Content

I feel it emerging.

I know it will be fleeting.

I wish I could capture it,

and savor it,

and keep it for the next time

when I really need it;

Contentment.

Fruition…

“There is a freshness to the air, this morning….” These words began an email from a friend, whose status as an Irish expatriate rendered him unable to vote, but no less concerned with the outcome.

Our daily wake-up call, and the question I was eager to answer, greeted as expected, by juvenile shouts of joy. And his exuberance; as he detailed his plans to enlighten his middle-school friends with, “I told you so…” The image of a visage, flush with responsibility prompted my cautionary tone, as I encouraged my son to enjoy the victory quietly and gracefully, with a sense of community.

And, the ensuing, excited text message, “My bus-driver is mad. The kids are yelling “Obama”, but I didn’t do it. She says we can’t talk until Tuesday.” And, my answer, “Thank you, honey. I love you.”

The sob-clouded voice of a local radio DJ, openly wearing the label “Lesbian” in hopes that others like her will find un-closeted comfort, describing her reaction to his words of inclusion;

“It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled.”

A friend’s exuberant voice over my headset, as he describes a recent conversation, fraught with “pregnant pauses”, with his McCain-supporting brother, and the grace he was proud to offer.

The long-legged stride into my office, by a Republican hard-liner wearing a forced smile above his alligator-embossed shirt, and his cheery “Congratulations!”. And, as I swivel, my response;

“And, to you, too!”

“Oh, you mean the senatorial race…”

“No! I mean, you are an American, too. This is a great day for all Americans!”

And, an email from a Dutch friend, followed by a message from a German friend:

“Indeed it is true: in the USA fairy tales can come to reality!
We watched our TV during this night and early morning: of course CNN, but also 2 of our Dutch stations had a full-covering 9 (!) hours programme of the results of your election (what illustrates that not only “the Americans” were interested in the outcome).
We are so happy with the clear outcome: it will be Obama for the next 4 years. No doubtful 49.5 % versus 50.5 % but a huge non-arguable victory for Obama!
We sincerely hope, that he (and his administration) will soon get the opportuinity to show that he (they) can do better than your today’s president. Not only for the benifit of your country, but also for the other “inhabitants” of our world.”

“Hi, thaaank you for this mail after talking with us. You know me thinking like you! – and one of these days I will come over to meet you, so stay healthy and in good condition, so are my wishes for you. We got up this morning at 4 am to bring Marlen to the airport sur looking to the TV to see that B. Obama made it – that made us lucky and happy. This will be very important for your country and the relationship again between USA and Germany! (that`s what I want to come up again after these long 8 last years.) Marlen should be between GB and your continent, we two tried not to be sad like all these times but like ever we didn`t really made it.”

And, the artificially-cooled memory of watching, with interest, an aged black man, whose love for my father thwarted a punishing sun, as he withdrew remnants of the previous night’s dinner from a grease-stained brown paper sack while he perched on our back stoop.

And, Kathy. As integration creeped slowly into the deep south, we were bussed across town to a new elementary school. Kathy had skin the color of creamed coffee surrounding snapping dark chocolate eyes. It was difficult for me to understand why something as simple as skin pigment could render a person “less than”, and I defied my mother’s admonitions right up until the day we moved away from the city. Understanding, through experience, came easier to Kathy. I never heard her voice, again.

“Four years ago, I stood before you and told you my story, of the brief union between a young man from Kenya and a young woman from Kansas who weren’t well-off or well-known, but shared a belief that in America their son could achieve whatever he put his mind to.
It is that promise that’s always set this country apart, that through hard work and sacrifice each of us can pursue our individual dreams, but still come together as one American family, to ensure that the next generation can pursue their dreams, as well. That’s why I stand here tonight. Because for 232 years, at each moment when that promise was in jeopardy, ordinary men and women — students and soldiers, farmers and teachers, nurses and janitors — found the courage to keep it alive.”

The Journey

I am discriminating. I can be hard to please. I am slow to trust, as years of failed promises have left me skeptical. I have to remind myself, sometimes, to see the light hiding behind the darker surface. I tend to set very high standards for those who would court my trust. I want answers, answers that make sense, and I do my homework.

The last two presidential elections were, for me, at best, painful, and, at worst, devastating. In my opinion, George W. Bush’s shortcomings are plain for anyone to see, and his cabinet, nothing less than dangerous. Sadly, the Democratic Party failed to offer up a reasonable alternative, and though I voted for the man I considered the one less dangerous, I did so half-heartedly, at best. My reticence, however, did nothing to appease my disappointment and embarrassment in our electorate.

The 2004 election was particularly hard to swallow. John Kerry was not an exciting, or even hopeful choice, but the alternative was unthinkable. Our country had been in free-fall for four years and every misstep I had ever imagined, combined with those no one could ever have foreseen, to create a recipe for disaster; and still, many eagerly vied for a place at the table.

I remember dark hours immediately following the election, and the utter hopelessness filling those days. I remember sleepless nights punctuated by tears of frustration, and I remember my decision. In the fall of 2004, after America spoke, I made the decision to disconnect. I turned off my television and changed my pre-sets. Top-forty radio, instead of National Public Radio, now fueled my commute. Novels replaced the newspaper at lunch, and a click to my homepage now revealed carefully crafted, voluminous lines of internet jokes, sent to me by my former mother-in-law. Life lessons, and the accompanying character traits, had taught me how to insulate; to protect.

As you might expect, I was slow to board, as our most current election geared up…

Rudy Giuliani, and his handling of one of the most traumatic events in American history, warranted a second look. Arrogance killed his candidacy, early on.

Mitt Romney showed promise. As a businessman, he had shown remarkable financial acumen, and even two years ago, as those in the know began to scrawl upon the wall, I could see the merits of that trait. Honor, though, and party loyalty prevailed, as he threw in the towel in order to increase the chances of his party rival.

And, then there were three…

In 2004, I pinned my hopes on one John McCain, still, at that time, a true maverick. Karl Rove had other plans. Most of us easily saw through the allegations of impropriety surrounding the ethnicity of McCain’s daughter, completely unaware of backroom negotiations which would ensure McCain’s exit, leaving Mr. Rove’s candidate alone on the Republican ticket. In my despair, I looked forward to 2008, when “Maverick” could ride, again.

The face was the same; the voice familiar. The rhetoric, however, markedly changed. Need had removed the teeth from his message, and the 2008 incarnation of John McCain in no way resembled the man I once admired. Desperately, I turned to the other side of the aisle…

A feminist at heart, I really wanted to support Hillary. Admittedly, her handling of her husband’s repeated infidelities had left a sour taste in my mouth, but it was her shrill rhetoric that provided a barrier I could not jump. I listened, eagerly, for meaningful words that would invoke confidence, or even hope, and heard, instead, the cry of a fish-monger’s wife. I was not unhappy to see the odds piling against her.

The very idea that a man named “Barack Hussien Obama” would entertain the notion of being elected president of a country wrought with fear labeled “Muslim”, struck me as ludicrous; and I said so, to anyone who would listen. But, as the months ticked by, and his opponents became less and less desirable, I was forced to take a second look.

During this time, a good friend smilingly presented me with an Obama bumper sticker. He didn’t insist; he offered, through a face bright with hope. Feeling bereft of alternative, I accepted the offering, placing it in my carry-all. It rode there, under a succession of lunches, for several weeks, until a bright Saturday morning several weeks ago.

I accompanies me, now, on my commute, as it rides my back right bumper, and, today, the sight of it inspires pride in our journey.

An Intangible Difference

“No other national election has evoked this kind of emotion.”
As a form of explanation, in the heat of the moment, during a discussion of politics, these words rose to the surface, and sat on my tongue, while I considered their veracity. My mind ticked through previous elections. Images grossly akin to Halloween masks, strolled across my mind’s eye; Reagan, Carter, Ford, Clinton, Bush I and II, and I realized I had felt passion for my candidate during each of these contests, as well. The words remain unsaid. And, still, I consider them…and have come believe the words to be true in an intangibly unsettling way.

In years past, my choice of candidate was usually accompanied by a sure feeling of being “right”. As I considered the men running for President, the decision was a simple one, based on my beliefs and life experience.

“Do you want what’s hiding behind curtain “A” or curtain “B”?” Monty Hall’s face leered under a battered fedora as he spun a shiny black cane.

“Curtain “A”!” My voice rang true with the force of my convictions.

“Is that your final answer?” The question came in the form of endless, expensively produced commercials touting the merits of the one not chosen.

“Yes! That is my final answer!” And it was.

This time around, when asked the question, I find my voice wavering as my eyes search a distant point in the room, and my chest fills with a need for hope. And, therein, lies the difference.

The need for hope; not a full-blown, fist-clenching, flag-waving hope, but a need for hope. A look out the yawning door of an airplane, just before the jump, with the sincere desire that the parachute will function when called upon. That first tentative, pitch-black step away from the side of the bed towards the spot on the carpet where the dog might be sleeping. The catch of breath, when the numbers are called, as the ticket shakes inside a needy hand. The look on the face of one beaten down, afraid to trust an outstretched hand.

As my octogenarian friend frequently laments, “I’ve never seen things this bad.”, I realize it’s no wonder so many of us are uncertain. Nothing in our life experience has prepared us for our current condition, and our beliefs have been challenged by almost a decade of half-truths and outright lies told by those in whom we were forced to rely. We are the ones beaten down, afraid to trust.

On Tuesday, I will stand in line for hours, with hundreds of others in search of hope, and the mere presence of the crowd, as I scan it, will invoke these words:

“In God We Trust.”

Playing In The Dirt…

Yesterday, Shane and I went in search of the perfect pansy. He has accompanied me in my hunt every year, so I expected the loud groan and “Oh, Mom….” I heard when I announced the time had come.

“Will it take long?”, he whined.

“Well, that depends. If we’re lucky, they’ll have lots of good ones. If not, we’ll have to look.” My voice was bright in an effort to impart some of the enthusiasm I was feeling, but he didn’t seem to get it as he slumped down the hallway in search of his shoes.

As luck would have it, we encountered flats and flats of gorgeous painted faces in every conceivable color. And today, I got to play in the dirt.

My first task was to remove all the summer flowers, still clinging to life in the warm Georgia sun. This is the part I like the least. I always feel a twinge of guilt at ripping a brave survivor out by the roots, so I grit my teeth, clear my mind, and just start pulling.

And now the fun begins. I don’t use gloves to do this kind of planting, as I like the feel of dirt on my hands. While shoving them, over and over into the aromatic black dirt, I mentally applauded my decision to cancel my manicure appointment on Friday, and a mischevious smile crossed my face as I imagined the reaction of the beautiful, little sprite who tends my hands if she could have seen the way I was treating her handiwork.

I filled all the containers, using bright yellows, purples, and pinks on the patio…

and old-fashioned ruffled pinks next to the house…

And, as I headed to the back of the yard, towards the bench which has long-since been swallowed up by the English Ivy I planted three years ago, I thought back to last summer. My daughter called to say she and a friend were coming for a visit. They arrived in full make-up and skirts with heels, prompting me to wonder at the occasion. My daughter produced a monstrous high-tech/high-end, camera featuring a nearly foot-long snout of a lens, and explained that her friend needed updated photographs of herself for a project she was working on.

“And, I told her we should come here. Your yards are just picturesque!”

It is one of the loveliest compliments she has ever paid me…

And, of course, there was music….

>Playing In The Dirt…

>
Yesterday, Shane and I went in search of the perfect pansy. He has accompanied me in my hunt every year, so I expected the loud groan and “Oh, Mom….” I heard when I announced the time had come.

“Will it take long?”, he whined.

As luck would have it, we encountered flats and flats of gorgeous painted faces in every conceivable color. And today, I got to play in the dirt.

I filled all the containers, using bright yellows, purples, and pinks on the patio…

and old-fashioned ruffled pinks next to the house…

“And, I told her we should come here. Your yards are just picturesque!”

It is one of the loveliest compliments she has ever paid me…

And, of course, there was music….

Has It Started Already?!

He calls me every morning at exactly the same time…

At 8:10, my cell-phone rings, and my 11 year old talks for ten minutes.

Without a breath.

“Hey, Mom, I locked the door. I have my homework. I ate my breakfast. The bus will be here in ten minutes. I wonder what we’ll have for lunch. I hate my social studies teacher. Football practice was awesome! You know how I told you about that kid, T. J.? Well, this is what I did last night….”

This makes me tired.

By now, I have walked to the front lobby of our building in order to ensure that my cell phone coverage will not be interrupted.

“Coach put the linemen in the backfield, just ‘cause we did such an awesome job on Saturday. He said he wanted to give us “a little love”. So, I’m standing back there, and Josh is about ten feet away, and Troy sails one….”

My head is in my hands, and I am breathing….

Listening and breathing….

“And, anyway, I think I got a good grade on my science test. I really feel pretty good about it. Oh,” Hey kitty”. My kitty’s here. Remember I told you about that kitty that sits with me until the bus comes? Well, she’s here. Wait….I’m gonna take a picture.”

Click.

I return to my desk and stand for several minutes in an effort to re-orient myself. The office phone rings several times, I put out several fires, and push back my chair, on my way to the water-cooler.

As I leave my office, I hear the ring that tells me I have a message.

The cat is long-haired, and calico, and though she apparently lives in my neighborhood and has a particular affinity for my son, I have never laid eyes on her before.

I show the picture to the resident cat-lover in our office whose 84 year-old eyes can’t quite make out the image. As I struggle to point it out, the phone in my hand rings, again.

“Ok, so it’s pretty cold out here, Mom. And, you know, there’s like no one else out here, so I just like put my hands in my pants. I mean, my hands were really cold and no one else could see. So I put them in there and they got warm, and so I took them out, and at the end of one of my hands was like this really LONG hair. And, I’m like “Oh, my God! Has it started already?” I mean this isn’t supposed to start now is it?”

The effort required to control my laughter silences me.

And, now, much softer, and much more insistent,

“Is it?”

Softly, persistant laughter infuses my voice as I assure us both.

“No, It’s ok. You’re ok.”

And, we are.

>Has It Started Already?!

>
He calls me every morning at exactly the same time…

At 8:10, my cell-phone rings, and my 11 year old talks for ten minutes.

Without a breath.

This makes me tired.

By now, I have walked to the front lobby of our building in order to ensure that my cell phone coverage will not be interrupted.

My head is in my hands, and I am breathing….

Listening and breathing….

Click.

As I leave my office, I hear the ring that tells me I have a message.

The cat is long-haired, and calico, and though she apparently lives in my neighborhood and has a particular affinity for my son, I have never laid eyes on her before.

I show the picture to the resident cat-lover in our office whose 84 year-old eyes can’t quite make out the image. As I struggle to point it out, the phone in my hand rings, again.

The effort required to control my laughter silences me.

And, now, much softer, and much more insistent,

“Is it?”

Softly, persistant laughter infuses my voice as I assure us both.

“No, It’s ok. You’re ok.”

And, we are.

For Mattie…

She reads the words, but doesn’t hear them.

Years of indoctrination fail to police her actions, so that her beliefs have form in word, only.

She may seek repentance for her unmitigated attack, ignorant of the original Greek interpretation of the word; “to think differently afterwards”.

She will hope for atonement, based on a set of man-made beliefs.

And, should those beliefs be shown to have merit, she will surely find redemption,

as will we all.

Because, after all, the sacrifice has been made.

>For Mattie…

>
She reads the words, but doesn’t hear them.