I’ll be honest – I’ve loved almost every TED talk that I’ve watched.  The topics are varied and interesting and beautifully expressed.  They are fertile ground for a girl hunting ten dollar thoughts.  So it’s a bit surprising that it’s taken me two months to finally watch Sheryl Sandberg’s TED talk from December.  It’s been recommended to me by friends and bloggers alike, and now that I’ve finally watched it I can see what all the fuss is about.

As the COO of Facebook – by way of the US Treasury Department and Google – Ms. Sandberg knows a thing or two about playing in the boys’ sandbox.  So her thoughts on the topic of female business leaders are well founded.  In her talk (which is well worth 15 minutes of your time and can be found here) she cites one after another statistic about how underrepresented women are within the ranks of business and political leadership.

Listening to her litany of stats made me sad.  Yet even as I listened I didn’t find myself jumping up to volunteer for the sacrifices I’d almost surely have to make to reach her professional heights.  In her talk Ms. Sandberg highlights three steps that she believes working women should take to guard against our scant numbers in the leadership positions in this country.  They are worthwhile recommendations.  They are pieces of advice that I intend to heed as I move forward in my own career.  But still I wonder if they are enough.

What I’ve observed in my professional life is that few women are willing to do what Sheryl Sandberg does.  Few women are willing to spend the time away from their children that a career like hers demands.  We watch the commitment made by men – the long hours, the extensive travel, the constant attachment to laptops and BlackBerrys – and we decide that juxtaposed against our role as mothers it’s not worth it.  But for many of us, we’re making an uninformed decision.  We assume that the sacrifice is too big.  We assume that careers of that magnitude come at the detriment of our children.  We are sure that our roles in middle management are all that we want.  (Or at least we convince ourselves of that.)

If I’m being truthful, I’ll admit that Sheryl Sandberg freaks me out a bit.  Her life and career challenge much of what I believe about my own career.  But what if I’m wrong?  What if a more challenging, demanding, and rewarding career would be good for me and my family?  What if the gut-wrenching sacrifices I envision really wouldn’t be all that bad?

I don’t have the answers.  And while Ms. Sandberg claims at the start of her TED talk that she doesn’t either, her body of work implies otherwise.  But listening to her speak about the absence of women in leadership roles caused me a not insignificant amount of self-doubt.  Am I chicken?  Am I playing it safe because society embraces that decision?  Am I being governed by fear?  These questions continue to swirl in my head.

I know I am smart.  I know I am energetic.  I know that I have goals and ideas and initiative.  What I don’t know, however, is how to synthesize these things into something significant; something about which I am passionate and of which I can be proud.  I will let these questions continue to swirl.  I will probably watch Ms. Sandberg’s talk a few more times.  And perhaps before too long I’ll summon the gumption to do something big.

PS – Many thanks to my genius sister-in-law and blog designer, JPG, for TDT’s new graphics.  There will be a few further enhancements rolling out in the next couple of weeks, but the bulk of our redesign work is here.  JPG, you are smart, collaborative, creative, supportive, flexible, inspiring, stylish, and fun.  Working with you is a joy and I’m so grateful to have your support with this blog.  Thank you!

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand. – From The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

“Monkey, you look loved.”

Those were the words our nanny spoke as she and IEP were picking up toys at the end of the day.  Monkey (pictured) is the starting quarterback on IEP’s team of stuffed animals.  There is also a sea lion from the Oregon coast, a bear from the gift shop at The Masters, a mouse from Nanny, a lamb from Williamsburg, and a sock monkey (from Target…).  But Monkey is the favorite.  Monkey helped IEP give up his pacifiers.  Monkey helps IEP sleep in new and different places.  Monkey comforts IEP when he is sick or scared.  He is as much a part of IEP’s life as any of the rest of us.  And it shows.

His seams are worn.  His coat is soft, but pilled in places.  His once-stiff limbs now flop easily.  He’s “gone swimming” with the laundry many, many times.  He hasn’t quite reached the Skin Horse’s description in The Velveteen Rabbit, but I suspect one day he will.

Nanny’s comment came at an opportune time.  As it turns out, Monkey isn’t the only creature who’s been on my mind lately who “looks loved.”  We spent the weekend celebrating the life of GAP’s grandmother.  She, too, looked loved.  Her body was frail and her skin was wrinkled.  And yet she was still completely beautiful.  Much like Monkey, and the Skin Horse, and ultimately, the Velveteen Rabbit himself, she was loved, and she was real, and she could never be ugly.

This trifecta of thoughts (Monkey, GAP’s grandmother, and The Velveteen Rabbit) has been dancing in my head for several days now and has prompted me to think further about how we define beauty, and what we may give up in its pursuit.

We work so hard in this life to have big experiences.  We embrace laughter and hardship.  We travel.  We stay home.  We get sick.  We get well.  We fall in and out of loved.  We break hearts and have our hearts broken.  We learn and forget and remember.  We want, more than anything, to live our lives fully, and to be a reflection of this vast set of experiences.  And yet at the same time we work hard to look just as we did when we were young and green and largely stupid.  We dye our hair.  We don our Spanx.  We have facials and Botox and plastic surgery.  We try to shed years in every way possible which to me (a regular with my colorist since the age of 24) is paradoxical.

Nearly by definition, we can’t know much of anything when we are 18.  And nearly by definition we can’t help but know almost everything when we are 81.   If we are very lucky we will all live a very long time.  We will scrape our knees and our hearts.  We will double over in laughter.  And we will love to the brink of implosion.  Life will leave its mark on us.

At the age of 33 I still contend with a certain amount of vanity.  But in the long run I think I want to be like Monkey.  I want people to look at me and say, “She looks loved.”  Because ultimately, little else matters as much.

Tomorrow morning I will gather with the rest of GAP’s family for his grandmother’s memorial service.  GME (her initials, in keeping with my naming conventions on this blog) passed away last Friday and it was sad, but also a blessing.  After 93 beautiful years here she has gone home – to a place where her frail body can no longer limit her and where she has joined her husband for the first time in seven years.

GME was one of the most honest, curious, and lovely people I have ever known.  She is a testament to what this blog is about, and was a role model for me as I transitioned from a late-blooming adolescent into a grown woman.  And so it is that today I dedicate this post to her, and just a few of the reasons she will be so dearly missed.

She raised five kind and generous children, one of whom is my mother-in-law, who in turn raised six kind and generous children, one of whom is my beloved husband.

She had a passion for music and raised a family of carolers.  In keeping with their tradition that was founded back in the ’50s and ’60s her kids take their own children caroling to nursing homes (a massive group of nearly 30 now) every Christmas.

She was a reader.  Any time we visited her she asked GAP what he’d been reading (inevitably something political and challenging) and would ask to borrow it.  In turn, she would make margin notes in anything she read and would pass it along to GAP when she finished so they could discuss it.

She loved rain.  As a farmer’s wife she loved looking out the window to see darkening skies because it meant that her hardworking husband  could not go out into the fields and would instead be at home with her.

She was stubborn and humble.  In her later years as many of her grandchildren were getting married she was unable to walk down the aisle as part of the formal processional without the aid of a wheelchair or walker.  So she made sure that she was seated before the ceremony started so as not to draw attention to herself.

After September 11th she was curious about Islamic extremism and how it evolved.  Rather than plunge into day over day of cable news she ordered a copy of the Koran and read it to gain a better understanding of the religion itself and what might have prompted those men to do what they did.

She had eyes that sparkled with life.  No matter how many years her skin betrayed, her eyes were young until the very end.

And, all she wanted out of life was for the people she loved to be happy.  She hated all manner of sadness and was not one to indulge in it under nearly any circumstances.  And so it is that tomorrow’s service comes with strict instructions.  It is to be short.  It is not to be sad.  Men are not to wear suits.  We are all to wear bright colors.  And there is to be pizza afterwards.

GME was not perfect.  But she came awfully close.  Between life and death she chose the better option, but she will still be acutely missed for a long time.  I am thankful that I will live the rest of my life as a member of the family she raised.  Her life and beliefs will be imprinted on my own for the rest of my life, and I am better for it.

I was reminded of this last night.  We arrived at my in-laws’ house late in the evening.  After sleeping in the car IEP was eager to play for a bit prior to being put down.  Our bedtime routine includes a handful of books each night, followed by IEP curling up in GAP’s or my lap, rocking in the glider, and being sung to for a few minutes.  Last night my mother-in-law (E, for those who are frequent readers of comments here) was up to bat for bedtime duties.  As I listened on the monitor I heard her sing “Bless this House” to my baby.  It was the song that her family ended all of their caroling stops with so many years ago.  And it is the song that the entire family will sing together at her memorial service tomorrow.  It was late, she was singing quietly, and her typically strong voice cracked in a few places.  But I could hear GME coming through loud and clear.  And I was thankful, once again, for this woman whose life is now intertwined with mine forever.

A Note About This Post:  I originally wrote and published this post one week ago, on Martin Luther King Day.  It lingered here all day, garnering no comments – a first in my blogging existence.  By that evening I was convinced my title had given the wrong impression of my beliefs about Dr. King, so I took it down.  For the full explanation of my actions (and the thought process behind them) you can read last Wednesday’s post, which is available here.  I offer this explanation so that when you reach the end of this post and I write, “Today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day…” you will not presume me incapable of reading a calendar, but will realize that this is the second time out of the gate for this post.     

There’s something off about the American dream.

I’ve been thinking about this intermittently for the last month and I’ve finally put my finger on it.  The American dream is too simple.  It is not nuanced or multi-facted.  It is plain, and brute, and a little crass.  Quite plainly, the American dream is financial.

I realize that this country was founded on principles of opportunity  and the freedom to pursue that opportunity.  And these are very worthwhile principles.  But over time we have come to a single, shared interpretation of them: money.  Sure we still value the opportunity to speak freely, congregate as we wish, worship as we believe and so on.  But when we talk about the “American dream” as a concept what we are talking about is the pursuit of fortune.

As a person who likes money and the things it can buy, I realize that there is value in the financial interpretation of this dream.  For people who live paycheck-to-paycheck it is a compelling idea that with hard work and some good luck they could live awash in comfort and luxury.  But for the rest of us who live somewhere in the middle of the socioeconomic strata, I think the American dream makes us myopic.

I started thinking about this last month when Aidan asked the question “Is bigger always better?” When I first commented on Aidan’s post I focused on the implicit expectations of “bigger.”  That is to say, the bigger something is the more we expect of it.  Sometimes we find that when we opt for something smaller we are ultimately happier because we are unburdened by massive and sometimes-unrealistic expectations.  I have thought more about this since then, though, and decided that this diagnosis falls short.

I happened back upon a website I bookmarked a long time ago called The Not So Big Life.   A few years back architect/author Sarah Susanka wrote a book about home scale and design call The Not So Big House.  In it she described how the American dream has eradicated everything we love about our homes.  New houses traded thoughtful design, charm, intimacy, and attention to proportion and scale for carelessly conceived vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and giant open floorplans that leave us feeling unmoored in our own homes.  The success of the book indicated that Susanka had struck a nerve and she went on to apply the same attention to “composition” that she uses in home design to the rest of her life.

Susanka points out how much of our lives are crammed with obligations and activities that we have piled onto our existence without consideration for what value they bring (or what value they destroy).  She argues that we pay little attention to the way that we compose our lives and that as a result we are left with days that are filled to the brim, yet leave us feeling empty.

I wonder how our cultural evolution might have been different if the American dream weren’t about success; or perhaps rather if success were measured by some yardstick other than the dollar sign.  Might we live in homes that were designed with more regard for our needs and less regard for our reputations?  Might we think more carefully about the ways we choose to spend our time?  And might we be more inclined to say “No” every now and then, leaving more space in our lives for things that really matter?  If the American dream didn’t drive us to prove our success to the rest of the world would we find ourselves happier, and with less?

At this time of year our New Year’s Resolutions are still fresh in our minds.  Mine focused on ways that I can improve myself, my relationships, and my imprint on the world.  As I thought about how I want to be different in 2011 the pursuit of fortune and the acquisition of more material belongings did not factor into the equation.  I think this is true for most of us.  When we really take time to consider the aspects of ourselves and our lives that matter the most we get it right.  I think the problem is that we spend so little time really considering them.

Today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.  Today we will think about his dream for America.  We will laud his vision and applaud his leadership, and rightly so.  We should also remember, however, that his dream – perhaps the most noble of any dream dreamt by an American – had nothing to do with bigger begetting better.  Tomorrow, when the commemorations have passed and we are back at our regular lives, we would do well to remember that there is nothing wrong with wanting more from our lives.  But we should ask ourselves “more of what?”

I think for most people a NICU would be a very unsettling place.  I know that was true for me the first time I went into one.  However, over time, it has become a very comfortable place to be for me. 

Every Sunday afternoon I walk into the NICU at the children’s hospital where I volunteer and I feel perfectly at home.  I know many of the nurses by name.  And most of the babies are familiar to me as well since most of them remain patients for weeks and even months.  I walk through the ward tending to babies who are crying.  I hold them and rock them.  I put pacifiers back in mouths.  I notify nurses when feeding tubes have emptied or diapers need changing.  And during some shifts I may hold the same baby for three straight hours.  There are days when it is really very peaceful.

Lately, though, the NICU census is down and there just aren’t as many babies on the floor.  Additionally, most of the babies who are admitted right now are pretty well behaved.  This is generally a good thing.  But it can make for a slow volunteer shift.  So, on days like these I try to make myself useful elsewhere.  As regular readers of this blog will already know, I am a fan of being thrown out of my comfort zone every now and then, and yesterday’s shift was a classic example.

I ended up in the Progressive Care Unit, which means inpatient kids, but not intensive care kids.  After delivering a baby doll to flushed and overwhelmed two-year-old in the PICU, I met Emily* in Progressive Care, who was just finishing up her lunch.  The playroom for inpatients was about to open, Emily’s mother was dog tired, and Emily was quite geared up for some playtime.  So off we went.

Emily could not have been more different from my typical tightly swaddled charges.  She is seven years old.  She is missing her two front teeth.  She is bouncy and eager and talkative.  This volunteer shift was not going to be spent curled up in a rocking chair in a dimly lit room holding four or five pounds of newborn sweetness.    

And so we played.  We played kitchen, wherein she made me scrambled eggs and we split a soda.  We played Jenga.  We played baseball, which she declared boring after a few catches and requested to play basketball.  Then we played basketball for quite a while – she shot, I rebounded – until that too was declared boring.  We played with toys, puzzles, dolls, Wrestle Mania action figures, plastic animals, dress-up paper dolls, board games, and one last round of basketball again just as the room was closing. 

My time with Emily was at one time draining and fulfilling.  At the end of two hours I was fully exhausted, but also swollen with inspiration.  Had it not been for the giant IV pole and hospital-issue pajamas, she could have been any kid on any playground.  And her thirst for activity and play outweighed any physical limitations.  With about half an hour left before the playroom’s closing time she rubbed her eyes.

“Are you tired?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“We don’t have to keep playing if you’d rather go back to your room.”

“No.  I want to play.”

And she did.  For the next 30 minutes we continued to jump from one activity to the next.  Her energy began to flag, but not her perky disposition.  This tiny little peanut of a girl, self-assured and ready to roll (even with a stranger she’d never met), snowed me with her outlook and her stamina.

I don’t know why she’s in the hospital.**  I don’t know what the two IV lines going into her chest were for.  I don’t know if she’s bothered by all the scar tissue on her arms from many previous IVs.  I didn’t know whether it was true when another little girl in the playroom looked at Emily and loudly said to her mother, “She has a big pole with lots of medicine.  That means she’s really sick.”  (I quickly redirected Emily back to our dollhouse activities so she wouldn’t have time to digest this statement.) 

What I do know is that she is happy and confident and fun.  I know that we were the last ones to leave the playroom and that she wanted to make sure to get a board game for the road.  I know that she didn’t allow her medical condition (or the equipment that goes with it) prevent her from squeezing every last moment of fun out of her two-hour playtime.  And I suspect that she similarly does not allow her illness to stop her from squeezing all she wants out of life in general. 

I know that when I grow up I’d like to be as much like Emily as I possibly can. 

*not her real name
**HIPAA prevents volunteers from asking patients any personal information, including their conditions

I love the Indian restaurant near our house.  I love it for its proximity to us.  I love it for its creamy kormas and potent curries.  I love it for its lunch buffet.  And I love it for its very friendly (and kid friendly!) staff.  But last night I loved it for the gentle, but completely warranted, reprimand that the owner gave to me.

After running another errand I stopped in to pick up a quick supper for GAP and myself.  When I walked in all of the usual aromas hit me – a heady mix of nuts, curries, tomatoes, and naan.  I commented to the owner that his restaurant smelled even better than usual tonight.  I continued, saying that it must be because it’s so cold and miserable outside.  Then he surprised me.

In heavily accented English he reminded me that we had a long and beautiful fall this year, and that I should not complain about the cold.  He said, “You go home.  You eat your curry.  You have big fireplace.  Then you have hot coffee.  And the cold doesn’t seem so bad.”

And you know what?  He was right. 

Even when the days run short and the mercury drops and the sun hides behind thick clouds for days at a time I should not think about the way the winter season plagues me.  I should think about the things about it that delight me.  I love bundling up in pajama pants and hooded sweatshirts on winter evenings.  I love steamy mugs of hot chocolate (my Indian friend doesn’t know I’m not a coffee drinker…).  I love fires in fireplaces.  I love time spent curled up inside without having to make excuses as to why I’m not out enjoying the beautiful weather. 

There is indeed a season for everything.  And I should enjoy those seasons as they come.  We’ve barely shut the door on autumn.  To start pining for spring already just seems silly.  It’s time to enjoy winter for what it is: a season that moves slowly; a season that is marked by afternoons filled with books and movies; a season that begs us to lie fallow.  Spring will be here soon enough with its thunderstorms and crocuses.  But longing for those things now will only cause me to lose my appreciation for the blessings brought on by winter. 

I’m feeling better about winter already.  Happy December 1st!

At the risk of sounding trite, this is obviously an apt time to note the things for which I am thankful.  It is not an original idea, but it is an important one.  After all, for all the Ten Dollar Thoughts we may think, if none of them is grateful in nature, then all the others suffer for it. 

I will clarify up front that I am interminably thankful for all of the things that most people are thankful for: good jobs, a fine home, health, family, and friendships.  But to keep this post at least moderately interesting I will shift my focus to less likely (or at least less obvious) objects of my gratitude.

1. I am thankful for my new camera.  It was a gift from GAP and IEP for Mother’s Day and it has re-energized my interest in photography.  I dabbled in photography a bit as a kid, but had fallen away from it over time.  With my new camera in my life I find myself looking at the world with a more artistic eye, and applying much greater appreciation to the lighting and composition of films and photos I see.
2. I am thankful for hot chocolate.  Since I don’t drink coffee or tea, for much of the year my mornings typically lack a marquis beverage.  But when fall turns the corner into winter I have a big mug-full almost every morning.  IEP has adopted my habit of dipping his buttered toast into the chocolate and I love that we share our breakfasts this way.
3. I am thankful for the large park near my office.  On days when I just have to get out of the building at lunch I can take the long way to my favorite sandwich shop and cut through the park.  The road that runs through it takes me past a large pond with a path where I watch people walking and jogging and getting fresh air, and through a densely wooded area that allows me to pretend – if just for half a mile or so – that I am out in the woods, as opposed to out in the suburbs.
4. I am thankful for steam vaporizers.  When winter colds hit (as they did in full force the last two weeks), a steam vaporizer is one third of the cold-fighting trifecta (along with sleep and NyQuil) that usually gets me back on my feet within a couple of days.
5. I am thankful for my favorite silver ballet flats.  They are comfortable.  They are attractive.  They match everything.  And when I realized how much I loved them I had the good sense to get back on Zappos and order a second pair so that when I inevitably wore out the first pair (a day that’s coming soon) there would be a backup pair waiting in the wings. 
6. I am thankful for my church.  I’m thankful that I don’t always agree with the sermons and that I’m forced to confront the gaps in my understanding of my faith.  I’m thankful that when I go there I feel at peace.  And I’m thankful that even when I feel my spirit drifting from God I can let Him know, just by walking into the sanctuary, that I’m trying to work my way back.
7. I am thankful for my dogs.  I am thankful that because they are large and our yard is small I am obliged to walk two miles with them every day.  In a year I walk an extra 600 miles or so (we skip a day here and there), which is exercise I almost certainly wouldn’t get without them.  (Not to mention that the dogs themselves are princes.)
8. I am thankful for books.  I am thankful that my shelves are littered with titles I’ve read and loved, and titles that are waiting to be explored.  I’m thankful that every time I open a book I learn something new, and that in this country I have the opportunity and the right to read whatever I may choose.
9. I am thankful for blogging.  This medium, which I’d never even heard of until a few years ago, allows me to keep my long-distance family apprised of IEP’s latest adventures and developments (I also write a private family blog).  And it allows me to explore my thoughts and engage in virtual conversation with interesting people every single week.  I believe that I approach my life in fundamentally different and better ways because of my blogging. 
10. I am thankful for IEP’s hugs.  Truly, they are unparalleled.  He only hugs when he’s really feeling it.  And when he’s really feeling it he hugs big.  He squeezes his little arms with all his might.  He presses his plump cheek into yours and holds it there.  He giggles a little.  And then he does the entire thing three or four more times just to make sure he got his point across.  There’s nothing in the world quite like it. 

I would love to hear what things you are thankful for, be they the classics I mentioned at the top of this post or altogether different.  I believe that sharing our gratitude makes us more mindful of it ourselves.  I also think it offers a fresh and interesting glimpse into the essence of who we are.

With that, I hope you all have a lovely Thanksgiving holiday.  May you travel safely.  May you hug your family and friends.  May you eat well.  May you wear elastic waist pants.  May you have seconds on pie.  May you fall asleep on the couch.  And may you enjoy the rest of the weekend in whatever way pleases you most. 

PS – I won’t be posting on Wednesday or Friday this week.  See you back here next Monday.

We flew into Reagan.  As the plane began its final descent I could first see the Washington Monument.  Then the Capitol.  Then the Lincoln Memorial.  Then the Jefferson.  And then, just as we veered right toward the runway I caught a sliver of a glimpse of The White House.  I pointed.  I oohed and aahed.  I acted like a kid on a field trip.  Truth be told… I totally geeked out. 

In four days we took in a lot of territory.  We saw the Phillips Collection, the National Gallery, The White House, the Library of Congress, the World War II, Lincoln, Vietnam War, Korean War, FDR, and Jefferson Memorials, the National Cathedral, Georgetown, the Holocaust Museum, the Stewart/Colbert rally, the Air and Space Museum, the Museum of American History, and Arlington National Cemetery.

By the end of the trip my feet were blistered and my mind and heart were full.  And while I’m sure I could wax philosophic about the grandeur and significance of our nation’s capitol, there were two small moments that, for me, most aptly captured the essence of our country.  So, with that in mind, here are the two stories of those two moments.

The Sunset

After we left the rally GAP and I made a pass through Museum of American History.  We left the museum as it was closing at 5:30 and decided to go back by the Vietnam and Korean War Memorials in daylight.  (We had seen them once late at night, but I wanted to find a name on the wall that I missed in the dark.)  We walked back through both and had started to turn north to head back to our hotel for a breather before dinner. 

For no apparent reason I glanced over my shoulder and noticed a brilliant orange and pink sunset forming on the horizon.  I tried to take a couple of pictures but my view was blocked by a traffic light.  GAP asked if I wanted to go back to the Lincoln Memorial and take pictures from the back of it.  Genius!  We hustled up the steps, past the many post-rally-ers, and around to the back so that I could capture the sunset before the light faded.  While I fiddled with my shutter speed GAP sat down to wait for me.  And when I finished I joined him. 

With my photo flurry behind me I down-shifted a couple of gears.  I took a deep breath.  My shoulders relaxed.  And I looked around.  There were probably 20 of us back there, scattered across the back of the memorial, just sitting.  There were a few small groups, one or two other couples, and a few people by themselves.  Everyone was still.  No one talked much.  And we all watched the deeply colored orange light fade to pink, and then purple, and then grey.  As I looked around at my fellows sunset watchers I thought, “We live in a country where we are permitted to crawl all over our national monuments.  We are allowed to come here and commune in whatever manner best suits us.  We are welcome here day and night.  We are welcome in groups or alone.  We are welcome to come and learn, or to come and watch the sun set.”  I felt so privileged in that moment, to be a citizen of a country whose most precious treasures are not kept behind gates or fences.  There are no admission fees or invitations.  All that is needed is the desire to be there, and you are welcome to do so, in nearly any way that pleases you.

*******************************

The Marine Corps Marathon

I had it in my head that Sunday morning would be a peaceful time to visit Arlington National Cemetery.  On any other Sunday I think I might have been right.  On this particular Sunday I neglected to account for the fact that the Marine Corps Marathon finish line was stationed adjacent to the cemetery at the base of the Iwo Jima Memorial statue.  It was a little bit of a zoo.  However, the chaos was a blessing in disguise. 

After having breakfast with a dear friend in Rosslyn, GAP and I took one look at the Rosslyn metro station (packed to the gills with 10K race finishers) and decided to walk to the cemetery entrance.  We meandered through the orange event fencing and eventually reached the finish line.  We arrived just in time to hear the winner announced over the loudspeaker, and to watch the 3^rd through 10^th place finishers run the last quarter mile of the race. 

The runners were dog tired.  The final lengths of the course were steep uphill.  Scattered amongst the runners were a few three-wheeled cycles ridden by handicapped entrants.  That final hill was especially brutal for them.   The path was lined two and three people deep with fans.  And the grounds were teeming with uniformed Marines. 

On the back side of the finish line I saw a runner who’d just completed his race.  His limbs were long and sinewy (as most marathoners’ are).  His shoulders drooped, his knees were buckled, and he was supported on either side by two, giant, hulking Marines.  As I watched this trio of men – two incredibly strong, and one incredibly weak – slowly walk to the First Aid tent I started to cry.  Yes, it was an exhausted athlete at the end of 26.2 miles rather than the victim of a Middle Eastern roadside bomb.  Nevertheless, I watched these highly trained men do one of the very things it is their job to do: help people.  Just as I’ve seen images of service men and women cradling injured victims in some of the most blighted corners of the world, so did I watch these Marines take the same care with this man.  Seeing such tenderness out of such men whom I know can also deliver such force moved me in a way that was both surprising and undeniable. 

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While I love my country, as a rule I am not inclined to believe that it is better than any other merely because it is mine.  Nonetheless, this trip left me saturated with both pride and gratitude.

Did you miss me on Friday?  I meant to send you a  postcard, but I was afraid it wouldn’t get to you in time.  So I decided to just touch base when I got back.  You see, I was very busy at the end of last week. 

I was here…

The White House

And here…

The Capitol

And here…

Library of Congress

And here…

Lincoln Memorial

And here…

Washington Monument and Reflecting Pool

And here…

National Cathedral

And here…

Rally to Restore Sanity

And here…

Julia Child's Kitchen at the Smithsonian

And, of course, here…

Arlington National Cemetary

It was my first trip to Washington, DC, and the entire experience was amazing, overwhelming, moving, thought-provoking, touching, and altogether wonderful.  I’m still digesting the whole thing and will come back to you with more fully formed thoughts on Wednesday.  In the meantime I wanted to share a few of my photos with you.  You know, since I didn’t send a postcard. 

 Happy Monday everyone!

It’s not often that I have the privilege of watching someone do the thing they were clearly born to do. While we all have our strengths and weaknesses, and I always advocate for trying new things and stretching our boundaries, there is something about watching a person so plainly in his element that just brings you joy. This happened to me on Wednesday night when I got to watch Chuck Berry play rock ‘n roll.

He is, by nearly all estimations, the inventor of rock ‘n roll. He was the first to cross elements of country music with the blues and refine them into what became rock ‘n roll. And, fittingly, he was the first inductee into the Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Fame. Berry still plays one night a month at a bar a few miles from my house. GAP and I have been saying to each other for six or seven years: We really need to go see him while we still can. So this week, we did.

He is old now, having turned 84 on Monday. Given this, I expected to see a relic of a man seated in the center of the stage resting comfortably on his well-earned laurels, which would have been just fine. Before he came on a friend and I wondered aloud whether at 84 years old he would still get fired up to perform, or if these appearances are merely another in an interminably long string of days at the office. He answered our foolish question immediately.

He wore a red sequined shirt and a jaunty white cap. He stood the entire time. He danced a bit. He did the duck walk, for crying out loud! And he sang, and sang, and sang. The man has still got it! His eyes smiled the entire time. He beamed with pride as his son and daughter joined him onstage. (Talent did not skip a generation in this family.) And he wore that shirt, that hat, and several guitars as only a true rock star could.

Some people are blessed with a singular purpose in life. And sometimes we get to watch those people do that thing they were meant to do. I’ve watched Tiger Woods save par. I’ve watched Christopher Parkening play the guitar. I’ve watched Albert Pujols hit a home run. And now I’ve watched Chuck Berry play rock ‘n roll. These moments, when they come, crystallize in my mind and I know I’ll be able to recall them for the rest of my life. Talent like this has a way of packaging itself with a bow on top, so that you never lose sight of what a gift it truly is.