happies on the horizon

I have a Big Birthday coming up. Three weeks from tomorrow to be exact, so I've been doing a little prep in anticipation. This is the first birthday in a long time that I have had to rely on myself for pulling off a celebration. When I turned 30 I threw a big party in my back yard, inviting friends to come for a potluck with an international cuisine theme. It was great fun, in spite of being on crutches at the time.

I haven't figured out party plans for the day itself, but in thinking about how to fashion a celebration it turns out that there will be fun things happening all month long. Why limit the festivity to a single day? An interesting discovery is unfolding as a result--I'm planning things that I should be planning and doing anyway as a part of living. Well, dang! What a great by-product of having to fend for myself!

Here's what's on tap so far:

• Attending a book-launch event to celebrate the publication of Tom Ryan's second work, Will's Red Coat. Tom is the author of the inspiring and life-giving work Following Atticus. Both feature dogs as the hero, and the stories themselves are beautifully written testaments to what we can discover about ourselves, and life, when we pay attention. 
• A new dog is on the horizon! She's in Maine at the moment, and I will travel northward to pick her up, combining that trip with an overnight with an old college friend, a visit to a pottery studio I discovered via Facebook, a first-time "in real life" meeting with a Facebook friend, and a stop (I hope) at a botanical garden (photo). The latter is contingent upon working in a visit with a cousin in Boothbay Harbor.
  
• Volunteering to support the work of the Catherine Violet Hubbard Foundation and Animal Sanctuary in Newtown, CT. Catherine was one of the victims of the mass shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary, and her family has established the sanctuary as a living memorial to her. There is a week of opportunity to help restore an old barn on the property that will be used to house rescued and recovering animals.I'll be rolling up my sleeves to pitch in one day during that effort.
• Theater! With a former colleague from my IT days, I'm heading to the Big Apple to see the limited-run revival of Six Degrees of Separation, starring Allison Janney (and others, but she's the reason I wanted to see it). This started out as a reasonable splurge through an organization that provides discounted tickets to qualifying members. Thanks to the outstanding production of the show, however, award nominations are now attached and there are no more discounts. We decided to take the plunge and go broke. Tickets are ordered. Yes!
• Creating a fairy house. This will happen on the actual day at a local library. Shouldn't we all build fairy houses on our birthdays? Why did I wait so long?

Somewhere along the way I expect a proper party will fall into place--complete with cake (chocolate, of course). In the meantime I am excited about all the fun stuff on the horizon, and look forward to these myriad ways of experiencing delight. I need to make that a habit, birthdays notwithstanding.

jed's journal: epilogue

It didn't last.Yesterday I reached the difficult and sad decision to relinquish Jed back to the Foundation from which I adopted him. I am heartbroken, and grieving the possible life that might have been ours together under different circumstances.

It was a combination of factors. The neighborhood in which I live contains so many sounds and  "moving parts" that continually spooked him. After a garbage truck ground its various gears into action last week Jed was so freaked out that I practically had to carry him back to the house. This happened so close to home that what may have seemed like a safe place (around the house) ceased to be that. It took him three days to leave the safety of the front porch to walk after that. The wind battering loose siding made him jumpy, and garbage cans that lined the sidewalk were impediments. It became harder and harder to walk him without resistance, and my efforts to tug him along did not encourage trust. At home he began to avoid me, and any earlier bonding moments were obliterated.

I might have been able to work through the above challenge if I wasn't so out of my depth addressing his issues. His needs, in terms of understanding what he is going through and responding to his behavior adequately, were great. Although I had access to some help with this, the support wasn't timely or sufficient, and with every passing day it felt like I lost ground and faced an additional hurdle. I was drowning.

Finally, the context of my life at the moment is also problematic. It's not all bloggable, but what I can say is that there are few places where I feel supported and loved. I am emotionally depleted, and without adequate support and relationships to fuel and feed me, I didn't have much to give to Jed. The hope in adopting him was that we would nurture each other, but he was nowhere near being able to offer love or affection. The sadness of that imbalance, though not unexpected, proved difficult. 

When I decided to adopt him I thought I was up for the challenge. I thought that love, patience, and compassion would undergird the process of helping him heal and recover from his trauma. I was naive, and let my desire to be his hero blind me to the reality I faced. I have no confidence in my decision to bring him home, although I do believe I gave him what I could. It just wasn't enough for him, and proved wounding, in the process, for both of us.

I can't know what will come next for him and what the future will hold. I hope for the best for him. On those few occasions when he seemed open and trusting I experienced a gentle spirit and a sweet soul. I hope someone can lead him to a place where he feels free to release the genuineness of who he is. I hope we both emerge from our wounds victorious.

jed's journal: prologue

(published a day after writing)
So, I adopted a dog. I set out to adopt a senior dog, thinking that it would provide a home to a dog in need, and require a shorter duration commitment for us as a three-dog family again. Understandably, Ken would like to simplify our collective life, but I'm here and he's there for who-knows-how-long. So I decided to adopt a dog. My heart needs a dog.

The short version of the story is that I selected a senior at a local shelter via their web site. Put in my application, and made an appointment to go meet the ole' gal. We weren't a match. I visited with a total of four dogs that afternoon, and #4 turned out to be Jed, a Border Collie who had been abandoned, probably shot (he bears evidence of buckshot wounds), and left to fend for himself somewhere in North Carolina. I don't see myself as a special needs hero. Nope. But I have a soft spot for Border Collies, and Jed, well, instead of hiding under the table in the "meet and greet" room as he typically had with others before me, he backed himself up to sit on my legs where I had plopped on the floor. The shelter workers exchanged glances. "Looks like he's chosen you!" I brought Jed home.

He's skittish. Scared. Painfully shy. Happy to spend his day in his crate, safe from potentially threatening interaction. But once he emerges he follows me around and parks himself at my feet. Sometimes he takes sanctuary in a corner. He doesn't invite affection, but he accepts it without flinching. When we've gone for walks he alternates between convivial participation and active resistance. He won't take food from my hand, and his bowl has to placed in front of him--wherever he is--for him to eat. He's pooped and peed in his crate. In southern parlance, he's a mess.

Last night as I was offering my prayers after "lights out," I wondered if this was a good idea. I don't feel equipped for this kind of relationship, and I'm definitely not trained for it. In truth, with the long road of post-traumatic recovery he has ahead of him, Jed wasn't ready for adoption. He should have had more time for transition, healing, and training with a foster guardian. Under cover of darkness the option of returning him seemed viable. This is difficult work, and a new road for me. I was looking for comfort and love, and instead I bought in to a challenge. Am I making a poor choice, or rescuing both of us through this effort? In the dawning light of a snowy morning, it all seemed less daunting.

I've been reading about how to work with dogs in his circumstances, and the underlying criteria is patience. Patience is something I can do very well, but it helps to have realistic expectations as a framework in which to practice this virtue. Further, it is helpful to feel that progress is being made.

This morning I decided that a journal for Jed would be helpful. It can help me log his days, and make note of that cherished progress. It can help me feel reinforced in the decision to stick with him. It can be a way for his story to unfold on the record. So here we are. My goal isn't necessarily to publish this log, but it does help to write it through a means that is shared. Last night in the dark I felt very alone. Here, I feel companionship.

This is our second full day together. We are challenged by a blizzard, which makes getting outside exceedingly difficult (no cleared paths), and confounding for a dog that doesn't yet have established habits for using the great outdoors. In a way I was grateful that he'd relieved himself in the crate before dawn. Laundry is more manageable than hypervigilance over the course of the day as Jed adapts to freedom and a non-kennel structure. I am leaning into the wisdom of Tom Ryan, of Following Atticus fame, who practices the art of letting his dogs be who they are rather than asking them to conform to human notions of who a dog should be. With Jed I am endeavoring to do the same, letting him learn who he is, and sharing that with me as he is able, and willing. It will take a while, but of two things I am certain. I will do my best. And I will love him with everything I've got.

under scrutiny

After making a series of applications for assorted things recently, I have concluded that one of the things that afflicts all of us these days is the resulting discomfort of being under scrutiny. My experiences are minor: two job interviews probed my experience and sought to ferret out degrees of competence to measure against other candidates; an application for a store credit card passed judgment on my financial fitness; and the desire to adopt a dog meant questions for friends, landlords, and veterinarians about whether or not I would provide a good home for a canine in need. Less formally, members of my church evaluate regularly whether or not I am measuring up to their expectations, and colleagues and potential new friends size me up to see if there's space in their world and gladness in their heart for the likes of what I bring to the table. Add to that the glaring light of our own tendency to inspect and evaluate our personal strengths and shortcomings, and, well, we just can't escape being held up to one kind of standard or another.

Everywhere we look there is scrutiny: book reviews, entertainment awards, political actions and protests, the list goes on. Scrutiny is normal, and in many contexts not only important, but necessary. That said, frankly, I'm worn out by it all. What intrigues me about all of this is that none of it is new. Instead, it is now heightened. It appears to be a combination of safeguards against the possibility of abuse (which can run the gamut from a few bad choices to ill-intent)--adopting a dog used to be a matter of picking one out and taking it home, for instance--and a degree of self-protection against forces that leave us feeling anxious and, perhaps, vulnerable. Political rhetoric has gone from abrasive to toxic in some cases (too many), and the veneer of protection against the awareness of privilege experienced among Whites has been deeply gouged, exposing a raw and angry core of insecurity that manifests as fear. These are generalizations, of course, and there are always exceptions and examples of lives lived and acting out of strength and well-discerned advocacy for justice. The level of "noise" is what is different, and wearing. When we're fatigued we are susceptible to yielding to our shadows and deficits, and the best of who we are and what we have to offer becomes obscured. This is true for all people, those with hearts of gold and those who entertain themselves with thoughts of pettiness, or strive to find a foothold of power in the overcrowded corner of the world in which they live, and move, and have their being.

I have no profound observation about this, never mind techniques for coping and repelling the assaults against our noble efforts to be as authentic and genuine as possible in a time that, by its ugly nature, seems to obscure those efforts. I really just want to name what I see as a distorted phenomenon that doesn't serve us well at the moment. I want to be aware of the trap of thinking that this is normal and right. I want to caution myself against giving the experience of being under scrutiny too much power, when I need my energy for positive action and affirmation.

As a result of other, positive influences in my life these days I have turned a corner in my own practice of how I react to things that ruffle my feathers. I am learning to stop myself as I am tempted to take the path that unleashes my criticism ("What an idiot!" to the driver who dances from the fast lane across three veins of traffic to an exit ramp), and instead take a breath to help me redirect my energy toward being a blessing. The phrase, "Be a blessing" has become a new mantra, and it is working. 

So maybe I am developing a way to cope against the exhaustion of scrutiny. Better than that, however, is a newly forged discipline that is working successfully to build, support, and affirm in a climate where tearing down is all the rage (choice of words intentional). It's one way to love the world from where I live, and do my part to let go of scrutiny.

being change

There's a story going "viral" on social media about the commendable actions of a white police officer who pulled over a black teenager to caution him about texting while driving. The boy was frightened to be pulled over, and the officer only wanted to encourage him to drive safely. Said officer shared his story on Facebook, with this concluding paragraph:

I truly don't even care who's fault it is that young man was so scared to have a police officer at his window. Blame the media, blame bad cops, blame protestors, or Colin Kaepernick if you want. It doesn't matter to me who's to blame. I just wish somebody would fix it.

Did that paragraph make you blanch, as it did me?  Here's why I take issue with it, in the order by which the paragraph unfolds.

1. I'm truly sorry the officer doesn't care enough about the real issue people of color experience that has come to be known as "driving while black," to take the time to understand its genesis. I'm glad the officer was moved by compassion to want to act on behalf of the teen's safety. That is commendable, and it's a place to start. It's going to take more--a lot more--before that teen and others like him will ever feel safe behind the wheel, or on the streets. This was an act of compassion related to behavior. Still in need is empathy related to the experience of people of color, and understanding why white people with good hearts need to understand our complicity in systemic oppression, racism, and injustice. The film 13th is an excellent first step down that road.
2. Blame the media? Um, no. The media is bringing to light what has been kept hidden for generation after generation. It's uncomfortable, and it should be. It's shameful, which I hope is a catalyzing force for each of us to take a close look at how we understand privilege, come to terms with it, and begin the work to shift our attitudes and actions so that we become part of the solution. And yes, I'm guilty, too.
3. Blame protestors? Perhaps he meant by this that the protestors have drawn attention to the injustices of profiling and violence against people of color, and this new awareness has caused members of law enforcement to be mindful of its truth. Blaming protestors for shining a light on systemic wrongs doesn't hurt the victims. It does, however, make perpetrators of injustice uncomfortable, and usually defensive. I surely hope he didn't mean that protestors are responsible for promoting a false narrative. Nothing could be more false than that.
4. Blame Colin Kaepernick? Seriously? Again, CK's action of protest is to draw attention to the blindness of our society to its consistent perpetuation of injustices against people of color, and underscores the unwillingness of those who benefit from this rigged system to take responsibility for it and be accountable to correcting it. See the note above about protestors.
5. It doesn't matter who's to blame? I believe it does, not because I'm fond of blaming (I'm not), but because it is important to understand how we got here. That's the easy part, and I say that a bit tongue-in-cheek. Once we become informed we then have to sit with how that information makes us feel, and, God willing (and I believe God does, given that justice is a pretty big deal for the almighty), be changed by what we learn. Then it gets harder, because belief not translated to behavioral change or action is nothing more than an idea taking up space in our being. Even a good idea, independent of some demonstrable reflection, doesn't have much value. 
6. He wants somebody to fix it. How I read that? Somebody else do it, it's not my problem. Sigh.

I invite you to join me among the ranks of white allies trying to do better. Every day I see evidence of how much work there is to do in this arena, and it's daunting. There are so many struggles that beckon our time and energy, and we can't engage all of them. This is the one that owns my heart.

Let me say at the outset that I don't have the guide book for how to engage this work, I can simply share what I'm doing: reading, listening, watching, stumbling, and trying to learn. It's a transformation that is going to take the rest of my life, and I'm committed to it. Walk with me.

I referred to the film 13th. In two hours you will get your head filled and your heart challenged with mind-exploding and heart-expanding information. Let it work on you.

Read. There are lots of books available to help the transition from privileged white person to ally. And just a note as I look back on that sentence: if white, we will always be privileged. This journey is about living a life committed to reversing racism and intersectionality. This list on the RevGalBlogPal website is a great start.

Listen. We each have to find our own way to do that, but there are two distinct voices to whom I pay attention on facebook, and I commend following them. They are both ordained leaders. One is Traci Blackmon, a minister of the United Church of Christ in St. Louis, and woman of color, whose insights, compassion, honesty, and wisdom have helped me understand the many complicated layers of racism. The other is Mike Kinman, rector of All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena. Mike is a friend and colleague who does an extraordinary job of articulating how privilege manifests itself. By listening to him I am learning how to recognize privilege at work. This post is an example of that, and I hope it is helpful to others who want to walk this walk.

What's that saying, be the change we want to see in the world? I'm working on it.

another farewell

Yesterday I lifted Juliet into the car to drive to Waltham, Massachusettes--a suburb of Boston--where we had an appointment to discuss surgical options to address her cancerous tumors. The previous 36 hours had been rough for her: barely able to walk, no appetite, and collapsing hind legs had catalyzed a visit to our own vet the previous morning. A thorough exam didn't indicate anything of specific concern, though it did highlight some anemia. When Juliet clearly had not improved by yesterday morning the veterinary practice at Waltham--specialists, with emergency, 24-hour support--encouraged me to come anyway.

When we left the camper to go to the car, a collection of five turkeys greeted us. In the nearly three months that we have lived in the campground, the only wildlife I had seen were squirrels, chipmunks, and a lone turtle. The turkeys were a surprise, robust and clustered around the back of the car, turning their heads one direction, then another, as though trying to determine their path. On a whim I fished my phone out of my purse while they set out across the road, and took a couple of pictures.

The drive began in dawning light, and I was aware as we got underway of the continuing glow of sunlit color in the remaining leaves that still bore witness to the season on their tree-top perches. It was more color than I would have thought possible for early November, showcasing a darker, richer palette than the bright and showy leaves of early autumn. It struck me that what I was seeing were the elders of fall, the mature stands that remained after the young and energetic leaves had fled the scene, and I welcomed their companionship on this drive weighted by concern and a deepening dread.

The trip to Waltham, a little more than an hour without traffic, proved to be the last that Juliet and I would take together. Recognizing that her condition did not lend itself to a hopeful prognosis, I considered that she was manifesting a response to arthritic pain in her hips and back. I was not expecting the review of her vital signs to reveal an accelerated heartbeat, low blood pressure, or a fever. The moment I had been fearing was before me, and the decision to release her from difficulty and decline was necessary.

On my return home I was grateful for the reception on the radio of one of Boston's public radio stations that still plays classical music. The melodic strains were a balm for the raw grief that began in the vet's office, and continued to flow as I drove. I noticed again the color still clinging to the trees, and saw those mostly-tall sentinels as standing at attention, an honor guard to the life I had just bid farewell, and a show of respect for my loss. I remembered the turkeys, and marveled at their timely appearance, as though to escort Juliet from her earthly abode as she started her final journey as part of this life.

I write this not to chronicle these closing hours of her much-cherished life, but to acknowledge with deep gratitude the presence and comfort that the natural world offered to me on this saddest of mornings. Twenty-four hours later the sun has breached the horizon to bathe my surroundings with glorious light still caught in a few leaves. The sky is blue and the air is crisp. My pain cries out to these signs both of continuity and the shifting reality of all living things: that life begins, blooms, declines, and ceases. I am not expected to celebrate today, or tomorrow, though I can tip my hat to the beauty that surrounds me.

I am forcing myself to get out and walk the roads that I shared with Juliet. It hurts like hell that she is not with me. But these are our roads and our trees and our time together to celebrate the unique last months we shared together. It is what I have, and I will cherish it as a way to honor how much I cherished her.  Death reminds us of the fullness of life we experience, of the joy captured in our hearts, and the love that sings through our days. I feel it all to the marrow of my bones.

 

farewell, good and faithful friend

In my last post I made mention of some losses over the last year. These fall under a variety of categories, but there's one that cuts so deeply to the bone that I haven't been able to talk about it. It's time, though, in order to tend to my grief and help me navigate toward healing. 

What I have lost is a treasured and cherished place, Melrose. If you've known me any length of time you will know about Melrose primarily as a regular vacation and respite destination. But it was so much more than that.  Its history includes its use as a peach "plantation" by my great-grandfather (distaff side, for what it's worth) in the early years of the 20th century. The story goes that he purchased the property in the cooler hills across the Savannah River from Augusta, Georgia, to find relief from the oppressive, southern, summer heat in neighboring South Carolina. Peaches ensued, but eventually, as William Maltbie Rowland aged and his declining health limited his ability to manage the plantation, it settled into a state of neglect. 

 peaches ready to ship out

The Rowland women offer hospitality: that's my great-grandmother at the left, 

and my grandmother in the plaid skirt.

 

Oddly, there are no remnants of the orchards, and in time the native lob-lolly pine of the south took root and became a substantial tree farm that my grandmother managed. She spent roughly six weeks there each spring and fall, traveling from her home in Manhattan to do so. She made these trips in part to oversee what had become the business of the farm, but she likewise found renewed vitality for her spirit in a place that was home to her, and nurtured local and family relationships as an extension of the hospitality for which she was known. 

As a family we spent each spring vacation traveling to Melrose, so it holds distinct memories of a childhood full of climbing rocks, walking through the woods to a favorite swimming and picnic spot, gathering on the lawn to watch the sunset each night, and so much more. During college I managed two trips there on my own to visit my grandmother, and gradually, in adulthood, I claimed my own pattern of regular visits to connect with her, and to establish a bond with that place that has anchored me to the core of my being.

To be at Melrose was to pause time. Its amenities, in the physical sense, were practical and sufficient. The cottage wasn't insulated, so relief from the cold came from fireplaces in the living and dining rooms, and a handful of scattered space heaters. We added ceiling fans to two of the three bedrooms, the living room, and the front porch 10 years ago, and continued to draw on floor and window fans in an attempt to snag a share in whatever cool air might be found on a hot, South Carolina day or evening. Until the later 70's, perhaps even the early 80's, there was no phone service there, and until about the same time the water for use at the cottage was pumped from the ground (it was, at least, an electrical pump!). There was no television, and radio reception was spotty. Although this description sounds primitive, it never felt that way. Care was taken to keep the cottage maintained and hospitable. It was here that I learned how to use a paint brush--a vacation project that tapped into a team of volunteer laborers--to prune trees, bushes and shrubs, recognize bird calls, and make pancakes.  It was here that we spent hours around the dinner table feasting on each others company, playing games, or sitting before a roaring fire on a damp day working jigsaw puzzles.

When various projects didn't beckon, time was spent on the front porch reading, conversing, working crossword puzzles (my particular favorite past time) or simply staring across the front lawn toward the Georgia hills to the west.  There was a hammock in which to stretch out and sway, or a glider for matching the rhythm of the breeze that danced up the lawn. There were walks down old roads to former tenant farmer homes, or what was left of them, or to streams that found their source in springs farther up a hill. There was time, and breath, and the unbearable luxury of letting the gentle magic of nature seep into your pores and keep company with whatever joy or heartbreak arrived with you when you pulled into the drive. At Melrose there really weren't any distractions to lead you away from yourself, or escape pesky concerns. Instead, the time and space to sit with your life brought the opportunity to find clarity of perspective, acceptance away from judgment, and an assurance that whatever woes afflicted one's life, the serenity of this place acted as a balm against the assaults of the world. Its beauty was two-fold: that which was natural, and the way it loved you so fiercely when you came to be in its presence.

Once I moved to Tennessee in 1999 the proximity of Melrose made it possible to make visits there twice a year, as my mother began to do in her retirement, following the pattern of her mother before her. By then my grandmother had died, leaving Melrose's acreage physically divided between Mom and her two nephews. As a way to protect this legacy from the jaws of crushing taxes down the road we established a family partnership, so that in time my brothers and I essentially owned the property as general partners, and Mom managed it. 

I was the only one of my siblings to maintain an attachment to Melrose. After we interred my grandmother's ashes there in a special garden bed, my younger brother and his wife visited once. My older brother and his family came a few times when my nephew was young, but Jesse, soon to be 26, was 14 the last time they were there. As a family we held a collective commitment to practice good stewardship of the gift that was Melrose, both environmentally and financially, with a primary goal being to draw on this asset, as needed, to support my mother's quality of life. It was this latter factor that drove an earlier-than-anticipated decision last year to sell the property.

Through tears I made every possible appeal to find a way to leverage the value of what we owned without having to lose it. Perhaps startled by so much emotion, one brother asked me if I could describe my feelings about parting with what to me was more than a cherished legacy. "Sure," I told him, "it's like a death." And so it has been.

In March an offer to purchase the property came that we decided as a family to accept. In April Ken and I spent the equivalent of a week packing, sorting, and dispersing the contents of the cottage, trying in between phases of emptying cupboards to enjoy this final opportunity to sit on the porch and drink in the view that transcends time and space. It was during one of those last stretches of fixing the view into my memory that I stopped to consider the durability of the physical place that had housed family gatherings and provided a retreat for friends here and there as a getaway.  There is no denying the emotional and psychological benefit of having a place of continuity in life. Melrose had been that for me and for my family. Yet as I looked at the posts reaching between porch railing and roof beams, I saw them suddenly as a standard-bearer of faithfulness. They were always there, greeting us on arrival and bidding us farewell when it was time to load the car and depart. Sentries, if you will, of stability and endurance, and part and parcel of the experience of welcome and acceptance that characterized the heart and soul of what this place had been for me. It is a place that never failed me, but simply let me be, and for that my heart will forever be grateful. 

A few days ago I recalled that experience of acknowledging the witness born by the cottage through the years, and an epiphany followed. That place that I loved, and that loved me in return, is still there. It continues to love me from afar, to rejoice in the time when our lives intersected and our spirits danced together. It remembers my tears and my anguish and rejoices in a heart overflowing with gladness for its very existence. Our connection can never be erased, nor can the power of its beauty ever be extinguished. 

I continue to mourn the loss of this beloved, and will for some time. As I move into a future that doesn't include its real presence, I will treasure the sunbeams it left in my heart. I will find comfort in the knowledge that its springs continue to nourish the earth and fill the river, that its branches offer a landing for the hawks and the wrens, and that the deer and the turkey find refuge in the glens and the broad spaces that make up the tracts of what was our land. I will imagine the rain on the roof and the the light gleaming through the wisteria leaves on the arbor that shaded the porch. Perhaps most importantly, I will draw on the strength within that was nurtured by the peace and beauty of this extraordinary place, and thus honor the legacy that was my privilege to enjoy and love.

it's a hard knock life

There's a reason I don't post here as frequently as I used to. Sure, Facebook offers a quick and dirty means of sharing salient and silly slices of life, and the ease of that forum has contributed to less frequent appearances here. But the fact is that, over the last five or so years, life has simply been hard. Not just challenging, but gut-punching hard. What has felt like a never-ending assault on my efforts to stand upright and propel myself into a forward-leaning direction has drained me. Though my self-confidence hasn't evaporated it has certainly sought refuge in a place tucked safely away from further injury. The experiences that have led to its removal from the line of fire have also contributed to a soul-piercing isolation. As an introvert I can handle a lot of solitude, but the lack of a sustaining community to which I could turn for relief or solace has simply not existed. Where once I had a robust circle of friends with whom I felt connected there are now a mere handful of souls with whom I feel it is safe to entrust my heart. 

As well, some things simply can't be shared here. Public pages have their limits, and a blog is an inappropriate place to rage against some of the people whose words and deeds are sources of deep pain. Through difficult times hope has been my most faithful companion, but the persistence of difficulty has taken a toll on that relationship, too. God? Let's just say, "it's complicated."

I have not wanted to bring any of this here, to weigh down with woe and heartbreak a place that is intended to be a source of creativity for me and connection with others. But I can no longer afford to be absent from this place of self-expression and sharing.  I need to be able to grieve the losses that have collected, and wonder aloud about the mysteries that get stuck in the crevices of my days. It is critical, as I experience a dearth of community, that I make myself available to find new connections and rekindle old passions. To take the risk of discovering how ignorant I might be as I pick up the shovel to dig into and out of my complicity in the perpetuation of racism. To honor my own peculiar nature even as I come to terms with the deficits in my character that inhibit a fuller life. 

My struggles aren't unique to me. One of the things I have learned through sharing my life and my foibles here over the years is that others sometimes recognize the tune that becomes recognizable between the lines. In the way that music has the power to unite, that place of recognition serves to connect. And connection, after all, is why I started this blog in the first place. 

I need to be here. I need to write, to let what is within flow without. And I need you. There. I've said it. To the extent that you want to be here, you are quite welcome to join the effort to muddle through. My hope (still here) is that renewal will take place, that transformation will occur, and that redemption will lead me into a thriving life. If that sounds like a tribe with which you want to link your arms, your mind, and your heart, I'm blessed to have your company.

cracking white open

I had a Come to Jesus Meeting the other day. It was one of those stop-dead-in-my-tracks kind of epiphanies that felt more like a gut-punch than an, "oh, now I get it," revelation. Sobering, humbling, disturbing, convicting. 

It began the day after five police officers were shot in Dallas, which in turn followed the shootings of Philando Castile in Minnesota, and Alton Sterling in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I am essentially without television these days, so social media (Facebook) is my exposure to what is happening in the world, and in turn my exposure to the reactions to those events as they appear in my news feed.  Rest assured it's not just memes. I follow or read the shared links by others to news sources that I trust to report accurately, and other posts that help me read more widely and probe more deeply.

The political views of my friends and acquaintances on fb cover the spectrum from waayyy to the left, to waayyy to the right. I read the outcry from BLM communities and supporters, and see the Blue Lives Matter posts, too. Related to the latter, I was also seeing posts the day after the Dallas shootings depicting an outpouring of support to law enforcement: pizzas and cookies, hugs and selfies with local police officers, stories of compassion and more about our men and women in blue. I got it. Celebrate the good they do and acknowledge the sacrifices they make. Show the love. We've got your six. What was missing from my feed was any sort of demonstrated support to people of color. 

I was roused from my reflection about this by the sound of a crowd chanting nearby in the neighborhood. I wondered if it was a protest march, since we're not far from the state capitol. It soon became apparent, however, that the gathering was stationery, and I decided to go take a look. 

I went out the front door, noting a couple of police cars parked across from the house and a handful of uniformed officers standing on the sidewalk. I then ventured down the street to the corner where I could see, across the street and up about half a block, a group of people marching in a circle, carrying signs, and being rallied by someone with a bull horn. The words on the signs seemed to indicate an issue related to health care. I wondered about the presence of the police, but imagined that it was related to safety after the events of the week. I turned to head back to the house, and just as I was about to pivot up the steps leading to the house, I felt compelled to go speak to the policemen across the way. Black lives matter to me, and so do blue ones. 

I approached them with a smile and said hello, acknowledged that it had been a tough week, and let them know I was thinking of them. They appreciated the thought. We chatted briefly about the gathering drawing our attention, and I learned that the group was in violation of a noise ordinance. Bullhorn. A little bit of small talk followed, then I waved a farewell and returned to the house. 

While I had been talking to the policemen a woman who lives up the street passed by on the sidewalk. She was Black. I felt awkward. I wondered how she perceived what she saw, and the absence of support to the Black community in my Facebook feed gnawed at me. It's easy to show up to the local precinct with a plate of cookies, but where do you show up for the Black community? I could bake cookies for the kids who play in the park every day, and who get excited when Juliet comes through on her walk. Seriously, though. Cookies? To say I'm sorry for and lament the racism that plagues your life and runs like a toxic stream through our society? Cookies?

For the next few days I stewed about this, feeling utterly helpless to make a difference in stemming and reversing the tide of racism. As more and more of my Facebook page pushed back against the increasing presence of the BLM movement in communities across the country, denying white privilege and asserting All Lives Matter in retort, the truth of my own racism sank like a stone into the depth of my being. It isn't enough to understand how racism permeates our institutions and perpetuates prejudice and injustice. It isn't enough to see the statistics about minority crime and incarceration and know that the context for interpreting them is absent from public discourse. It isn't enough to live in neighborhood where whites are a minority.  My open mind and inclusive heart aren't enough, and the reality that I am part of the problem cuts through me like a knife. I thought I knew about white privilege. Instead I am the face of it.

I feel powerless in the face of this overwhelming sin from which I benefit, and as difficult as it is, it is nothing compared to the powerlessness that people of color feel and face every day. Because of my privilege, I stand a chance to rise above the feeling of powerlessness with relative ease. It's one of the ways that the system can work for me to help dismantle the system that works against others. That is how it starts. Use the tools available to me. Work with what I've got. Step in and do my part. And grasp the reality that my brothers and sisters of color know a whole lot more than I do about the meaning and power of love, forgiveness, and grace. 

I've come to Jesus. I've got such a long way to go.

This post on another blog also addresses this topic in a way that might be helpful if you are struggling with this same issue.

those were the days

I had dinner the other night with an old high school friend. Connected intermittently through the faith community of our childhood, our paths intersected again in high school, where we developed a deeper bond of friendship our sophomore year. In spite of being thick as thieves in high school we lost touch after I went to college out of state, and where I continued to live for a couple of years more before moving back home.  Meeting up again now, 40 +/- years later, we returned easily to conversation and that magical place of knowing that is an undefinable quality of friendship.

Through Marilyn I met the guy who would become my first boyfriend, and I landed my first job, as a sales clerk at Mayron's Bakery. Mayron's was a bit of a fixture in the local Jewish community, and Mayron himself staked a larger claim to fame by creating the birthday cake for President Kennedy's 44th birthday celebration, an occasion that required closing the bakery for two weeks while the equivalent of five layers of pound cakes were baked and assembled before being shipped off to Washington in an armored car. To be accurate, it wasn't Mayron who did all the work--it was his baker, but Mayron gets the credit. You know how that goes...

In many ways it was the best. job. ever. Mayron's offered a typical range of baked goods: breads, bagels and rolls, danish and coffee cakes, cakes, cookies, and other sweets. There were, additionally, more typically Jewish foods, like challah (the best bread in the world), hamantaschen, rugelach, and a rolled pastry loaf whose name I can't recall.  Our store was one of three or four owned by Mayron, tucked into a strip mall anchored at one end by a grocery store, and the other by Sears. It was open seven days a week, because people like their bread to be fresh.

Marilyn and her sister Martha worked at Mayron's, which is how I found my way there. The shop was managed by a woman named Stella, who at 60+ years of age wore a wig of gray hair more befitting her age than the jet black hair that continued to grow from her head. At least that is what she always told us. Stella loved her soap operas. Her day began at 6 so that she was there when the delivery truck arrived with its load of fresh baked yumminess, then she was gone at 1:00 so she could get home to watch her stories. Her husband had died some years previously, and though she had a regular guy in her life who treated her like a queen, she wouldn't marry him because The Church had taught her that you only marry once in life. That was her story, and she was sticking to it. At the time it seemed a rather sweet, if narrow interpretation of What The Church Says, but upon more recent reflection I think she knew exactly what she was doing by remaining single.

Stella's daughter, Marianne, also worked at Mayron's, and I remember her lovely blond hair swept back away from her face and pinned up in the back to stay out of the way of bakery chores. Two other employees rounded out the crew: Maura, a Nice Catholic Girl (her own description), and Joan, a free spirit Jewish girl who was so short that she was always trying out the latest platform heels as a way to ease into the stratosphere of taller people. I can still hear her laugh, and picture her dancing behind the counter to the radio when there weren't any customers in the store. She called Mayron "Ruby," because he had dyed his hair red, and she was fond of being irreverent about our ultimate boss, who was about as short as she was.  On pay day "Ruby" would come to the store, take cash out of the register, and divide it into manila envelopes with each of our names written on the outside with the amount owed to us contained within. The envelopes then went into a safe, and Stella would deliver each one to its intended recipient. I'll bet Mayron's bookkeeper loved this method of disbursing payroll. Not!

I had great relationships with my co-workers, and adored them tremendously. Though working part time, we found time to share our lives, our struggles, our hopes and our dreams between waiting on customers, consolidating trays of food as the inventory sold and the volume reduced, and keeping the store clean and presentable. We wore blue smocks, a uniform that identified us as employees, and kept our clothes clean from the likes of frosting from cakes and brownies, and the powdered sugar that was kept on hand for the donuts. Jelly and some cake donuts came to the store plain, and if a customer wanted them powdered, we popped them into a bag, added some powdered sugar, folded the top of the bag over a few times and shook with all our might. Voila! I'll be you never thought about how powdered donuts got that way. Now you know! I also learned that the secret to writing on a cake is to do so while it is frozen. We kept several cakes in a freezer at the shop, offering choices of cake (yellow, chocolate, or marble), and colors of flowers and piping on the top. When a customer purchased one we took it out of the freezer, wrote the greeting in the corresponding color, boxed it up and sent it on its way. Cakes thaw in a relatively short period of time, though usually orders were called in ahead of time so that we could ensure a thawed cake, or the main bakery would send one with the particulars already inscribed.

Mayron's was a wonderful introduction to the responsibilities of being a paid employee. At the end of a shift we took turns sweeping the floor, cleaning the glass of the food cabinets and the door into the shop, and washing the food trays that had collected bits of jam, frosting, or crumbs in the course of their utilitiy. We took turns calling special orders into the main store, and notifying customers that their order was ready for pickup. We prepared boxes of food specially ordered so that when a customer came in their order was ready and their needs were met. We assembled boxes so that cakes, coffee cakes, and larger orders could be added to them and secured to be sent home. It wasn't a demanding job, but it required attention, and we had each other for support and laughter, and occasionally, tears.

It was the best of times. And in spite of snacking on brownies and such whenever I wanted, I managed to lose weight. Ah, the metabolism of a teenager. It was a great way to launch into the "real world." It was the best.

blinded by the light

I haven't been in the habit of reading much in recent years. It seems that vacation idling, when the routines of daily life at home are replaced by new a environment and fewer demands, provides the best opportunity for me to fall into the pages of a story or idea. That, or plane travel--captive soul, and all. But I don't fly much.

Now that I'm in a new environment for an extended period, and my days lack routine beyond dog-walking and a few other necessary tasks, reading ought to jump to the fore of how I pass my time. Perhaps soon. I'm still in the process of settling in to a new life, and I don't quite feel the ease of indulging in leisure. 

As it happens, I brought just one book with me on Phase One of The Move, Barbara Brown Taylor's Learning to Walk in the Dark. It was recommended to me by a friend, who in turn loaned it to me. At the time I was hungry to find the resonance in its pages that my friend assured me was there, so I managed to find some time to start it, and then take it along on an expected trip via air travel. My friend was right. Time now to read the last chapters.

Learning to Walk... is a rich offering that I savor as I turn its pages. Through personal stories and reflection Taylor affirms the value of darkness as a companion in life, especially as a spiritual teacher and bestower of unique gifts. Having grown up in a tradition where Light is the primary metaphor for the presence of the divine (the inner Light, holding one in the Light...), and having loved Light as a grounding experience in my own faith journey, I found myself jolted out of the complacency that the "quest" for union with the divine, and spiritual or personal wholeness is found by focusing on the Light. 

My preference for Light shows up in hymns (I want to walk as a child of the light), in poetry ("I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year, give me a light that I may find my way in the darkness..."), in photography, and on and on. All of a sudden, through Taylor's writing I am experiencing Light and Darkness not as opposites that serve as object lessons of good versus less good (evil, if you want to go there), but as necessary partners that together expose the beauty of the created order and the extraordinary diversity of that order (sometimes chaos!). Together Light and Darkness have the capacity to elicit from all its creatures the fullness of who we are and who we can be. Learning to Walk... serves to remind me that the blinders that we think protect us from the shadows instead reveal that shadows have as much to teach us as the Light by which they are cast. 

This is an extraordinarily thought-provoking work, and I cannot commend it highly enough.

facing what lies within

I remember, years ago, attending a talk given by the Rt. Rev. John Shelby Spong, the Episcopal Bishop of Newark. Now retired, in his active years in ministry Bishop Spong seemed best known for the controversies that surrounded the frankness with which he discussed matters of doubt in the life of faith. He was thoughtful and articulate, and as I recall him telling the audience, his aim was not to espouse what was considered by some to be heresy, but to share every aspect of his faith, including his questions about foundational doctrine, as a way to encourage others to be willing to do the same.

I don't remember the content of his talk that day (I don't really need to, I bought a book and a video to which I can refer), but one thing he said took root for me. He talked about growing up in the south, and the inner work involved in the transformation to overcome racist teachings and beliefs that pervaded his community and the environment in which he lived, worked, and learned. He was white, male, and educationally and economically privileged, and the layers of institutional racism that was the lifeblood of the south took time to peel and discard. It spite of coming to see and advocate against institutional racism, and to spend years seeking justice for persons and communities who suffered as a result of it, Spong confessed that he still had to fight the deeply ingrained teachings from his youth that continued to live subconsciously within him. 

In my first, "real" job as an adult, I was fortunate to work as a program director for a local YWCA. I say fortunate because the national staff and Board of the YW worked hard to train and educate affiliate staff regarding its One Imperative: the elimination of racism wherever it is exists, and by any means necessary (the latter phrase always raised eyebrows, so in case yours just went up, it needs to be understood that "by any means necessary" was grounded in the context of the Mission of the YWCA*). Boiled down, the YW defined racism as the result of power + privilege--in my mind I can still see those words written on a pad of newsprint, propped on an easel. 

The training provided by the YW served to strengthen and solidify the belief system of openness and inclusivity with which I was raised, and that was supported further by the educational environment of a Quaker college.  It gave me a specific foundation for understanding the nature, impact, and consequences of racism. My personality type doesn't lend itself easily to activism, but my time working for the YW served to fortify my desire, at least, to live in whatever way I could as the prophet Micah called his people to do: seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God. In spite of the blessing that was my upbringing, the benefit of the education and training received from the YW, and my commitment to recognizing and valuing the dignity of every human being, this week I came to understand afresh the confession shared so long ago by John Shelby Spong: the work to overcome the existence of racism within is an ongoing battle.

The mundane nature of the incident that sparked my thoughts underscores how ever-present the menace of racism is, and how easily it can grow if left unchecked by other means. At the end of my dead-end street is a park, frequented by many who live in my neighborhood, which is predominantly Hispanic and African-American. The park has large trash barrels placed near benches that line a circular walkway that winds around a play area. By and large these barrels are used, but nearly every time I walk through the park I find myself picking up trash and depositing it in the nearest barrel. From the perspective of privilege I wonder why my neighbors don't care about disposing of their trash, but another part of me understands why, and knows better than to wonder, or judge. 

Earlier this week, I saw a young Latino man make his way to one of the barrels and throw away his trash. The thought entered my mind to affirm the behavior and thank him for doing so, and then it hit me that this response was nothing but racism at work. How do I know? Because it would never have occurred to me to thank someone who is White for disposing of their trash. What was revealed to me was that I held an expectation of behavior based on ethnicity (and contextually, fed by the demographic of the neighborhood). Shame on me. 

I can't say that a year ago I would have had a similar response to witnessing the disposal of trash in a city park. I can't say, because a year ago my senses hadn't been saturated with the rhetoric which has come to characterize the expressions of fear from citizens across a variety of spectrums of life in this country. Whether from the lips of a political candidate to the cheers of his supporters, or the fists that make contact as a response to the engorging anger that has been let loose, fear undergirds it all. It's not that I believe those words or condone the actions in any conscious way, but the power of institutionalized racism, or any -ism, is such that it subliminally affects how one may think or act. I'm not afraid of people who look, think, or believe differently than I do. I am afraid of not taking seriously enough the damage being wrought in a climate where hate is acceptable, and disregard for others has become the normative public face of who the citizens of this country are. We cannot, at any level, turn away from what is ugly if for no other reason than to keep the fight alive within, so that it may be effective without.

It is a small thing to worry about trash making its way to a barrel. To ignore my response, however, has implications that I don't want to imagine.

*For many years, this was the historic mission of the YWCA: Young Women’s Christian Association of the United States of America, a movement rooted in the Christian faith as known in Jesus and nourished by the resources of that faith, seeks to respond to the barrier-breaking love of God in this day. The Association draws together into responsible membership women and girls of diverse experiences and faiths, that their lives may be open to new understanding and deeper relationships, and that together they may join in the struggle for peace and justice, freedom and dignity for all people.

chasuble selfie

big gulp: change is in gear

Did I mention that I was moving? To Connecticut. From Tennessee.

The lapse in writing here has meant that shifts in the landscapes of my life--internal and external--have taken place without the usual signposts along the way that would point this new direction. I guess you could say that a hefty dose of vulnerability was at stake, and caution was the order of the season. Such was the nature of this phase of my life.

That said, there are two motivating factors underlying this move. The first is that my mother had a stroke last fall, and the desire to be nearer to her raised its head in a pressing way. Second, I needed to find more substantive work than what I was enjoying.

I took advantage of a visit to my mother in Connecticut following her stroke to call on the good people at the office of the Episcopal Church in Connecticut (the bishop has chosen to eschew the denominational label "diocese," since he believes that a cumbersome word like diocese serves as a barrier, rather than a bridge, to those who are unfamiliar with the likes of us 'piscies). "There's work here!" I was told, and thus the process of determining what that work might be got underway. In the broad scheme of things it was really as simple as that.

After 21 years spent living in two other states, this is a homecoming for me. Except for the year I spent as a California blond at the tender age of two, Connecticut was home for early and formative years, as well as some "refining" spells in a certain stage of adulthood. As with all places, changes have occurred over time, but much is the same.

This is a phased transition. The simplest explanation is that our house in Tennessee needs some work before it can be put on the market, so Ken stayed behind to tackle that effort while I ventured east with my oldest dog, Juliet, to begin work. We're in temporary quarters, Juliet and I, lodged in a third floor apartment of sorts in an older home in Hartford. As it happens, we're just about a mile from where I bought my first house, so the area is familiar. The immediate neighborhood is charming, ethnically and economically mixed, and full of activity. We're just blocks from the state capitol, the state library and archives, and other downtown treasures are within easy reach. In these early days of settling in, the location of Dunkin' Donuts, three short blocks away, has proven a godsend. I have my priorities!

There are an assortment of layers to this move: location, vocation, family, community, reconnection, and reclamation top the list. In the coming days there is plenty to say about all of it, but for now it's enough to say that I have arrived. Indeed, I have arrived.

reverend anne goes to washington

I keep deferring writing this post because I fear its length. Ha! Who, me? Run-on sentences? Verbiage? Turn of phrase? Let's just get to it. And don't be put off by its length. It's a decent story and includes some fun stuff. And you'll get to meet Cassie, my sometimes-traveling companion and sheep mascot (that's her in the picture to the right--she worked really hard to stay upright in this picture, taken on a very windy day).

November, 2014. Washington, DC. I joined 400+ citizen advocates from around the country at Quaker Lobby Day, hosted by Friends Committee on National Legislation (FCNL), the Quaker lobby arm of that faith tradition. The focus of Lobby Day on that occasion? The power of diplomacy on the Iran nuclear deal.

I was there as a sort of delegate as a resident of the state of Tennessee, and had been specifically asked to come because I am clergy. I say "sort of" because we weren't there in any official capacity, just volunteers who cared about diplomacy, but by virtue of our residency in the state we formed a kind of delegation. Team Tennessee had a critical role to play, as one of our senators chairs the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations.

When I first got the email inviting me to participate in this event I thought, "Lord, except that I value diplomacy, I am the last person qualified to talk to a politician on this subject." (Let me mention that I grew up in the Quaker tradition, and embrace fully the spiritual and theological grounding that distinguishes that group.) I try to keep up with what is happening in the political realm, and am a much better informed citizen in mid-life than I ever was in my early days, but things nuclear--and often things scientific or technological--don't my grasp of them doesn't really register on the Richter Scale.  It seemed somehow fraudulent to consider taking part in an effort about which I couldn't even begin to hold my own. I was assured that this would not be an issue. Still...

In the end I said yes because it was an extraordinary opportunity to take part in something that would not likely fall my way again. There was grant money to pay my way there, and I had friends in the area with whom I could stay to minimize burdening the grant pool further. This seemed a rational compromise to accepting the invitation, and doing my part to live up to the confidence being placed in me to attend. It didn't hurt that I knew the Executive Director of FCNL, who upon greeting me when I arrived immediately embraced my presence with encouragement and gratitude.

Day one. I barely had time to grab some coffee and sit in on the first presentation of the day before it was time to hustle over to Capitol Hill for the scheduled appointment with my congresswoman. The FCNL staff had worked hard to arrange a time when I could actually meet with my Rep, rather than one of her staff. They had also secured another citizen advocate  who could "speak nuclear" to join me that morning. It turned out I was a quick study on the mechanics of lobbying, and I felt I could manage the process part of the meeting while my colleague addressed the details of policy and what was at stake regarding the specifics of the deal being advocated.

When he bids farewell to people, Canon Andrew White, the Anglican priest known better as The Vicar of Baghdad, makes a point of saying, "Don't take care--take risks!" During this first meeting, which ended up being taken by an aide in the waiting area of my representative's office for a mere ten minutes, I'm afraid I leaned more into taking care than taking risks. Given that this was my inaugural effort at being a citizen advocate I don't feel terrible about this, but I was disappointed that the encounter didn't inspire confidence in this aspect of the political process: you know, a meeting between a representative and constituent to hear what's on her mind so that said legislator might actually represent me. (I was under no illusion that my congresswoman would do any such thing--we are polar opposites, politically, and she has demonstrated repeatedly that she is deaf to anyone who doesn't agree with her.)

The good news is that things went better after this. After taking a moment to duck into the Library of Congress to see the Magna Carta in the flesh ---> (it was on tour), I grabbed some lunch and headed back to Lobby Central to meet the other members of Team Tennessee. We did some role-playing--something I usually loathe, but in this case found very  helpful--and discovered that each of us (ten, in all) could play to our strengths and be an effective body of advocates. It was a treat to be among such bright, delightful, and interesting people. 

Oh, and another delightful person was there, sitting down the row from me during an afternoon session--actress Judith Light. As we were waiting for the program to begin she scooted past me out of the row to converse briefly with another advocate. When she came back to return to her seat I blurted out, "Can I just tell you that I love you?" She paused and smiled widely, responding with, "Awwwwwwe, thank you!" It was a big moment for me.

picture courtesy of the FCNL facebook page.

Day morphed into dinner time, and afterward a talk by activist and author Parker Palmer, <--- who shared material from his book Healing the Heart of Democracy. Cassie was particularly enthused to meet Parker and have him autograph the copy of the book she suggested I buy.

After the book-signing it was time to head to the Metro and get back to Virginia. On my way to the station I passed several homeless people, one of whom engaged me in conversation. I wanted to help by giving him some cash, but only had a couple of $20's in my wallet. I decided to indulge and give him one, and he was beyond delighted. He stared at the bill in his hand, looked at me, and breaking into a broad grin began to sing, "I wish you a Merry Christmas..." So worth the $20.

Day two. The best day, the Library of  Congress and the view of the Magna Carta the previous day notwithstanding. Team Tennessee gathered over coffee in the cafeteria of the Senate building before heading up for our appointment with Sen. Bob Corker's foreign affairs aide.  We expected 30 minutes of his time, but our conversation lasted an hour. I remember several things distinctly from this meeting, one of which I think is really important to share.  Mike (the aide) made a point to tell us how grateful he was that we were there to share our views, and he communicated to us the value of such meetings to the senator.  He told us that the senators really do want to hear from their constituents. The extreme voices, while their opinions are noted, are more or less tuned out. But it mattered to this senator (and others, I believe) to hear the thoughtfully articulated views of the people he represented. We were also told that our own goals for the Iran nuclear deal, focusing on the value of diplomacy to prevent Iran from developing nuclear weapons, were not far from the goals of our senator. So much of what gets released to the press, or reported by them, are statements of posturing, and not by any means a clear indication of the full and nuanced thinking that is taking place behind closed doors.  

On a more personal note, another thing that I remember is that I found my voice. Or rather, I discovered that I had something to contribute to this conversation. My role wasn't to talk about the content of the nuclear deal, it was to emphasize Senator Corker's opportunity to work diplomatically to achieve a peaceful solution to the mutual goals of Iran and the United States.  It was one of those times when I felt that the words, though they came from my mouth, were inspired by greater wisdom than what I had available to me when I got up that morning. I attribute such occasions to the work of the Holy Spirit, and I'm good with that.

Team Tennessee

After a brief break we met with an aide for Sen. Lamar Alexander, but the real joy had already been experienced, and the high from that hour would last for days.

The experience of being a citizen advocate isn't one I would ever have thought to put on my bucket list. I consider myself politically active, but I am a person most comfortable working behind the scenes organizing an event or working on graphics to promote the work with which I am involved.  As an intuitive introvert I have difficulty laying out an argument and drawing facts and scenarios from the pool of information that resides somewhere within my brain. I'm better suited to "behind the scenes." That said, there are moments when the right opportunity presents itself to discover another side of me, to reach through the logjam of data into the core of who I am and what I believe to express those very things. This was such a time.  I am forever grateful that it now stands as a line on my resume.

Oh, and it led to one other opportunity: being part of a conference call with the President of the United States related to the Iran nuclear deal. Yeah, baby. Yeah.