I've been there. It may be only a generous gesture, in traffic. It may be holding the door open, or putting a quarter in the red kettle in front of the mall. It may be almost nothing. But it is the muscle movement that matters. For the sake of staying connected, properly alligned to the world. A week ago today, for the first time in my life, I wondered where the money for a turkey dinner for our family was going to come from. I was stunned. Humbled. And eventually hopeful. A client paid, the funds were wired to our bank account on Wednesday. And, as you remember, we ate the best turkey dinner we've ever had. Other years we've filled bags and baskets with turkeys and pies and potatoes and rice and beans and a treat or two to deliver to families in Denver. I especially loved the year Angie and I set out together on slick streets to find our assigned three homes, cherishing the sweet, if brief, conversations we had with grateful families for whom our presence was a gift in addition to the foods we brought. Such giving is sometimes disparaged as charity, checkbook charity. Bandaids, not solutions. It's true we need more. Bill Gates points out that we need to create systems, infrastructures that deliver again and again and again, creating market points and capital that generates the replication of efforts and the extension of the benefits. True. True. True. But the thing is, creating wealth is not my talent. So I do what is mine to do. Write. And give. And offer it up to the ones who are here as God's hands and mouths and feet and hearts, for their health, their justice, their peace, their fullness of life. Each of us has those things we are "made to do," as my friend told me. The thing is, that we do them. And do them for the sake of the world. I keep thinking of what could be, what could happen if we gave the same amount of money we spend in military action instead to building roads and opening schools and filling bellies and planting fields and building wells and vaccinating children and putting up anti-malarial nets. Three times a billion cups of tea. It's not just a fantasy. It begins to happen every time we move our minds beyond what is to what is possible. I'm going to go downstairs to play the piano now. The Thanksgiving hymns, once more this season. We Gather Together. Come, You Thankful People, Come. And my very favorite, God Whose Giving Knows No Ending. "Gifted by thee, turn we to thee, offering up ourselves..."

The best turkey

Today was the best Thanksgiving meal ever made. Dave did it and he did it just exactly right. Like lots of you, we spent time remembering what we are grateful for. And here, in no particular -- or edited -- order is what we wish to say 'thanks' for. Glycolysis politics James Madison Glee teepeeing houses (Note: we didn't teepee the Governor's house; Sheryl, was that you?) Mahler's Second Symphony bag pipes home fun family living in Colorado Diet Dr. Pepper humor friends -- old and new Poland change forgiveness elliptical machines Arapahoe Singers nasal sprays and recovering vocal cords fish oil the secret to the perfect high-five Marbury vs. Madison Hulu perspective flannel pants book clubs walking Ms. Daisy giving garlic hair dryers hot showers options indoor plumbing bubble baths sour neon gummie worms Roughworks $5 3 pound bags of chicken breasts roommates Linus Pauling South Africa semester Nelson Mandela hope wisdom and learning Dave's (Dad's) cooking!!! turkey and stuffing and gravy and potatoes and rolls and green bean casserole and pumpkin and pecan pie and more rolls sweet potato casserole exercise brother and sisters parents courage Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto Aspen holidays stories Michael Kors New York New York New York fatherly pride -- Dave's watching Annika interact so gracefully with his colleagues at a gala dinner in Washington D.C. John Marshall writing groups and encouragement Lighthouse Arapahoe High School Class of 2010 Macalester College Class of 2010 senior years two graduations in May scholarships! giraffes, rhinos, zebras, lions eating zebras, vervet monkeys moose the bison traffic jam in Yellowstone, merging with buffalo Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons Moab Jim Tracy MLB Manager of the Year football Breakthrough summer teaching refugees and immigrants encouragement and awards energy President Barack Obama Colorado Rockies iPods variety Palm Springs Christmas growing gay rights choices freedom inspiration Democratic National Convention Hawa meeting Michelle Obama this week Medicine Bow camping tweets antique cell phones Taylor Lautner tripping monsters Macalester World Cat Beethoven's 5th and everything else future what's coming simplicity mute button on the TV yoga aspen trees hiking backpacking and camping all the mountains! sunny 65 degree winter days for taquito picnics at Wahoo wonderful health insurance Mayo Clinic Wellness programs discovery road trips 400,000 miles on cars Mary Travers the end of communism novels singing family support trust road trips work clients Milkbones playing the piano tennis Tattered Cover Bookstore Tattered Writers ideas chocolate soft blankets and fluffy towels discovery adventure home enough America's Next Top Model iPhones biochemistry biochemistry snowshoeing Herman Gulch hiking biking along the Highline Canal the Lonetree Rec Center trampolines words beauty Paris polar ice mentors tootsie rolls patience more music just enough grandma's and aunt Joan's cookies safety possibilities goodness Beaujolais Nouveau ...and that was the first course. We hope that you have much to be grateful for and have times to remember and give thanks! And we hope -- but doubt -- that your turkey dinner was as absolutely fantastically perfect as ours. Grateful for you all, too! Jan

Full Heart

"I'll be back really late," I told her. "We're going out to a club after." And then it hit me. I used to come back really late all the time when I stayed here at my sister-in-law Joan's house in Minneapolis. And leave before dawn. My days back then generally ran from the first meeting at 6 a.m. until the last one ended around midnight. Boy, what a different life that was. I never went out to Hell's Kitchen in those days either. This house in south Minneapolis across from Powderhorn Park has been my Twin Cities refuge for more than fifteen years. And for most of that time, the earliest times anyway, I was up here for conventions, conferences, continuing education courses. I've stayed here when the house was painted plain old white and while it was being painted -- and now that it is painted a gorgeous aubergine. I survived thunderstorms, even tornado warnings and a killer heat wave when the humidity and the temperature were beyond bearable. I did radio interviews on the phone in this house several times, once sitting in a closet because I was too nervous to concentrate anywhere else. Joan hosted me on her own for several years but then happily added a husband, Jay, and later, a son, Noah. This room where I'm staying was once painted a lush velvety and very deep lavender, and had artsy, feminist art on the walls. Now it is cranberry colored and has Green Day posters, a certified framed photo of Randy Moss, and shelves filled with Legos, armored personnel carriers, tanks, a galleon complete with pirate, and an ax, for god's sake. So much has changed. So much has stayed the same. The house itself has been doubled in size. Merlin the magical Alaskan husky has gone to the great hunting ground in the sky and now there is Cooper the golden to love. And the infant we met in 1998 is now playing Risk and organizing neighborhood football games. Coming back again and again over the years, in such different circumstances, provides a strong cord in my life. Joan's strong (spectacular) coffee, the newspaper on the dining room table, rich conversations and stairs that still creak in all the old places. I've come back here for sanity and sustenance and rest after wrenching days at various conventions, late night strategy sessions that succeeded in planning the same event, again, heart-breaking conversations with women who sought out the church's expert on clergy sexual abuse, late night kibbitzing in the lounge at the Hilton Hotel with silly colleagues who were happily unwinding after one too many business meeting, and celebratory receptions to honor the church's first female bishops. This is the touchstone. This egg-plant painted house at Powderhorn Park. We came here as a family too, for years, spending the Martin Luther King holiday weekend up here in the snow. My daughters learned to ice skate on this lake and to cross-country ski in this park. And then there was the year of the wedding, here, the reception in this house, and a couple of years later, the party to welcome baby Noah. It all came back to me tonight as I left to drive over to Macalester College to pick up my daughter -- the one who once let me hold her hand and teach her to skate -- for dinner and her roommate's senior recital. And this also came clear to me as I drove across the Mississippi River bridge and down Summit Avenue, still haunted by the spirit of F. Scott Fitzgerald and the current genius of Garrison Keillor. Of all the late nights and early mornings and comings and goings from this house, none is so important as this trip, this visit, this, here, now. I got in at 1:17 tonight. Sadly, not a record. But it was the best. the very best thing i have ever done here. From here. Taking Kaia to dinner. Hearing Carly play, and seeing her tap dance. From classc Poulenc to Artie Shaw. But the real best was being here as a mom. Talking to my daughter. My grown-up almost graduated-from-college little girl. Of all the fascinating and even major, institutional changes I've come here to be part of, this one is definitely the best. Being a mom beats being a bureacrat!

Life is a road trip

Life is a road trip. Now that the statue of limitations has run, it might be time to get out the blackmail photos I have of Bryon, Tim, and Claude clinging to a light pole in the middle of a truck stop parking lot in North Platte, Nebraska in a gale wind in the middle of the night. Tim has a bandana – tied like a scarf on his head, Byron is holding on to a cowboy hat for dear life – a sight his Manhattan friends may not be familiar with, and Claude is straddling the light pole, as if it is a horse, and also wearing a cowboy hat. I can’t for the life of me figure out why I didn’t submit it to the college yearbook. While I'm at it, you had might as well know about the 110 mph sprint across the Nebraska Challenge. Denver to Chicago in about 11 hours. Don't tell. All night road trips take me back to college. The back window littered with debris from every junk food known to man: Doritos, Oreos, HoHo's, Ding Dong's, Cheetos, Butterfingers, Snickers, and not one apple core in the bunch. Whirlwind trips to get home for Thanksgiving. To Florida for Spring Break. To New York for a weekend. All nighters in the car, through sleet and ice and fog and, once, past a manure truck that lost its load on our rental car on the Pennsylvania Turnpike that was closed but nobody told us. Kind of a surprise when we came out from a pre-dawn breakfast in Hagerstown to the fragrance of the melting sludge caking the car. Do you know how hard it is to get frozen-on manure off of a car? Do you know how humiliating it is to drive a shitty (yes, literally) car up to Capitol Hill in D.C. for a 10 a.m. appointment? Am I too old for this? I did just get the senior special at Perkins in Lakeland, Minnesota where I’ve stopped at 4:34 a.m. local time, simply to get out of the car and make the move from Diet Coke to coffee. So perhaps I am too old to pull all-nighters anymore but not too dumb to profit from it. America is about moving. Not staying put. Traveling across this stretch of empty space that says nothing so much as "Siberia." No wonder so many Volga Germans and Russians settled here on the steppes of South Dakota. To understand this country you have to move through this empty space. I drive it tonight in six hours. The Lakota roamed it for centuries. My grandmother crossed in a wagon that took, oh, weeks. To understand the mythos that is this America, you must roam. Become unsettled, at least for a time, for a week, a day, a night. To ponder the raw untamed space -- not just land but space. To ponder its ancient emptiness. The roamers, the unsettled who used this space so very differently than we do now. To have a relationship to land and space that is all about humility and stewardship and possibility and, again, humility. Not owning, not possessing, not even occupying but moving, moving through, moving on, always moving, moving, moving. It is wrenching to leave Denver on days like this morning – or yesterday morning it is now. Sun glistening on snow drenched peaks, glinting pink in the dawn. Okay, it wasn’t dawn. It was 10. But still, it was gorgeous. Seeing mountains in the rear view mirror is not something I like. The reward this time is seeing my oldest daughter, Kaia, at college in a few hours. And as we’ve done this trip before, I just kept going. And going. Cruise control set on 79. Seven hours from Denver to Rapid City. Seven hours more to Sioux Falls. Who wants to give in then? Truth is; I hate hotels. I especially hate the hassle of stopping in a hotel for seven hours, schlepping in my backpack. Sleeping in a sketch bed. Bad shower pressure. I’d rather save my $75 for a good bottle of wine. Or the roller coaster at Camp Snoopy. (Yes, I know it’s not Camp Snoopy anymore but it will always be Camp Snoopy in my heart.) Life is like this. Life is a road trip. Improvisation. Surprise. Shit stuck, frozen, to your car. Watching the cows come home. Investigating the bull for sale in Chugwater, Wyoming. Normally, bull comes free. All nighters. That bleary time of early morning between about 3:30 and, well, bedtime the next night. Good coffee. Senior discounts. Kind strangers. Amazing tattoos. Friends being silly, city slickers in cowboy hats and bandanas. Singing along to the Carpenters when no one else has to listen. Not possessing, not owning. Not even occupying. But moving through, And, especially for me today: Kaia, a great reward for my labors. The coffee pot is drained. The baker has arrived. The night shift waiters have gone home. My cell phone battery is charged and there are still 237 CD’s in the car I haven’t listened to yet. My sister-in-law should be up in an hour. Won’t she be happy to see me, lounging on her porch, six hours ahead of schedule. Then again, she knows better than to be surprised. Life is a road trip. You never know quite what is up ahead. Enjoy the ride. And maybe get a cowboy hat.

Hit the Road, Jack

Time to hit the road again! It's hard to imagine getting my love of road trips from the long journeys of my childhood. A thousand miles from Denver to Los Angelos, a thousand miles from Denver to Chicago. And, when I was ten, a thousand miles to Minneapolis via U.S.Highways that routed us through Pierre, South Dakota at 5 p.m. where the temperature was 110 Fahrenheit and the entire bag of Circus Peanuts I ate did not sit well. For our trip to California in 1967, my mom sewed me a bag for all my trip treats, books, and who knows what else. It was less than twelve inches square with two exterior zippers and a little handle. Whatever was in it, it somehow kept me going across the Arizona desert at night as the regular bumps meant we'd hit another bunny. What a weird trip. Things have become more complicated since the days of a Brownie camera or, maybe, already, a Kodak instamatic. For seven days on the road, I have a computer bag from the Aspen Music Festival, a Colorado Non-Profit Conference bag for books and notebooks, a little Clinique bag from Nordstrom for the camera charger and the phone charger and the computer cords, and an enormous bag from the Santa Fe Market for all the CD's I've collected and made to keep me sassy and singing all the way across South Dakota. My clothes are in a bag from the NCCED -- the National Community Capital something something else. I love driving across this country! Bad for the climate, good for me. I make trade offs to assuage my guilt. No air conditioning in the house, long car trips on the back roads of America. Somebody said that a woman's car is like her giant purse. Nope. It's better. My car is my closet. Several sweaters, multiple pairs of shoes, coats, random books and extra scarves, make-up, and granola bars, blue corn chips, lasagna leftover from Saturday's lunch, a three-hole punch, a two-liter bottle of caffeine free Diet Pepsi, and two tennis balls. Circus peanuts optional. I'll let you know if there's anything interesting out there.

Claim Check

I love my dry cleaners. It offers drive-up service. And, they give you back your clothes even when you lose, forget, let the dog eat, or bake the claim check into the meatloaf. Not that I would ever do that. I don't go often so it's not that they know me on sight. But they know enough to know that when I pull up and give them my phone number, I get my sweater back. Years ago our neighborhood conversations got around to the subject of husband's shirts. "Where do you take them?" It was getting expensive to send them out to be laundered. Where was the cheapest place that did a good job? Several opinions were expressed, criteria clarified, and recommendations made. I was silent, listening with some confusion. Until Linda asked, "Jan, where do you take Dave's shirts?" "Oh. I don't. We don't send them out." "You IRON them?" my neighbors all asked at once. "No," I confessed. "Isn't that what permanent press is for?" The more amusing part of this story came a few days later. Six-year-old Annika was visiting next-door-neighbor and wonder woman, Linda, a quilter, in her sewing room. My daughter was wide eyed as Linda showed her how she pieced together the beautiful fabrics. But then things got weird. A strange appartus was unfolded. A metal object placed upon it. Water poured into a spout. Steam arose from it. Annika, daughter of my heart, and flesh of my flesh, then asked, "what's that?" "An iron," Linda answered. "What's an iron?" Yes, it's true. We don't iron much. Another perk of Colorado living. But every great once in a while, sweaters and silks need to be dry cleaned. And I am always freaked about losing the claim ticket. Never fear. My clothes claim me. All of which has me pondering tonight. What else claims me? What people, relationships, family claim me? Choose me. And expect something of me. What are the claims on my time and attentions? What claims tie up my energies and affections? My emotions, intellectual curiosity? And you? I've decided it's time once more to do a claim check. To make sure I'm being claimed by the things -- people, values, commitments, talents -- that best reflect the person I understand myself to be and the gifts I've been given. It's easy to get distracted and derailed. I dare say, especially in our addled, busy world with multitudes of choices, voices clamoring in our heads, calling us this way and that. To make the inevitable Polish connection, I find myself more easily focused there. And my friends too. Tho' not so much as they used to be, the choices are more stark. It is not so easy to do all of the both/and's that we get away with. You can't have it all. Or come close to pretending. The claims on energy and attention are rigorous and sometimes present a zero-sum option. I like the good discipline I'm forced to accept when I'm in Poland, living in Warsaw as I do from time to time. In Denver, it's easier to wander off course. So it's time again for a claim check. Who gets me? What gets me? And you?

What comes after

My dad lost his right hand in a farm accident when he was 24. His right hand was cut off by a corn picker. He was out in the field about a quarter mile from the house, harvesting corn. The engine stalled, he reached in to fiddle with it and the blade -- closer than he realized -- sliced his hand clean off. He somehow staunched the blood, an improvised tourniquet, and ran for home. An ambulance was called, he was rushed to the hospital. Somebody, I forgot who, had the presence of mind, maybe it was even my dad, to bring the severed hand to the emergency room. Attempts to reconnect it were unsuccessful and my dad lived out the rest of his life with only one hand. He learned to write all over again, as a lefty. He went on playing fast pitch softball with his brother Vince, fiercely competitive and formidable, dad catching for his brother, who had one of the strongest and fastest fast balls in the state. My dad learned to catch with one hand AND to throw out baserunners stealing second. He cleared trees and helped to build the camp in the mountains where I spent my summers. He learned to play golf with one hand, he rode a horse with one hand, mowed the lawn, drove thousands of miles on family vacations, put up Christmas lights, whacked a tennis ball around the court, taught me to ice skate and ride a bike, barbequed, changed the oil, and walked me down the aisle when I was married thirty-three years ago. He would have been 88 last Tuesday. He lived to hold two granddaughters and play catch with them, push them on swings, put on his funny red clown nose to make them giggle. He sang in a Keen-Agers choir, served in many public leadership positions in his small city and rode a gorgeous quarterhorse in the Fourth of July parade during his years on the Independence Stampede board. He and friends built a Swedish stuga at the history park and he would give you his last dime. He lived through an horrific, life-altering event and figured out how to come out on the other side. But this is the thing: it changed him forever. He learned new skills, adapted to limiting circumstances. He created new patterns and new habits and found clever ways to work around his disability. His life was never the same. And for everything he figured out, every adaptation, every accomodation, he was keenly aware everyday of what had become impossible. He amazed and inspired me and multitudes with his skill and spirit at making the very most of what had happened and what he had left. But this is the thing: his life was never again the same. He lived every single day with loss, a tangible, physical, obvious and, to some eyes, ugly loss. He felt phantom pain from the nerve endings that were severed and sometimes that pain was excruciating, or the phantom sensations of movement were heartbreaking all over again. Two relevant connections: when Germany was divided into East and West, something was cut off, cut out of each nation and something was lost that even the fall of the Berlin Wall and the reunification of the country that followed can't repair. In the twenty years since the end of communism, remarkable adjustments and adaptations have been made. But it's not the same, not the same at all, had the German nation remained whole, not severed. Life will never be the same again. The same can be said for Poland and the other countries that were captive behind an Iron Curtain from 1945 until 1989. Even now that the situation is so wondrously changed, now that they are not cut off from Western Europe and the rest of the world, something was lost during those days that can never be fully restored. But, my musing, I confess, is a lot more personal. Even as I adapt and find new ways to move through the world after being attacked and losing more brain cells than have regenerated yet, if ever, even as I get better, I am not the same. It took my breath away again today to realize that I am not only not the same person I was ten years ago, I don't even see that person when I look deep inside or let myself out to play, to interact with the world. There are so many cognitive behavioral exercises I do, I can change the way I act even when I'm in a full-blown crisis. But there are parts of me that are simply gone. And don't seem likely to be put back on. It took my breath away again today to realize that my personality is irrevocably altered. I can't even pretend to be the ebullient, powerfully assertive woman I used to be. She's just gone. I asked my psychiatrist again this week, will I ever get back to what I was? Before the injury? Before the attack? She told me not to count on it. I cannot even begin to tell you how discouraging it is, how frustrating to not be able to reach that strong, take on the world, "I can do it," (meaning anything1) spirit. But. And this is the big butt. I am learning instead to do things differently, to make the most of what is possible. The Germans and the Poles, Czechs and all were cunning and courageous as they have been working to move foward after an amputated history. My dad did. And so am I.

Berlin

"Five minutes of heaven." "Let me purchase your ticket," Sabine begged me. "It will be the only ticket to the West I will ever get to buy." Who knew, ten years later, she would buy her own. My first views of Berlin, East Berlin, were not at all what I expected. I arrived on a Friday afternoon train in October, 1980, from Weimar, another East German city. It was an uncomfortable trip, standing for an interminable time in the crowded vestibule of a train car with my jumbo hard-shell yellow Samsonite suitcase and a desperate desire to get out of drab and depressing Eastern Europe, if only for a few days. I, and especially my out-of-place suitcase attracted the attention of every passenger who got on and the unfriendly stares of those jostling for better footing in the small space we uneasily shared. The train was packed with workers returning home to the big city, going to visit the big city, seeing relatives in the big city. And me. No one ever got off, people just kept getting on. And on. And on. I was nose to nose with strangers for the last 40 kilometers. I was completely surprised to rattle through the outskirts of Berlin and discover neighborhoods, or districts, of single family homes with big gardens, lawn chairs, and detached garages. Even in late Fall, the grass was green, a few faded blooms were stubbornly still on the vines. Clothes hanging on the line, blue, green, red, yellow, blue jeans and overalls. Dogs chasing after children. Children playing tag and digging in the dirt. Where was I, Wilmington, Delaware, or was it really Berlin? Sabine and Dietrich met me at the bahnhof and whisked me away in their newer green Volvo. We made a brief -- and entirely forgettable -- tour of the city, avoiding the places I longed to see, The Wall, Unter den Linden, the Brandenburg Gate. We had a scrumptious dinner of chicken with herbs, freshly steamed vegetables saved from the garden, big slices of juicy red tomato, and a nice light wine. Their children, Ulrike and Krystof were teenagers, proud to show me their rooms filled with posters of the current East German rock stars and early punk design. Krystof had longish hair and was himself a proto-punk type kid. He had a pierced ear and a henna tattoo and played a primitive Jimi Hendrix tune on his guitar for me. Ulrike was his opposite. Prim, carefully composed, she worked in a private boutique for spending money and had a boyfriend with whom she left for the movies. The family's home was one of the single family homes with a large garden like I'd seen on the way in. It had come to them by inheritance. They had a huge, productive garden and a few grape vines for making their own sweet wines. A bonfire pit was surrounded by several benches and garden chairs, with large bushes offering privacy. We sat outside for a few minutes, looking over at the tall television tower that had become a matter of great pride for Berliners. Would I like to make a trip to to the top? A lovely family. She was an oncologist. He was a nuclear engineer. How they got clearance to host an American in transit I have no idea. Or maybe they didn't. I never officially registered as a guest in their home (a formality generally required) so perhaps the entire thing was below the radar. One learned not to ask a lot of questions, primarily out of consideration for one's hosts. The issue was embarrassment, humiliation due to the degrading conditions under which they lived. They were members of the small Methodist church, the organization that hosted my visit. Their home was filled with books and record albums (that would be vinyl, for you who haven't heard of them). During the daytime we toured war ruins. A large landfill nearby was still filled with rubble from World War II, some of it yet uncovered. We went to a nearby market. And mostly we sat and talked. And talked. And talked. Of life here. And there. Of essential human values. The dangers of materialism -- whether dialectical or consumerist. Family, hopes, future. Freedom. What was it? Did it depend more upon internal or external conditions? Could one be free in a perversely restricted environment? Could one be free in a persistently distracted environment? We also went to the train station in the center of the city so that I could purchase the ferryboat ticket that would take me next day to Sweden. A train from Berlin north to the coast, and then a Swedish ferry to carry me across the Baltic to my own ancestral home. "Please, let me buy it," Sabine begged. She did not have the money to purchase my ticket outright but she asked if she could be the one to approach the ticket windown first and request the oneway passage to Helsingborg, the oneway ticket out. Of course, it was my passport that the agent required in order to make issue but she conducted the transaction and said, "I pretended, I pretended it was for me." "It was five minutes of heaven," she said, "followed by the plunge into depression: it was not really for me." The mood of our visit turned on that hinge moment. I could leave. They could not. I was going. They had no such choices to make. From then on, they wanted to know more and more about the West. It was not so much that they ached to live there, but were dying to know more about this unknown world just across The Wall. The Wall. We went to see The Wall after dark that last evening of my stay. "Do you want to see Checkpoint Charlie?" First of all, it made me giggle to hear this cliched American term built into the flow of a German language sentence. It didn't belong. I told them I'd go wherever they felt like taking me, wherever it was comfortable or safe for them. Sabine and Dietrich decided the children must not come. If there was trouble, they didn't want Ulrike and Krystof involved. More intense discussion followed. I said, "we really don't have to do this." "No," they insisted. This is something you must see, must experience." It turned out, they rarely went anywhere near The Wall. It was a dominant reality of their daily life but they saw it only a few times a year. Sabine chattered nervously the entire way into the center of the city. Dietrich was unusally silent. He drove. Then, pulled over to the side of a street in front of a block of apartment buildings. "We are very close. I can't go all the way up to the Checkpoint. That would be dangerous for us. They check license plates. We don't want to be seen as having an interest," he explained. "It will be out the left windows. Look quickly." "Can I take a photo without flash?" "Yes, and show it to everyone. This is how we live." And with that he sped off and we drove the few blocks, then turned a corner, down a block, and there, through the intersection, I saw it. The Checkpoint. Another block, The Wall. This is what I remember: a tall cement wall, brilliantly lit up, like a set scene in a movie, the curved over lamp poles, emptiness. There were no cars parked or driving on this street approaching The Wall. It was as eerie as you might imagine. Eerier. I was too stunned to take any photos -- for once in my entire life. Dietrich squealed around the corner on two wheels and drove away like a bat out of hell. Literally. Back to the safety of normal life in East Berlin. The next morning the saw me off at the train station, all of us weeping. In 1989, on a crisp November day, Sabine and Dietrich and their children and grandchildren strolled through the Brandenburg Gate, and into the heart of West Berlin. A new world. Ten minutes from their home.

"It's over."

Annika was all of fifteen. It was February, 2008. She was a volunteer for presidential primary caucuses in suburban Denver, assigned to work at a public school ten miles from our house. She arrived early as directed. The lines were already out the door and around the corner. Colorado was not one of the big prize primary states but it was early days and the question was, can the Obama momentum continue? Annika discovered that the paid workers were in a tizzy, absolutely flustered by the turnout and by the reality that the room they had prepared was nowheres near big enough. One woman disappeared for an hour. Ostensibly to seek direction but really, to sit in a tiny closet and freak out. The mom in me loves this part. Annika went to the principal and the custodian and said, "we have too many people. We need a bigger room. Or we need another room." She arranged for the caucus to be split, from the original two precincts sharing one room to the obvious solution, they'd each have their own. Annika took the required materials to the cafeteria and, beings that she herself was a tad bit underage to actually preside, she commandeered another one of the paid workers -- who had been distinguished by her distinct style of hand-wringing -- to follow and technically run the meeting. But really, it was Annika who ran that caucus that night, poised and calm and terribly efficient. Several hundred voters did their business and went home satisfied with their part in the political process. That tells you something about my younger daughter. But I want it to tell you something, as well, about Poland. There is no way anything like this would, could happen in Poland. Not yet. Twenty years ago, 1989, it was November, as it is now. Right. The borders of Hungary and Czechoslovakia were leaking like a sieve. Crowds had gathered in Leipzig on Monday evening, in the square outside the main Lutheran church, St. Nicolai, in the tens of thousands, with candles, to pray, to demonstrate their determination that change should come. One week later, the Wall would crack open and crumble, come down, gone, gone. Forever. In an instant. Or close to it. Twenty years ago, 1989, November, it was already five months since the Polish nation had gone to the polls in the first free elections in the Soviet bloc since World War II, or, to be more clear, in the first free elections ever in the Soviet bloc. By this time twenty years ago, Poland already had a non-Communist Prime Minister and majority in its Parliament. By this time twenty years ago, Solidarity had moved in to the Department for Foreign Affairs building and had the keys. The long, painful struggle for freedom and a civic society in Poland had gone on for all of the forty-some years of Communist domination. Workers' strikes, student strikes, more workers' strikes, and then, after the election of the Polish Pope and his first visit to Poland in 1979, the workers and the intellectuals and the students and the whole mass of Polish society had joined together, cooperating, resisting the Party's attempt to fragment their purposes and set them at odds with each other, as it had done in the past. The whole of Polish society was together in this pursuit of freedom, democracy, and, let's face it, food. It was not a wholly non-violent revolution. But the violence came not from the revolutionaries, as is normally the case, but was started and provoked by the authorities and was, blessedly, limited. The casualties were lifted up and revered and the people carried on their slow march to freedom. By this time twenty years ago, Gorbachev had already told the Polish Prime Minister, Mieczyslaw Rakowski, "it's over." Meaning, the communist stranglehold on power. The post-War Polish state, the People's Republic (that was never the people's at all). ' "It's over." The Poles had voted. The verdict was overwhelming. No big surprise there. Solidarity won. The Communist candidates barely got the requisite 50% majority even in the seats where they ran uncontested. But there were surprises. Only 62% of the electorate had come out to vote. Despite the posters plastered all over town, all the towns, and countrysides, and a blanketing campaign by Solidarity to make sure everyone knew who "their" candidates were, the response was tepid. This shocked me. Until I remembered the accustomed resignation, skepticism, and outright cynicism of so many people after forty-plus years of having no say, no power, no opportunity to express their voice in other than rote forms. Or in the protest demonstration. Voting. What was this voting? Of course,they knew. Had longed for it, labored over years for the right to vote. But the Poles did not line up three days in advance or walk hundreds of miles, as the black South Africans did, when the time came. And to this day, they're still getting used to the idea. And especially the overwrought campaigning. When I told the story of my daughter's activism, people were stunned. To a person. But they're getting it. While it is oft said (and not without some merit) that Poles are better at fighting than governing, and their political climate is enough to make you tear out your hair, democracy in Poland is now something to be cherished, and the franchise used. It amuses me that every week, or so it seems, a new opinion poll is widely published with the latest figures about the relative popularity of the leading political parties. It's like taking your blood sugar reading every hour. But what a joy! They can do this now. What was thought lost forever, impossible in the lifetimes of at least all of my peers, if not their children, is routine. So routine as to be sometimes forgotten, or blown off. "I forgot to vote." A year ago today I sat in the Europa Cafe, and the Honoratka Restaurant, and the Coffee Heaven on Nowy Swiat with friends, fretting, waiting out the election returns from America. My vote had been cast. I had faxed it from the American Embassy several days earlier and had emailed -- twice! -- to be been reassured by a lovely woman named Joy at the Arapaho County Clerk's office that my ballot had indeed been deposited with all of the mail-in ballots to be duly counted. I even had my actual ballot, the piece of paper on which I had connected the arrows to cast my votes. How cool -- I got to keep it! But that wasn't enough. I needed numbers. My daughters spent the day ringing doorbells, driving elderly voters to the polls, taking food to the poll watchers. My Polish friends were stunned. Wasn't this going a bit overboard? "Just wait," I told them. "Your grandchildren will get to this point. Democracy grows on you. Maybe it takes a little while to believe it can work." (And some days I still shake my head.) Twenty years ago, even before Gorbachev told Rakowski in Berlin, "it's over," the fun part was just beginning.

Remembering as a subversive activity

Not all memories are allowed. Not officially. Or rather, we now get to put that in the past tense. Glory Hallelujah! Twenty years ago it became officially okay to remember everything. Up until then, from 1945 until 1989, the Poles used All Saints' Day as a subversive act, an opportunity to stir up forbidden stories of Polish heroism that defied Soviet power, ignored Soviet reality, told the truth of history. As you scroll through the photos to the right of these posts, you see a cross monument to Katyn, the site where some 22,000 Polish leaders, especially its military officers were executed by a shot in the back of the head by the Soviets in 1940. Any acknowledgement at all of this travesty, even mention of the name, was forbidden during the communist era of the People's Republic of Poland. There was no memorial to the victims of the Katyn Massacre until after 1989. Likewise, you see memorials to the fighters and victims of the Warsaw Rising (not to be confused with a separate event, the Warsaw Jewish Ghetto Uprising, which took place a year earlier). It was forbidden to teach, to mention this event during the communist period. Officially, it did not happen. These memorials are also new. See the stunning memorial to the victims of deportation to Siberia, hundreds of thousands of Poles who were summarily sent off in unheated train cars to exile, forced labor in the perma-frost, the deplorable life described in the Gulag Archipelago by Alexander Solzhenizten, during the War, most of whom never returned. Those memories were forbidden, but not extinguished, during the Soviet-dominated communist period and the remembrance was a goad to action, to resistance, to defiance. There are graves of opposition leaders and critics of the communist government who have recently died, and others that have become known, and are revered. But. Even before such memorials were put up and remembrance was permitted, the Poles had their ways of finding heroes, martyrs, symbols of resistance and courage to commemorate and celebrate. And they did it as much to thumb their noses at the prevailing powers as to honestly acknowledge the significance of such individuals and events. Father Jerzy Popieluszko was a powerful opponent of the communist regime during the Solidarity period. He pastored a parish in a northern district of Warsaw and drew overflow crowds for fiery sermons. He was murdered in October, 1984 by the Secret Security police, to shut him up and stop his influence, and to intimidate the renewal movement. As these things go, of course, the plan backfired and in response to Fr. Popieluszko's martydom, the Poles rallied on a regular basis at his parish, St. Stanislaw Kostka, where he is buried. When I visited a few months after his death, the churchyard was still covered with flowers and the Solidarity banners were hung with bold defiance on the fences. They were the only Solidarity banners flying openly at the time and, because they were on church territory, they were allowed. It was a constant irritant to the Party, the government, and a constant source of inspiration to the people. The banners and flowers and candles and vigils continued there until the end of the communist regime. And they continue to this day. Say all you will about the church's faults and failures, we have to acknowledge its powerful role in the process of change in Eastern Europe during the 1980's. The Roman Catholic Church in Poland undergirded the power of Solidarity at every turn. The election of John Paul II, the Polish Pope, had an awful lot to do with the changes that followed. In fact, it is likely impossible to over-estimate the influence and correlation of the Pope's power, politically and as a source of inspiration to hearts and minds all over Eastern Europe. These memories have highlighted the moral bankruptcy and hollow integrity of the oppressors and lifted up the values that must be incorporated in a subsequent society. During periods of occupation and oppression, the Polish people have been quick to find sources of pride and success in the past and to be fired up to heroic deeds in their own times. For some, these past saints were simply a source of hope. It was not so easy to walk through all of the walkways of the Powazki Cemetery in Warsaw in the 1980's. And there were not as many monuments to see. But what was there, they found. And lit up. Lights burning in the night. The beautiful, haunting scene of red candles lit from inside and flames shooting up from time to time, lighting up the old graves and illuminating the faces of those who find in these lights a reason for future hope. Flickers of flame, leading one on and on, deeper and deeper into the graveyard, into its stories, into its depth. The authorities in the old days always breathed a sigh of relief when All Saints' and All Souls' Days were past. They dared to hope that the remembrances were sentimental. But no. They were fuel. In the days to come, we will remember the stories of the days of early November, 1989, as the "Polish disease" spread throughout Eastern Europe, became endemic, cracked open the sealed borders between Czechoslovakia and Austria, and finally brought down the Berlin Wall on 9 November 1989. Not much mentioned will be the names of those whose graves I visited, left candles, prayed. Jacek Kuron. Bronislaw Geremek. Rikard Kuklinski. Ryszard Kapuscinski. Fr. Popieluszko. Even Mieczyslaw Rakowski. And countless others. Who made a way. And those still with us. Adam Michnik. Leszek Balcerowicz. Lech Walesa. Anna Walentowicz. Bold. Clever. Brilliant strategists -- most of the time. And doggedly determined. And then, of course, the women and men whose labor is less well known or almost altogether hidden. Friends, family, colleagues, faithful servants of humanity. Is it too much to ask that as the media help us to remember those remarkable days, we give the Polish people the honor due and acknowledge and marvel at the impetus they provided for this "quiet revolution" of 1989 that finally joined Europe in freedom from West to East. Again. And may your subversive memories spur you to bold deeds. I'm thinking of what to do first.

Clouds of Witnesses

November 1st. All Saints' Day. Everybody is in motion. Nearly three million people live in the Warsaw metropolitan area and all of them are on the move. Nobody doesn't go to the cemetery on All Saints' Day. Viewed from a helicopter, the city is a ribbon of people, a mass of movement, an orchestrated and orderly procession of people in motion. Walking from high rise apartments to the bus lines, to the subway, the metro, to the trams, to taxis, to their cars, beautiful, colorful ribbons of people. Some of these ribbons, as seen from above are yellow, miles and miles of yellow-topped buses lined up, proceeding slowly from the city center and other gathering points, yellow ribbons moving away from the center like spokes in a pinwheel. Cars on every main thoroughfare, cars on the bridges that span the Vistula, ribbons of cars moving north and east and south and west, slowly, carefully, patiently. Cars loaded down with flowers and candles, entire families, bundled up in puffy coats, woolen scarves, mohair hats. Thousands of walkers move quietly through the streets, filling them to overflow, a ribbon of people moving as one, pilgrims we are, laden with bundles of yellow mums and red glass candles and bundles of roses. It feels like a massive procession, dads with toddlers riding on their shoulders, even the teenagers behaving their parents, a sober but not quite somber mass of humanity flowing like a slow-moving stream. I've never experienced anything like it! It reminded me more of a mass migration than of anything else. Not like the million strong protest marches of the 60's and 70's, not like the crowds of a million or more leaving the Chicago lakefront after the 4th of July fireworks. It was peaceful, lilting, lovely. A mass movement of infinite patience and goodwill. That might be the most important thing to say. It was a day filled with generosity and grace. Kindness and mercy, and affection and respect. Gratitude. It was a day overflowing with gratitude. So much gratitude; it is their Thanksgiving holiday, too. It was a day of communion, not creepy in the least, or caked with superstition, but of telling stories, remembering, sometimes laughing. I was surprised at the atmosphere; it was light-hearted, not heavy. Of course, there was some sadness, more for some than for others. But most of all, the spirit of the day was light. Families helped and cooperated with other families as they worked to clean around their graves, set out their flowers and candles. Some, of course, have met in this way for years and have heard each others' stories, met the relatives, welcomed daughters-in-law and babies, observed the passing of the matriarch, whom they used to meet here. There is a comraderie in this grieving. Can you imagine, an entire city, the whole population together in spirit, everyone, young, old, rich, poor, sharing the same purpose, the same space, on the move, together, as one? The yellow ribbons of buses stretched for miles, winding along back roads one behind the other, all discharging their passengers at the same places -- the entrances to the city's cemeteries. The subway was packed all day long. And everyone got off at the same stops. And walked to the buses nearby and packed in like, okay, sardines come to mind but really, more like tobacco stuffed in the bowl of a pipe, tamped down tight, so many people and carts and strollers on the buses you didn't need to hold on; if you were standing, you weren't going to move anyway. Part of the ritual is the journey, getting there. Being part of this communal mass movement, each one carrying their own existential agenda, their own private needs and prayers, but at the same time, sharing a common purpose: to express gratitude, respect, and honor to the ones who are gone now, is a moving (no pun intended) experience. It was unlike any crowd I've ever been in. It's fair to use words like surging, hordes, multitude, but not in the jostling, urgent way crowds normally move. It was relentless, but not pushy. I can't imagine how anyone could have been trampled. But we all kept moving. Moving. Moving. Toward these appointments we all had with a place, a plot, a collection of memories. Leonarda asked me to be at the Natonlin station, the end of the line of the subway on the south side, just before ten -- later than I expected we'd need to go. She was offered a ride in a car but couldn't even imagine it, insisted on the metro, and then the bus. We barely got a seat and only because we were at the doors of the train as they opened. It was packed to bursting by the fourth stop. Half the crowd got off in the city center and another half got on and we kept going until the end of the line on the north. Crammed in until there was no more air, much less room to stand. This worried me. We would all be getting off at the same stop. And then, how long would we have to queue for the bus? The logistics alone were mind boggling. Leonarda is 82. She was good enough to let me keep up with her. She knew exactly where she was headed. We walked up the line of buses until we found one that seemed to have room for more. I tried to get her a seat, she insisted on standing. We bumped along dirt roads around the back way to the first of four entrances to the huge cemetery where her husband was buried. Not our entrance. Remarkably, more people got on than off. She stood the thirty some minutes of that bus ride. And then she was off, spry as could be, down the steps and out into the multitudes of people now shuffling slowly toward the entrance, and the booths outside, scores of them, selling enormous mum plants and candles and roses and wreaths of straw and forget-me-nots. For those who waited until the last minute, no worries. Old ladies barely able to walk staggered through the gates carrying plants bigger than they were. Men carried huge shopping bags of bulky red candles. Ah, but we still weren't there, not to where we needed to go. This is perhaps (arguably) the largest cemetery in all of Europe. It is more like a town. We still had to take another bus, to queue again, because this cemetery is so vast, it would take more than an hour to walk from the first gate to the place we were going. Can you imagine? We rode for miles, stood for miles, bouncing up and down on the spongy floor of the articulated part of the articulated bus. Sometimes my two feet were riding in different directions. It was hard to find a small handhold on the yellow pole. And so we bumped along a small road around and around, a second gate, then a third, and finally, ours. The Poles seem to have developed a natural talent for keeping their balance, the way some ride a horse without their bum ever leaving the saddle. I'm not there yet. I consider it a part of my gift to the Polish people, to amuse them with my tipping and lurching. Our bus joined a long queue of buses, inching forward, until we could finally get out. And we were still a few blocks from our gate. We walked along in crowds of humanity, families with strollers, kids in bright pink and green jackets and, without fail, hats. (No matter, it was 14 degrees C. The instant the temperature once dips below 55, kids must wear a cap, it's in the constitution.) And, once more, we moved as part of a crowd, past small booths brimming with bright yellow and burnt gold mum plants, huge plants, two feet across, and fancy flower arrangements, roses, birds of paradise, amazing new varieties of flowers I've never seen before. Long tables were loaded with candles, the votive types, red, yellow, blue, green, clear. Large, small, enormous. You can buy a small candle for about forty cents. People carried bags of them. Finally, once inside the gates, the multitudes spread out. The family I was part of for the day knew just how to find 'their' graves. Paths meandered this way and that, some, thankfully, on a grid. We went past newly dug graves with the dirt still mounded high around the coffin -- kept above ground. Some had only a primitive stick cross. There were graves of those too poor to be well cared for in death. Dirt graves that never did have any markers or granite tombs to protect them. I followed Leonarda, no easy task. In her rich caramel wool coat and beret, she was a woman on a mission. She carried bags of candles and plants. I offered to carry part of her load in addition to my own and was glad she demurred. I think she is stronger in such moments than I am. Leonarda kept us going at a quick pace, as sure footed on the broken sidewalks and cobbled paths as a sheep on the hillside. I marvel. A couple of times, as she finessed her way, slipping through a knot of people, she was jumping, so light on her feet. Good grief. Slow down, lady! Please! From the gate we walked the equivalent of four blocks or so, down a wide main path, then left, up some steps, left again, and forward, then left, and the whole time my mouth was gaping. I knew what to expect. But until you're there, you don't really quite know how to take it in. Flowers on the graves, gorgeous sprays and bouquets and plants. Candles, and candles and more candles. Beautiful. And overpowering. The granite and marble graves are all above ground, or at least half above ground. Cases of marble and other stone, with headstones that give only the barest outline of a life, dates, sometimes the occupation. A few very spare graves, no stone at all, only grass growing on the top, a wood cross. Leonarda knew just where to turn, how far to go, and finally she got us there, to the grave of her husband. We got right to work. Leonarda took off her coat and hat, and handed me her handbag. She pulled out an empty plastic bag, got down on her hands and knees and started cleaning leaves from the sides of the area, pulling out last year's flower stalks, and, producing a small whisk broom from under the tented top of their grave, dusting off the area. I asked to help. No, no, you're our guest. Eventually, I did help, picking up leaves on the other side of the grave, carrying the refuse to the garbage bin. After an hour or so I wanted to sit down. But the bench had been put to use as our coat stand. Leonarda had not come here to rest. Leonarda was joined by her daughter, son and granddaughter. They figured out when we got there that they all had forgotten to bring gardening gloves and enough plastic bags to collect all the dead leaves and old candles, but a "neighbor" to them recognized their problem at once and was happy to share. These once-a-year friends, neighbors, spoke kindly and graciously for a few moments. I'm sure they're all aware that, one day, they won't be 'out here,' talking anymore, they will be 'in there.' Neighbors still. It's not an upsetting thought at all, but a pleasant one for them. Leonarda and her daughter, Barbara, got out some of the candles they brought and some of the artificial flowers (an exception among all the fresh ones) and began to set them out. Four large red votives were lit and set at the foot of the grave, the small fresh mum plant was set into a built-in planter and a big bunch of the artificial flowers were put in a built-in vase. They pointed out to me where a cross had been on the top of the grave stone, its outline clearly visible. But it was stolen some months ago by vandals, as these things sometimes are, to be melted down and the metal sold again. I knew Leonarda's husband, Pan Maciejkowicz, many years ago. He was a communist, more or less, a believer in socialism, who had a career in the diplomatic service. He was a good man, a decent man, an often absent but good father. His wife and three kids were good Christians. He had a heart attack about eight years ago and died straight away. Leonarda was with him that night, in their tiny, tiny garden house out on the edge of Warsaw, a typical place that many Poles have, no electricity, no water, no plumbing, a one-room very crude place, smaller than our girls' bedrooms, no telephone. When he collapsed, she went out and ran a few blocks to find some young girls who went to find a phone to call for help. After the ambulance had come and found their work futile, and another ambulance came to take his body away, Leonarda took the bus home. Today, she puts all her feelings into her work, cleaning, setting things straight, lighting the candles. Their offering is actually rather modest compared to many. On many of the graves there are several huge mums, sprays, wreaths. Whether or not these are all from the family, that's another question. It felt good to help. I cleaned and dusted, too. I got down and picked up leaves, and pulled out a weed. But then, it was time for me to move away just a few steps and let my friends be. Barbara and I went to "visit" the graves of other friends. She took a small candle and some of her artificial flowers to them, too. This is common. A friend's husband's grave was not too far away. We visited him. Then another. And another. While we were away for several minutes, Leonarda spoke with another 'neighbor,' who seems to be here for the whole day. We watched as first one, then another of her married children and their children come to visit and leave their flowers and candles. Many of the graves have little benches at the foot of the graves, some set into concrete to keep them from being taken, although its not the benches but the metal that attracts thieves. I see many lonely men and women sitting on their benches. Husbands, wives, children, friends. All come to visit today. And so it goes, so it went. All day long. From this cemetery, we went on to others. There are a number of cemeteries in and very near Warsaw so not everyone was headed to the same place, at least not initially, but hundreds of thousands of us were going to the same few places. Those silly enough to drive ended up parking miles away. Some Warsovians go back to the small villages or other cities where they're from. But, then, others from there come here. And, eventually, many hundreds of thousands will walk through the crowded, narrow paths of the national cemetery. On the buses back into the city center, I found Leonarda a seat. And was hoping for one too. I'm no Pole. I'm not hardy enough for this marathon. My gray hair always gives people pause. But then they look more closely at my face and decide I'm not worth their giving up a seat. I need more wrinkles. Eventually, in late afternoon, we arrive to the ancient Powazki Cemetery, stop to buy more candles to leave at the graves of venerable Polish 'saints,' and leaders. I go to leave a candle and pay my respects to Szpilman, "The Pianist," who played Chopin through World War II and barely survived the Jewish Uprising and final destruction of the Jewish Ghetto. There are already hundreds of candles near his grave, all left by people like me. Huge crowds visit the graves of luminaries, greatly respected leaders, writers, artists, teachers. Jacek Kuron, a founder of Solidarity and a great person, is honored today by the visits from thousands who leave hundreds and thousands of candles so the street-wide path in front of his grave becomes so filled it is unpassable. He has been joined this year by his good friend and old colleague, Bronislaw Geremek, another great person, as responsible as anyone else for the peaceful fall of communism in Poland in 1989. And the end of communism across Eastern Europe. Nearby, the truck-size block of granite, the grave of Poland's first communist leader, Boleslaw Beirut, has no visitors, is even hidden away by a hedge, and has only a few flowers and candles, left by his family. Ironically, I have met and enjoy knowing his daughter, a fine sociologist and professor at the university, who knows to come and go in private, a day or so before this Feast. We see the graves of Ryszard Kapuszincski, a wonderful writer, and of the man who began Narcotics Anonymous in Poland and saved many lives. Thousands of candles are lit already at their graves, too. We pay our respects to the victims of Katyn, to the young scouts who died in the Warsaw Rising, to the soldiers who fought and died in the first months of WWII, in 1939. The victims of the 1863 Uprising against the Russians, soldiers from World War I, Poles deported to Siberia by the Russians, resistance fighters in Warsaw in 1944, and Poles who fought the Russians in 1920 --- all have areas in the national cemetery, monuments. If you want to know something about Poland, you have to come here, to know these stories. They live, these stories. For better and worse, they inform and inspire Poland to this day, to tomorrow. Children light candles to honor Kuron and Geremek, the Katyn victims, the resistance martyrs. The tradition is passed on. And so Poland today is filled with thanksgiving. It is a beautiful thing. I feel really blessed to be part of it. We are surrounded by such a cloud of witnesses. We can do much worse than to spend time retelling their stories, feeling glad and grateful for their lives. What a day, what a time.

Not so simple

There were two grandfathers. But, not exactly. Not in my friend's lifetime. "My grandfather was shot in 1941 by the Nazi's." It is impossible to exaggerate the extent to which this story is repeated by grandchildren all over Poland. Three million Poles perished in World War II. In this particular family, the grandfather was fighting with the resistance, the underground Polish Home Army. He was confronted. And, as I remember hearing it, he was shot in front of his fourteen-year-old son. There was no birch cross in a quiet village cemetery near Warsaw to visit. No stories of a man grown old, teaching his grandson to play chess, imparting his wisdom about life. But he lives still, in the strength and courage of his heirs. It is not so simple, to remember them all.

Simple

We walked a long time in the birch forest. A red fox crossed our path and birds sang from the tops of the trees. The grasses along the path were vibrant from rain and the June air felt sweet and fresh. My friend had an umbrella along, more for swinging than for sheltering and he used it to swat at the tall brush that occasionally swayed too close to the path. Our talk was of serious things, history and family and war and duty. I learned about a man from a small town in the south of Poland who lost his home after the war to the Communist government and was given, in return, land in this small village where we now walked. He built a life there, retired, and savored the days with his daughters and their children. He had died. His wife, who celebrated a landmark birthday during my visit, was an ancient but lively woman who begged me to "come again next Sunday." "But she won't be in Poland, then," my friend replied. "That's all right. She can come anyway." We took time away from her to walk through the woods to the small cemetery. The lawn was vividly green. Many graves had fresh flowers. It seemed to me the perfect place for a long, peaceful eternity. Earlier that spring I had seen too many cemeteries, acres of graves, not yet peaceful places in towns and cities from Estonia and Latvia and Lithuania to Moscow and Leningrad, where thousands upon thousands of granite blocks bore the names of that city's victims of World War II, the Siege of Leningrad, the 900 Days. Many graves also had a haunting black and white photo of the deceased in a stylized oval frame. There were so many young men. Ludmilla's father had succumbed after months of getting up each morning and carrying his lunch pail to The Front, where citizens held the Nazi army from encroaching further. The daily ration of bread, I remember so clearly, was exactly the amount of wheat in a communion wafer. So much death, so much violence. And now, here, a gentle hillside, brilliant green grass, forget-me-knots and lily of the valley glistening with raindrops, the fragrance of the rich loamy earth. A different life, a different kind of death. A simple birch cross. We had come to the grandfather's grave. A simple birch cross. White papery bark cut exactly at point, two sharp angles. My friend had carved it, made it. An offering of respect, affection, gratitude, and this: love. The atheist grandson had made the cross for his Christian grandfather's gravesite. He spoke with deep feeling, kindness, fervent conviction about their relationship, and about the surpassing importance of keeping memory alive. I thought about my own grandfathers. I wasn't sure I could find their graves in the small cemetery in my hometown. I had not once visited them. My parents rarely spoke of them. The past was over. In Poland, the past is still present. It is present in the stories that must be told again and again, lest we ever forget. The sacrifice. The devastation. The devotion. On Sunday, November 1, All Saints' Day, legions of Poles will go to the cemeteries to leave flowers and candles to honor the past, the ones who have passed, to grieve again the horrors of war and oppression, to be reminded of their place in the long scheme of things, the long run of history. They will go by the thousands to their "own people" and to the national cemeteries where the great martyrs and heroes of the nation are buried. There will be oceans of light, great waves of red, votive candles on the lawns and the walkways. It is a stunning sight, a moving experience. But I will still remember that one simple birch cross. And the daisies we left there on a fresh, vividly alive June day.

To choose what is difficult all one's days, as if it were easy:

That is faith. Words of the poet, W.H.Auden that underscore a photograph that has been on my desk since 1982. Why do I love Poland? What has drawn me there again and again? It is this, the capacity, the ability and fortitude to choose what is difficult. All one's days. As if it were easy. Faith. When I landed in Poland the first time, in 1980, during the tumultous days in the Gdanks shipyards, as Solidarity was born and a careful agreement was crafted between this new social phenomenon -- a free trade union -- and the Communist government, it was immediately clear that nothing was clear. Everything was clouded, complicated. Complex. I met people who walked a thin tightrope between success and disaster, between integrity and moral illegitimacy. Nothing exemplified this more than the journalism. Poland is what it is today -- and Eastern Europe is what it is today -- in no small measure because of the crafty and clever, brilliant and incisive investigative journalism that was carried out by a weekly newspaper in Poland, Polityka. That is no exaggeration. I arrived in Poland assuming what I'd heard to be true, that there was no possibility of a free media, of any kind, to any extent, in Soviet Eastern Europe. The newspapers were all propaganda. The Polish press, I had been told, was to Poland what the L'Osservatore Romano is to the Roman Catholic Church, the official instrument, the party rag. Sadly, to great extent that was true. But. But not entirely. In 1957 there had been born a political weekly that was, officially, communist and was an organ of the ruling communist party. But. But. From the start, Polityka had an edge. Its founding editor was a clever man and he found and fostered the development of the best journalists anywhere in the Soviet bloc. This is not just a matter of opinion. It is widely recognized. These journalists were encouraged to find ways to tell the truth, between the lines, around the edges, to raise more questions than they answered. I got to be there again two years ago, when Polityka celebrated its 50th anniversary with public forums and, of course, a giant cake. Mieczyslaw Rakowski, the giant who guided Polityka through most of the communist period, and became the Polish Prime Minister and the last First Secretary of the Polish Communist Party, believed in "socialism with a human face," in the principles of democracy and justice, of fairness and also of market capitalism. He walked a thin line between "Reality," which is to say, the enormous and uncontrovertible presence on the Polish border of a nation known as the Soviet Union, ready to use its might to make Poland its 17th Republic, and the future, a different future, of freedom and prosperity and dignity. He was a pragmatist, but also a kind of idealist, in that he never lost the vision for what might be. He had aged dramatically in the twenty-five years since I'd first met him, in the Polityka offices where I was accompanying one of his journalists, a friend of mine, but he was as sharp and gracious, and witty, as I remembered. He made then and kept making those difficult choices all his days, between the possible and the preferable, with a sense of unwavering patriotism and integrity. He was not universally beloved by the time he left public life in 1989, having served as Prime Minister, having been part of the apparatus that imposed Martial Law on Poland in December, 1981,and taken a hard line against Solidarity's demands in the mid-80's. He was not perfect in walking that fine line. I can't imagine that anyone ever is. I was deeply impressed by the mission of Polityka from the day I was introduced, as you would be. Never writing propaganda (there were other newspapers for that), and always finding a clever way to insert the hidden truths behind the facts and figures pressented in black and white, smuggling in the truth -- hidden in plain sight. I admired the heck out of my good friend who did this week after week for years. I also grieved for him, the harrowing necessity of it. I've been trying to find a way to illustrate the levels of creativity, integrity, and brilliance to which he and his colleagues rose and finally found a fun story for you. In 1986, after the Chernobyl explosion, high levels of radiation were released into the atmosphere, making food products, including milk from dairy cows, in the region unsafe for human use. Officially, as you may remember, there was no crisis. No danger. The press was not allowed to report that. Wladyslaw Frasyniuk, a Solidarity leader, was in jail with other opposition leaders when Chernobyl exploded. Soon after, they began to receive rations of milk and fresh vegetables. "Hurrah!" they thought, there must be an amnesty coming, an agreement with the authorities, release. They waited for their mid-weekly delivery of news, including Polityka. Frasyniuk recalls searching carefully for some mention of a political resolution, the amnesty agreement that would bring his release. Nothing. Scoured the paper, nothing. But down in a corner, tucked into an article about something else, was mention that stores had received equipment to measure radiation in the atmosphere. It was clear -- even though it wasn't -- that Chernobyl was a nuclear disaster. And their surprise food was likely contaminated. Good enough for prisoners but withheld for the safety of the general public. "Aha!" so, no amnesty, just radiated food. The prisoners rejected these special rations, and that enraged the prison officials,who searched the cells for clandestine radios, accusing them of having learned it from Radio Free Europe. Oh no, Frasyniuk laughed, we learned it from Polityka. And so it was, all through that grim era. Truth was told. Not in straightforward reports, not with bold headlines. You had to be a skillful reader -- and that's too bad. I'm not excusing the regime's firm grip on information. Rather, in the midst of that oppressive environment, it was possible to find out what was really going on. It was a nervy, nerve-wracking existence. It involved tough decisions about personal purity -- shall I refuse to have nothing to do with this process because it is so corrupted? -- and the art of the possible, to find a way around the harsh reality of Soviet tanks still on Polish soil. I learned a great deal from my Polish friends in those days. About what it means to have faith. In something larger than oneself. To sacrifice oneself for a greater good. To be faithful. Mieczyslaw Rakowski died just a bit less than a year ago. This will be the first All Saints' Day when Polish patriots will leave flowers and candles at his grave in the national cemetery in Warsaw. I would too, if I were there. He taught me a lot. Peace to his memory. His protegees and colleagues, who continue to lead Polityka today, have been my teachers too. Such gratitude I have for them. Thankfully, they labor today in much better circumstances. And perhaps they can remind us why journalism, good, hard investigative journalism, is absolutely critical to the health and freedom of a people. The link to Polityka is on the right side of this blog, beneath the first two photos. Check it out. No matter it's in Polish, I think you'll be impressed with the way it has morphed into a successful (still!) weekly magazine, still attracting the very best journalists and the most thoughtful readers, and now free to write anything. About anything. Very cool. Very very cool. Keep it up, you guys.

You will know the truth and the truth will make you

odd. Somewhere in a file box in the basement, behind several layers of book boxes and under a pile of still-used winter ski clothes is a damn fine Reformation sermon I preached in about 1990. I know it was good because Krister Stendahl was there that day and he said so. I don't know everything I said but I do know this. Truth is awkward. But good. And when it isn't Flannery O'Connor I'm quoting, the text goes like this, "You will know the truth and the truth will make you free." What is your truth? That is, what is the truth of your life, who you are, what you are, what you are called to do? We avoid that truth sometimes for years because it is awkward or impossible or embarrassing or disturbing. Too bad. Because it does make us free. Free to be the humans really being who we are meant to be. To write if you're a writer. To sew if you're a quilter. To seek and find if you're a headhunter. To disturb if you're a prophet. To love if you're a, well, lover. To guide if you're a mentor. And so it goes. What calls to you? What is it that is in you that needs to come out? Jesus is reported to have said (in one of the Gnostic Gospels) that what is in you that needs to be given voice and form and freedom, and isn't let out to live and be in the light of day -- will destroy you. You don't want that. I don't want that. It's not one thing for all time, or for all one's life. We are called to this, and then to that, in terms of the form of our vocation. The danger is in stifling it. Dangerous for us. And for the world. I remember that day in 1990 not because Krister Stendahl was there but because it was one of those luminous moments of insight I'd had in preparing that sermon, glorious clarity then, about who I was and what I was called into the world to do. It was easier to preach it than live it. I moved into some of that truth quickly and some of it is still in process. And of course, the truth itself is always a horizon, always on before us, drawing us to it. So I'm still in motion. We all are.

Pollyanna has left the building

Some days are kittens and butterflies and whipped cream. Or, as we'd more likely put it here in Colorado, clear skies and sunshine. Like the day I described on Sunday. But even here in paradise, some days are more Sylvia Plath and Albert Camus. Life is hard. Pretty sure I read that once. Pretty sure it was in The Road Less Traveled by Scott Peck. Life is hard. One of the first things that happens to people who get creamed, crushed, battered, is that very kind and well-meaning people tell them that it is going to be okay. "You'll get over it," they say. And some are more directive, "Just get over it." "It will get better," they say. And some of them even mean it. The best thing along those lines that somebody said to me was from Sue the custodian at the church, the woman who introduced me to the Lady in Red and other ghosts who lived in the church basement. She said, "You will be better than you are now. You will go through this and come out on the other side with a new mission, and you will be even stronger." Her words still come back to me. I didn't believe her at the time. I didn't believe her at all. Well, that's not true. I believed her about the ghosts. It was uncanny, how much they knew and told her, and she told me, that, so far as I could figure out, she had no other way of knowing. Who knows. Ghosts? If not 'real' ones, then for sure there were lots of injured, angry spirits roaming around the place, most of them still encased in flesh. But anyway. So Sue tells me this. And I think, no way. I'm done. I'm toast. I'll be lucky if I can remember my kids' names. My brain by this time was not working. Not in any of the ways we normally like to count on them. My brain by this time was so jumped up on an excess of cortisol that my eyeballs were swimming in it. When I sneezed, cortisol came out. Most everybody else said very well-meaning things that suggested a good night or two of sleep would fix everything, or positive thinking, and I don't actually remember but they registered somewhere and I remember thinking, "are you fucking kidding me?" Sleep didn't do it. Nor positive thinking. Nor even prayer. Not at first. Not quickly, easily. There was no magic formula. Turns out, there never is. It was agony. Scaling a fourteener, with my teeth. It was hell. But then I do get better. Not back to where I was, but better. And I start to think, okay, this is going to happen. It does. Happen. That woman in the photo I posted on Sunday is real. She exists here in real time, on this planet. I know her. People recognize her. She is not a fake or a phantom. She listens to Rachmaninoff and picks pumpkins and laughs with her daughters and eats steak on her birthday and reads a book, thinking, "no, that's a bunch of hooey." She tells jokes and makes people laugh. Sometimes even on purpose. But. But. This is a jagged road. One does not cross easily to the other side. One day she's reading Jane Austen and the next, Sylvia Plath. The tunes that run through her head are often in a minor key. The trek is through wilderness. There are monkeys. There is a madness that descends from time to time and no amount of hoping and wishing and praying will make it disappear before its time. There is a wild, whirling tornado of depression that must be given room to thunder across the landscape. It happens. In seven years I've learned something very important about those wild times. I ride them out. Don't fight. Don't rant and wail and gnash my teeth. I rarely even feel sorry for myself. I go to ground and ride it out. It doesn't work to talk myself out of it because the thing is, there is no rationality about it, none at all. It comes out of the wind, this depression, and goes with the wind. I listen to Yo Yo Ma play the Bach cello suites and Glenn Gould move through the Goldberg variations. Perhaps their patterned precision and surpassing loveliness does more for me than the Cymbalta. If you think depression is something you can talk your way out of, read William Styron's short but strong book, Darkness Visible. If you think depression is just about being "down in the dumps," or disappointed because the day didn't turn out right, read this book. If you know someone who is depressed and they bug the hell out of you because you keep telling them to 'lighten up' and they don't, read this book, and, until you do, keep your mouth shut. A guy I know, Dave Cullen, has written a book, Columbine. It is about Columbine. That Columbine. It is a brilliant book about a dark topic. He has been out touring with it, talking to groups from Grand Rapids to Nashville and the O.C. It is depressing, to say the least. But,this is what he said today after the latest round, "enough people care." Enough people care. And that is enough. Care. That's all. Not fix. Not placate. Not beg, cajole, plead. But care. I'm here because enough people cared. waited, walked through the dangerous places that Pollyanna wouldn't dare dream to go. And we go on, we stupid, self-centered, lovely, goofy humans, we go on in spite of ourselves because, apparently, enough people care.