Madam Secretary's Photo Shoot

Mom was approaching 80. Sereina and I were thinking of ways to celebrate. She texted me one day and said let's do a photo shoot in DC. Hair, makeup, new outfits, the works. I loved the idea but knew we'd need to convince her. Even though our mother is drop dead gorgeous and loves a reason to dress up, her profession and the lives she has changed have always been most important to her. So, with a little persuasion and the promise it would be an adventure, she agreed to be a supermodel for a day.

It started with a shopping trip. I wanted her to try on a pair of leather pants I'd seen. I remembered a suede pair she had in the seventies and knew she'd look smashing. Thrilled she was going along with my plan, I hustled around the store looking for tops before she changed her mind.  I encountered resistance with each piece. The silky white blouse would "wash her out". I said it's beautiful, just wear lipstick. How bout black? Too harsh. Beige? No thank you. Blue? Not the right shade. Cream? Oh that would look good on you, you try it instead. Sigh. She had reservations about neckline, sleeve length, fabric and fit, always tied to what other people might think. I got that. I was pushing her and felt bad. This was supposed to be fun. Finally we settled on a lovely caramel colored top that checked all the boxes. She came out of the dressing room looking fabulous. I jumped out of my chair and clapped. The gazelle of a young lady working there clapped too. Mom beamed. We snapped a few pictures, texted them to my sister and nieces and off we went for coffees. With the white blouse, carefully wrapped, also in the bag because there is always lipstick. 

The day of the shoot came. We held a hair and makeup session in Mom's bedroom. Sereina sat on her bed entertaining the cat, checking traffic apps and chatting with us. I kneeled at Mom's chair concentrating on just the right amount to apply so it would show up in photos. We were all a little nervous. Mom put on a classic black dress and black patent pumps. The leather pants were in a bag for the change that would come later. All set, she looked downright regal. Like a Senator or a Secretary of State. We stood at the dresser choosing jewelry and noticed her lanyards hanging on the mirror. She's devoted much of her time as a mental health professional with TAPS, Give an Hour, Red Cross and the Cape Coral power squadron. We laughed that we should each wear one so we'd look official - like her handlers. So as Mom fastened her gold necklace around her neck, we threw lanyards around ours and grabbed one for my niece Alex who was meeting us there. 

We drove down the GW Parkway, across the Potomac and up to the Lincoln and of course, nowhere to park. What's a trip into the city without a little stress? No matter, it's forgotten later and always worth it. And it would be. I circled back around, got as close as I could and stopped at a red light. I threw on my hazards and unlocked the doors. Mom and Sereina grabbed the bag of clothes and hopped out. The light changed green. But a lone lanyard lay in the seat next to me, having fallen out of the bag. I reached over, unrolled the window and tossed it out, shouting "come get this for Alex!" The car behind me honked impatiently. I hit the gas, glancing in the rearview to make sure they got it and began the search for parking.

I couldn't help but feel I was missing the big performance. Like the curtain was going up and I wasn't in place. I jogged the half mile as fast as I could and saw them at the highest step waving down at me. The Memorial is something to behold no matter how many times you've seen it. It grounds you. I stood at the bottom in reverence of what has transpired on those famous steps, in awe of Mr. Lincoln and his legacy, in awe my amazing Mom turning 80. Sometimes so much majesty makes you teary. I hustled up the steps to join them wishing I had brought tissues. 

Sereina and Alex were assessing where to shoot. The day had been grey but the clouds were beginning to clear. Tourists milled about Abe's massive feet, reading the Gettysburg Address engraved on the walls, taking selfies, standing in reverence. Mom was quietly drawing attention in her black dress and heels. I piped up, "Madam Secretary did you read the file I gave you earlier?" Not missing a beat, she replied "Yes, hank you I'll get to that right before my flight tonight." Sereina joined in, a born actress, and pretty soon we were all full on pretending. People began whispering to each other. Mom played the part and we snapped away.

Giggling at ourselves, we hustled to the corner of the landing, the sun hitting perfectly there. Mom looked radiant, the marble column glowed. But we were losing daylight and it was time for a costume change. The bathroom seemed miles away down below. Mom said let's just call it a day girls no big deal. I thought of the fabulous leather pants and me and the gazelle clapping and knew we couldn't quit yet. I reached into the bag and pulled out the blanket. Mom didn't hesitate. We scooched off to the side of the building away from the tourists. Sereina and I held up the makeshift changing room. Mom popped off her shoes and stepped into the pants. The black dress sailed over the top of the blanket. We handed her the brown top and a hairbrush. Just as this was transpiring, a US Park Police officer rounded the corner, striding right toward us. I thought well here we go, this will surely make the evening news. "80 year old woman arrested at the Lincoln Memorial for indecent exposure, details at 11:00." Instead, the officer took a look at us, quietly turned on his heel and strode back in the direction he'd come from. I fanned myself with my Red Cross lanyard as Mom popped out from behind the blanket ready for her next scene. 

The photos that followed would be our favorites. The nerves were gone. We were laughing at the narrow escape from the law and at ourselves for pulling this off. We knew we'd captured some great shots. Mom was having fun. Our mission was complete. As we huddled over my niece's phone looking at the pictures and began to put things back into the bag, I saw the officer marching towards us again. He had circled the building and was back. He was not smiling. My stomach flopped. His hand rested on something at his side that I couldn't make out. A radio for reinforcements? An arrest warrant? A gun? As he approached us, he nodded the tiniest of nods at Mom and walked right past us, not breaking his stride. We about collapsed. 

Later, over an order of nachos and Corona Lights we rehashed our adventure. We missed my niece Lila who lives in California and would have loved every minute of this. We talked about first jobs, first apartments, first loves and the dreams we had when we first started out. We talked about our worries and the things that make us hopeful. I looked at my beautiful niece sitting across from me, working hard at her first big corporate job, no way of knowing what the future holds. So much ahead of her. I looked at my beautiful Mom sitting next to her, eighty years of a life well lived and, please Lord, many more to go. My beautiful sister sat next to me. Both of us in the middle of our lives. Full, real lives. Sometimes difficult, sometimes joyful, but always somehow intertwined. We sat there together under the string lights at a picnic table and I remembered how we promised each other years ago we'd raise our kids together here in this area.  And we did, and now find ourselves in the heartbreaking season of gently letting them go. We hold on to each other and to our Mom, knowing that sometimes letting go is the hardest, most necessary  part of loving someone.  

 

What A Wonderful World

When you live in the DC area, cherry blossoms are like a gigantic floral starting gun - an explosion of pink all over the city kick-starting us into outdoor activity. For me sometimes, the wake up from hibernation can be hard. I'm foggy, grumpy, out of shape and quite frankly a little melancholy. 

So I yesterday put my bike on the back of my car and went downtown to see them. They did not disappoint. In fact, they did exactly what they do every year. Make me cry. And that's a good thing. What a relief that my heart hasn't become so stiff and frozen over the winter that it can't be melted again by such beauty. I biked along the gravel paths between the Capitol building and the Lincoln memorial and down around the tidal basin and took in the sea of blossoms with tears coming down my cheeks like a gosh dang springtime fool. It was awesome. 

Thousands of glorious pink blooms everywhere I looked. Reminders that the cold and dark doesn't last forever. Joy comes in the morning, right? And oh what a wonderful morning it was. Dads flying kites with their kids. Young men and women playing frisbee football. Joggers everywhere. Families on spring break. Happy dogs galore. So of course, the cherry blossoms weren't the only thing that made me cry. 

Not far from the gigantic feet of Abraham Lincoln stood a quartet of men singing hymns a capella. One of them held a tall wooden cross with the words "Amazing Grace" painted on it. I stopped my bike and took out my earbuds. With a lump in my throat, I managed to croak out "you all sound beautiful!" and got back on my bike. One of them heard me and said "God bless you!" How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me, indeed. I'm glad I had a tissue in my pocket.

As I biked back up toward the Washington Monument weaving through other bikers, joggers and strollers, a girl in a billowing formal gown caught my eye. She carried her skirts with purpose up to a spot a where a photographer was waiting. Her parents and siblings towing behind. Her quinceanera celebration maybe?  As I passed her I said "you look so beautiful!!" She turned, a little surprised, and broke out into the most delighted smile. I pedaled away, things looking a bit blurry until I found that tissue again.

Back up towards the Capitol building, more to take in. An older couple reading a guidebook on a bench, a brother sticking his foot out to trip his big sister, a family on a blanket setting up a picnic, and more happy dogs of all shapes and sizes. I stopped a couple of times to take pictures with my phone, knowing they wouldn't do any of it justice. I pedaled along towards a row of food trucks.

I found myself stopping near a group of ladies in white bonnets and long dresses, Mennonites, I think. They were investigating the menu on a Halal food truck. I thought to myself what a wonderful city this is. What a wonderful country this is. How wonderful to see so much color and culture and humanity in one place. As I watched the ladies pay for their gyros and turn towards me, I wanted to tell them how beautiful I thought they were and hey isn't this a wonderful city, but I was afraid they'd think I was a weirdo. Of course, they'd be right. Plus, my tissue had reached its capacity. So I smiled at them and biked on towards my car.

I drove back across the Potomac, sparkling in the noon sun, having gotten what I came for. I thanked God and mother nature for the cherry blossoms in the city I love so much. For springtime. For hope.

January 5, 2021

It was my first job out of college and the closest to power and influence I’d ever get. It was 1990 and I was a staffer for Senator John W. Warner (R-VA). I welcomed visitors, manned the phones and wrote correspondence. I also gave private tours of the Capitol building. I was young, dumb and broke and when I wasn’t miserable, having the time of my life. My boss, a former Marine and Secretary of the Navy was quite frankly, a badass. A World War II veteran and UVA law school graduate, he was incredibly articulate, funny and principled. His colleagues respected him and his staff was incredibly proud to say we worked for him. 

I learned the history of my new workplace from the most generous of teachers - my fellow staffer the quick-witted and knowledgeable Marion McDonald and the official red-coated Capitol tour guides. Out from behind my desk and the ringing phones, I fell in love with the place. I was awed by every bit of it - the maze of marble hallways and heavy mahogany doors, massive oil paintings of American struggle and triumph, the imposing statues of our forefathers and national heroes, the clever symbolism hidden in almost every architectural detail. 

My tour group could be anything from personal friends of the Senator to a family from rural VA to an entire classroom of students from over the river in nearby Arlington or Fairfax. We would begin on the steps of our office facing the Capitol. Once a Senate Photographer had snapped their photograph, I’d begin. I’d draw their attention up to the figure on top of the dome. At about 26 stories high, in flowing robes, gazing toward the east, stands “Freedom” a 19 foot tall bronze statue of a young woman. Under her feet, the pedestal reads “E Pluribus Unum” - out of many, one. I’d tell them she faces east to ensure “that the sun would never set on freedom” and at her back is the west, our country’s hopeful future she guards with helmet and sword. Paying her respect seemed a good place to start. 

We’d make our way across Constitution Avenue to the Capitol’s small east side entrance, me flashing my Senate badge and fighting back stage fright, my group chatty and excited. Once inside the soaring Rotunda, bickering siblings fell silent, boisterous schoolchildren became focused and frazzled adults grew calm. Again, we all gazed upward, this time underneath the dome. I began to tell the stories of how our young nation impossibly came to be. I explained how those sworn to represent them made laws under this roof, with all this history around us a reminder of where we’d come from and what we were capable of. I believed in the greatness of the place and I wanted them to also. I’d take them up to the balcony above the Senate floor and we’d sit quietly and listen. We witnessed both monotonous droning and inspirational appeals, friendly banter and heated arguments. Through the maze of chilly basement corridors, especially if the group included children, I’d point out the small paw prints embedded in the concrete floor and tell them the tale of the “demon cat” who took joy in terrorizing night watchmen. When it came time to say goodbye, I’d remind them to never take for granted what a remarkable thing it is to live in a democracy like ours. I’d return to the papers and phones on my desk both exhausted and exhilarated. 

So it was with a sick stomach that thirty years later on my local news channel, I’d watch a mob smash their way into the Capitol and parade through the Rotunda. They broke windows, rummaged through desks and knocked over lecturns. Many seemed to wander around without a plan as if surprised they’d actually gotten in. It was oddly hilarious at moments. Grown men in ridiculous outfits and body paint prancing and posing for selfies and putting hats on statues. Then night began to fall. A noose was erected, rioters shouted “where is Nancy” and “hang Mike Pence,” trapped staffers texted loved ones, hammers and metal pipes were brandished, shots were fired and smoke filled hallways. Bones were broken and blood was shed. Five people died. 

On my couch in Virginia, I couldn’t help but think of my own experience on the Hill and how far away it seemed. Genuine friendships existed among members of the two parties, news was news and not entertainment, and presidents behaved like adults. I’ve heard more than once,“this isn’t who we are.” I believe it is indeed who some people in our country very much are. I couldn’t help but think of a scene in Dickens’ Christmas Carol I’d recently watched. The one where the imposing, jovial Ghost of Christmas Present pulls back his heavy robes to reveal the wretched creatures “Ignorance” and “Want” huddled beneath. Scrooge, repulsed and terrified, asks whose children they are and the ghost growls “they are Mans.” He warns the selfish Scrooge the gravity of neglecting them. On Tuesday at the Capitol, the creatures beneath our pretty robes were exposed. Among them were corruption, greed, racism and willful ignorance. The question facing all of us remains - what are we willing to do about it?

Quarantine Log: Day 8

8:00 a.m. Awake from nightmare in which you're stuck at home with your family for days...oh...wait..

8:15 a.m. Make pot of coffee. Read texts from various group chats. Copy and paste any funny memes, careful not to paste a meme into the same group chat you just got it from. Sip coffee and wait eagerly for the "haha's" to roll in.

9:00 a.m. YouTube workout. Lay on yoga mat deep breathing. Get distracted by dust bunnies under bed, get vacuum out and vacuum under bed. Pour through photo albums under bed to soothing sounds of yoga instructor in the background.

10:00 a.m. Sneeze into elbow for second time. Wonder whether to take a Zyrtec or call the CDC.

11:00 a.m. Contemplate lunch. What will it be today - leftovers from Monday night's dinner, canned chicken noodle soup from 2017 or a bowl of cereal? The options are dizzying.

12:00 noon Stand at kitchen sink with empty bowl of cereal and contemplate meaning of life.

12:15 p.m. Watch news in which the President says Easter is a bigly holiday in which the Corinthians envoked the military production act to strong arm the Philistines into making stuff for Pharoah. Turn off the TV and stare at the screen and contemplate the meaning of life.

1:00 p.m. Finally attack junk drawer in kitchen. Throw away the ball of twine that has a roll of Scotch tape and three paper clips dangling from it into trash. Feel sense of accomplishment, shut drawer.

2:30 p.m. Take the dog on eighth walk of the day.

3:00 p.m. Nap time. Become one with bed.

4:00 p.m. Awake from nap starved and disoriented. Downstairs for post-nap snack of leftover chicken wings, a handful of Goldfish, three grapes and ice cream right out of the container.

5:00 p.m. Family asks what's for dinner. Weird. They're hungry and you're not, again. Decide to help economy and order takeout. Spend 15 minutes debating where to go.

7:30 p.m. Sip wine and scroll through Netflix. Choose King Tiger since everyone's talking about it. Watch 35 minutes and decide all 7 episodes could be accomplished in one Dateline. Flip over to Home Town and fantasize about downsizing to a small rambler in Laurel, Mississippi with reclaimed shiplap and nice people.

9:00 p.m. Stand in pantry eating Twizzlers and wondering if there's enough brown sugar to make chocolate chip cookies tomorrow.

10:00 p.m. Brush teeth and skip flossing out of sheer laziness. Ignore dark brown roots on top of head and bathroom scale in corner.

10:15 p.m. Lights out. Pray for all those struggling, for the medical community, for educators, for small businesses, for grocery workers, for scientists, especially Dr. Fauchi my new hero, and for my family who has to put up with me again tomorrow. God Bless us all.

Guns In America

A friend of mine lives in the quiet Virginia countryside among her horses and rescue dogs. This weekend her home was broken into by someone high on meth. I thank God she and her boyfriend have a gun and know how to use it. They were able to keep the person at bay until police could arrive. 

I’M VERY GLAD MY FRIEND OWNS A HANDGUN TO PROTECT HERSELF. And I believe in your right to own a gun to protect yourself or to go hunting with if that’s your thing. 

However, I don’t think high capacity firearms capable of mowing down entire crowds of people in mere seconds have a place in civilized society. Do you? I KNOW getting rid of them isn’t the only solution, because people bent on violence will use whatever they can get their hands on, but it’s SOMETHING. It's better than nothing. It will save lives. Like classrooms full of little children. Like food festival goers and people shopping for school supplies in WalMart. 

And before you go popping off with “guns don’t kill people, people kill people” Well NO SHIT Sherlock of course it isn’t just guns all by themselves. Most of us know the problem is way more complicated than that. It’s lack of resources for the mentally ill, it’s the continued legacy of domestic abuse and violence, it’s the spread of ignorant and hateful rhetoric to people that feel marginalized, it’s the glorification of brutality in our culture, it’s lack of accountability and of feeling connected to community for so many. It’s a BUNCH of ugly things we need to pay attention to and begin to untangle and address. It’s complicated and it’s hard work and we need to have the balls and the brains to look at it together. And we need leaders capable of doing something constructive. Soon.

Are we so polarized that this can’t be done? Is it all so black and white now, all so left and right that nothing in between matters? The whack jobs on the extreme left and the assholes on the extreme right seem to have control of the microphones right now and the millions of us somewhere in the wide spectrum of the middle have to sit here while they go at it day after day accomplishing zero but fueling hostility and division among the fringes. Oh and we have a president that sits on his gold plated crapper and tweets incendiary comments and then quietly grins when crowds at his rallies shout "shoot them" and "send them back." THIS SUCKS YALL and I’m tired of it. This shouldn't even be about politics. It’s about our collective health and safety and the kind of society we want to live in. Because tomorrow it could be your kid's school, your shopping center, your movie theatre, your church. Something has to change. Can we at least start with agreeing these types of military-style weapons have to go?

We can’t afford to remain complacent and uninformed. I don’t know what the solution is right now but we’re doomed if we throw up our hands and say nothing can be done. This is America! Land that I love. If there’s a will there’s a way. If we can put a man on the moon, build the Hoover dam, invent the internet and find Osama Bin Laden we can figure this thing out. We deserve better than what is now the norm in our country. Don’t we? 

Stages Of Parenting Boys On Ski Trips

Stage One: Sweet Misery

Activities include: 

-At least 30 minutes of wriggly prep including wrestling on onesies, thermals, socks, snowsuits, hats, gloves, boots and helmets and then removal of half that due to a stinky.

-packing up of diapers, binkies, Goldfish, sippy cups and woobies, followed by hauling uphill of the all the aforementioned plus one’s own skis, boots, etc. up to the slopes.

-approximately 20-30 minutes of straight up adorableness on the bunny slope 

-hot chocolate and cookie break while watching in awe as the big kids come down the mountain

-snowman building and snow angel making

-sweaty haul back to the room where either a hat or a mitten or a beloved woobie is discovered lost forever out in the snow. 

-Tears, baths, nuggets for dinner, fall into bed.

Gamut of parental emotions: Excitement, frustration, exhaustion, frustration, serious doubt at one’s fitness to raise children, delight at how cute they are in snowsuits, discovery of unconditional love, excitement, exhaustion and more exhaustion.

Stress Level: 11 out of 10

Stage Two: Snowboarding Younguns

Activities include: 

-boarding le$$ons 

-trying to keep up once they’re coached up and officially faster than their parents

-breaks for blue Gatorade, candy bars and sugar diabetus

-hot tub shenanigans followed by jumping half naked into a pile of snow 

-missing your sweet babies in snowsuits who have somehow been replaced by two cocky, hilarious neon and cammo-clad mini Shaun Whites.

Gamut of parental emotions: Shock and awe, resignation that you are no longer cool, exhaustion.

Stress Level: 6 out of 10

Stage Three: Teens a.k.a. Meet You For Lunch 

Activities include: 

-shelling out cash 

-watching them lose it reading ski run names like Organ Grinder and Beaver Run

-texting where to meet up for lunch

-shelling out more cash

-yelling that you are not a maid would you please throw away all those water bottles and pick your wet ski clothes up off the floor and give me back my phone charger

-amusement at their comical recounting of the day’s gnarly wipeouts and shweet victories

Parental emotion: Relief that you don’t have to keep up anymore.

Stress Level: 5 out of 10, but only at night when they go into town.

Stage Four: The Payoff Years

Activities Include: 

-downloading their playlist “Shred Gnar Pow 2019” on your Spotify 

-gratefully sitting back and letting them read trail maps and lead the way down the mountain

-collectively losing it over ski run names like Devil’s Crotch and Clamhopper   

-enjoying apres ski beverages together

-playing card games they’ve learned in college

-laughing at all the old stories from the ski trips you’ve taken together over the years.

Gamut of parental emotions: Amazement that they actually want to hang out with you, sheer bliss flying down the mountain together, warm fuzzies watching them genuinely enjoy each others company, gratitude for their sweetness and patience, pride that you haven’t messed them up too badly over the years, desperate hope that you can all do it again next winter.

Stress Level: Zero

Please Do Not Feed the Fears

I dream a lot. And like many people, I've had a recurring dream since I was young. Okay, it's not normal. Quite a humdinger of a nightmare really. I'm alone, afraid and trapped in a house of multiple rooms, confusing stairways and hallways. Something sinister is lurking out of sight, enjoying my powerlessness, mocking my struggle. The last time I had this dream was a few years ago. Once again, I had been stuck in the house for a long time and was frustrated and exhausted. Stairways led to solid walls and small doors led to smaller doors. I knew that something horrible was hidden deep in the house. Something that had to do with me. I didn't want to find the horrible thing, I just wanted out. Usually about this time I woke up. But not this time, not yet. Words are going to fail miserably here, but here you go... I rounded a corner and found myself face to face with what felt like pure evil. A malevolent being, about eight feet tall, with wings (not kidding) bore down on me. I froze in terror. For about one second. Because something in me finally snapped. I exploded in rage, lashing out at the top of my lungs, "LEEAAAVE MEEEE AAALONEE!!"

It felt incredible, purifying. What happened next was unexpected.

Bizarrely, the thing's head bowed as it turned quietly away, disappearing like smoke. I swear I detected a hint of hurt feelings. It was as if my outburst, my sudden change from fear to righteous anger, drained it's power.  I wanted to laugh with relief and wonder. My fear gave it life. Without that, it was nothing. I woke up in a twist of sweaty pajamas and the sound of my own yelling still ringing in my ears. That was the last time I had the dream.

The subconscious is a powerful thing. It's very subtle, but since then I have felt less frozen, less guilty. Definitely bolder. Once again, I can't find the right words. I don't know how to describe it. It's as though something in the chambers of my heart that was rusty and stuck was given oil, like the tim man, and finally settled into place.

To anoint with oil is a sacred form of blessing. I now look at that nightmare as a blessing. A gift from God. I will carry it with me always.