Enough with the tortured soul already

Ok, I started feeling like maybe the blog was getting a little too broody. Just to lighten the mood a little ...

There's a whole new genre of Russian jokes based on the New Russians (the newly rich business class, perceived as arrogant, stupid, dishonest, conspicuous consumers with poor taste). For example:

• Two new russians are at a concert. One says to the other, pointing to the director, "This is, what, Mozart?" The other says, "How am I supposed to know? You can't tell anything looking at him from behind."

• One new russian says to another, "Look at the awesome tie I got for a thousand dollars!" The other replies, "Idiot! I got the same tie right across the street for two thousand!"

I wish it would rain down, down on me

I want to live; I crave for sadness -

Against my bliss and love, in truth;

They sank my mind in idle gladness

And made my brow very smooth.

It's high time for life's derogation

To blow away the hazy peace;

What’s a poet’s life, void of desolation?

And what are void of tempests seas?

-Mikhail Lermontov, age 18

I watched an entire rainstorm from start to finish, curled up on the ledge of an open window 5 stories above the ground. From the sudden quieting of the birds, to the first big raindrops pinging the tin windowsill, to the people running for cover from the downpour, to the sun coming back out and everyone going back about their business.

There’s something about a rainstorm when there hasn’t been one for a while. It was a relief. It lasted about ten minutes, and I was sad when it was over. It was too quick -- I didn't have time to absorb the quiet that was almost sacred, when life stopped, people and animals disappeared, and it was just the elements, just the wind and the rain – and a couple standing on the path near the pond embracing. I watched them, imagining the double sensation of a kiss and the giant drops of rain on my face. I wanted to run out into the rain, too, to feel it on my hands, my face, my skin, my clothes, to gradually become completely wet.

I want to live! wrote Lermontov. I crave for sadness -

I want to live. Russians love suffering, Alla Vasilievna insists, because it’s part of happiness – indistinguishable from happiness – it’s part of life. I get that. I won’t go so far as to say I crave sadness in Lermontov’s madly romantic way, but I want to live, and to live completely. I want to feel it all, see it all, understand it all.

Now the construction workers are banging away again. Everyone’s out making noise and tinkering with the world again. I want to hold onto the feeling of the storm – the sensation of being alive again after a long hot spell. The presence in the solitude. The relief, peace, contentment, laced with a certain tingliness and excitement about what it all could mean – something new, something different, something dangerous.

Perestroika, physical and spiritual

Perestroika: The literal translation is "rebuilding."

The word you really hear all the time is remont -- it means "repair" or "remodel."

And it's going on everywhere you look in Moscow. Including here:

Hram Hristos Cpasitel (Church of Christ the Savior) is the largest Orthodox church in the world.

It was built in Moscow in the 1800s and destroyed by Stalin in 1931 to make way for an enormous Soviet Palace topped by a colossal statue of Lenin, designed to be the tallest building in the world. But the palace was never built, and the foundation of the cathedral became a huge swimming pool. (Yes, everything is huge, colossal, enormous, mammoth – we’re in Russia, and bigger is always better!)

In 1994, after nearly five years of petitioning, the Russian Orthdox Church was granted permission to rebuild the cathedral on it’s original site, and in 2000 the new building -- an exact replica of the original church -- was consecrated.

From the guidebook I bought there:

A tragedy for Russian Christians, the attempt of the Communists to put up the Palace of Councils in place of the cathedral revealed the struggle between God who had become man to save humanity and man who was trying in vain to become God.

The gigantic “Babylon Tower” … was a symbolic antithesis of the Saviour cathedral, its anti-reflection. … Many elements of the palace were devised as antipodes of the cathedral’s elements -- the huge statue of Lenin instead of the cross crowning the cathedral, the representation of a five-pointed star on the ceiling of the Grand Hall, and articles of the Stalin Constitution carved on the walls of the foyer.

And then this symbolism of resurrection and repentance, which I found especially moving:

Many Muscovites who watched the [groundbreaking] ceremony [for the new building] on TV in 1994 could not believe their eyes: the miracle did occur. The main national sanctuary was being resurrected from its ashes, like a mythological bird Phoenix. ...

Today it is primarily a place of repentance, a personification of the country’s conversion from atheistic theories to the Law of God, to Christian doctrines of eternity and the City of God, to the traditional roots of the Russian Orthodox civilization. The cathedral, regarded as a martyr for Christ, has been resurrected on the site to show gratitude to God for saving Russia and overthrowing the utopian theory of the earthly paradise. It is a sort of memorial to Russia’s history, heroism and sufferings. It is the national Orthodox idea embodied in stone.

It's. So. #@&%. Hot.

It's been around 100 degrees every day for about two weeks now. Oh, and did I mention there is NO air conditioning? I kind of want to die. I'm looking at a pile of seven empty 5-liter bottles of water and calculating that I'm going through about 2.5 liters of water a day right now. I think that's roughly double the recommended 6-8 glasses, no?

Some folks here are drinking more than water:

Drunk Russians Drowning Due to Heat Wave
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/russia/7891040/Drunk-Russians-drowning-due-to-heat-wave.html

AND (yes I'm on a weather rant) it hasn't rained, except for few brief rainstorms, which I'm convinced the Russian government is artificially creating by doing that thing where they put chemicals into the clouds and force it to rain. (I mean, why shouldn't the government control everything, including the weather?) The rainstorms last for about five minutes -- really big drops, but not quite enough of them -- and all they do is make the ground sizzle, then they stop.

And that's not all. In addition to all the crops dying from the drought, there are also shortages of electric fans (my friend saw a woman selling an old fan at a metro stop for 4000 rubles, which is about $130) and ice cream. Yes, they're running out of ice cream. Luckily I haven't been affected by this … yet …

So, I'd love to stay and chat but there's a cold shower calling my name. Or maybe a hot shower. It would still cool me down. You think I'm kidding, don't you …

The doorway

On Monday morning I meditated for the first time. Not like deep thinking (which I have actually done before, thank you very much), but like a guided meditation. Here.

This meditation used the sound of a bell to focus the mind and open the spirit. It sounded three times, with the idea being to feel the reverberations and welcome the sound physically into the body, followed by a period of remembering the sound and feel of the bell, the echo or memory of the bell. And then a mental letting go of the bell sound and opening to other sounds, followed by another focus on the memory of the bell.

It was during one of these repetitions, one of these moments of allowing the bell sound to come into you, that I felt it. It was fleeting, but it was as though a feeling of openness penetrated into the protective shell I’ve built to protect myself from life’s disappointments – especially from spiritual experiences that I may or may not be able to trust. At the beginning of the meditation, the guide said, “Cultivate the mood of wonder, of humility. Let this be the doorway to the practice.” That resonated deeply with me, and I think that inviting those particular emotions allowed that brief feeling of pure openness and centeredness.

In some ways, it was like an old familiar friend. In other ways, it was a little terrifying. I mean, can’t it be possible to have both my protective shell and that openness at the same time? I mean, what’s so wrong about being careful with your heart, not just in a romantic sense but in a life sense? I want to be cautious and yet impulsive, protected and yet vulnerable, distant and yet intimate. Paradox? Maybe.

“Cultivate the mood of wonder, of humility. Let this be the doorway to the practice.”

And not just to the practice, but to life. A further explanation of the meditation:

“Do you have the patience to wait ‘til your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving ‘til the right action arises by itself? The master doesn’t seek fulfillment. Not seeking, not expecting, she is present and can welcome all things."

[Here’s the point where this blog post should end, both because of length and because of overshare. But I can’t resist wanting to sort out this other idea … and yes, if you read it and it makes you feel the need to share the name of a good therapist with me, please go ahead and leave it in the comments ... ]

I have deep angst about this trip (ok, about my life) that stems from wanting to do something, to be something, to make an impact, to please have some meaning for someone somewhere. And I am realizing that this desperation – born of loneliness, of cultural conditioning, of the pure desire to give to someone – is paralyzing. It makes me choke. And this seeking, this expectation, this need is intense – I am desperately in search of fulfillment, I admit it. And yet “The master doesn’t seek fulfillment. She is present and can welcome all things.”

It sounds so beautiful. Simply to be present and welcome all things, all people, all experiences. To be open with the mood of wonder, of humility, like a child. Not to find or accomplish something specific or to return with something grand or impressive. But to be alive, and to find meaning and connection in being open to the world.

But this is a difficult state of mind to sustain. Already in the 35 seconds since I typed that last line, my mind has started off down the road of justifying my desire to achieve something visible, something tangible, by tying it to the lofty desire to love and be loved, to give, to impact. But is it really for others I want this, or for myself? I feel afraid that by letting go of trying to do something impactful, I will sink into oblivion, into meaninglessness and loneliness. It’s like a struggle between the will to power and nirvana. The desire and ambition grip me, paralyze me. The letting go, the mediation is lighter, more open and yet now in it’s aftermath I seem to fear it more. I fear losing control, losing everything. Abandoning myself to the higher power and then simply disappearing. Alone.

And all of this -- all of it -- exists only inside of me, only in my mind, yet it affects everything. That's sort of weird, right?

“Cultivate the mood of wonder, of humility. Let this be the doorway.”

(June 2010, Peterhoff, Russia)

Meet Rosa

Rosa is my suitemate. We share a bathroom, a fridge and a door. We really can't communicate at all, but I've grown to sort of adore her.

Rosa is from Palermo, Italy. She's in Moscow for four months learning Russian. She has two daughters in their 30s, and her husband either died or divorced her -- I'm not sure which -- 20 years ago. Like I said, we can't really communicate. Rosa speaks an unintelligible mix of Russian, Italian, English and Crazy. She gesticulates wildly in a quintessentially Italian fashion and is passionate about, well, I'm not sure what she's saying, but about everything, it seems. She has a portable CD player, and I can often hear her in the next room either repeating Russian words or singing along as she putters about her room.

One day not long after I arrived, I answered a knock on our door, and there was a young, ripped Egyptian guy standing there. "Is Rosa here?" She wasn't. "Tell her I stopped by to say hello?" Um, sure. "Rosa is such a cool lady." Really? Huh. I mean, I don't really know her. Sometimes she invites me into her room to drink juice and "talk," which basically consists of me speaking Russian and her not understanding, her speaking Italian or her special mix of languages and me not understanding, and a few times we've actually used two dictionaries to translate words from Italian to Russian and then Russian to English. Usually they're words like "birch." I mean, I had already guessed "tree," but apparently she really wanted me to understand that she was talking about a birch tree. So you can see why conversation might take a while.

After the Egyptian guy stopped by, I started paying more attention to Rosa -- not just her quirks, but her essence, you could say. And I have to agree that she's such a cool lady. I love that she gets really big eyes, smiles, nods 50 times and says "ciao" when she sees me. I love that she sings along with her CD player everywhere she goes, that she talks to the TV in the cafeteria while she's watching auto racing, that she sketches the pigeons that land on her windowsill and shows me the drawings multiple times. I hope that when I'm Rosa's age, I'm still as passionate, as adventurous, as excited to travel the world, to try to learn new things and to connect with people as Rosa is. She's kind of awesome.

So You Think You Can Dance ... Moscow?

I took a stroll down Arbat Street this weekend and discovered why the SYTYCD franchise has yet to branch out into Russia ...

(Highlight is at about 2:00 when one pretends to shoot the other, who is then miraculously resuscitated)

And yes, you heard right, they did mention Michael Jackson's name ... more than once. And yes, the music piping out of their tiny little speakers is directly from Super Mario Brothers.

You gotta give it to these guys for getting out there, though. Living the dream. I respect that.

Also, I feel kind of like the tall guy when I dance. Sort of all over the place.

(almost) White nights

The view from my window, 11:00pm.

Sister Pond

There’s something about speaking a language you don’t know well that makes life seem simpler, more straightforward, less complex. Suddenly, talking about everyday things like where you live and how many people are in your family is SO interesting. A simple conversation becomes a cultural exchange, a linguistic challenge. And as the Russian language slowly comes back to me, I feel so satisfied with myself for my little victories in small-talk, of all things.

I wonder if, for me, part of it is that speaking Russian takes me back to a previous time in my life when things really were more simple and life really did seem black and white.

Last night I went to the English club that the missionaries hold each week. I chatted with people in Russian afterwards for a long time, and found myself falling back into patterns of conversation and even of thinking from my missionary days. All my complex questions about life and God and the universe seemed so far away, and for a moment, the world was black and white again. It was so easy to invite people I just met to come to church and to sincerely hope they would. And the whole experience felt like a relief, like a return to childhood of some kind.

But that’s just it – it’s a part of my spiritual childhood, a part of my history, not of my present. My mission was a foundation, a jumping-off point for my adult life, and just like my childhood, it inculcated many good things that I’m grateful for, but it also sowed the seeds of misconceptions that have caused me pain as I’ve tried to sort them all out. There will always be fond memories, nostalgia, and the longing for lost innocence, but I don’t know if you can ever truly go back. And I'm making peace with that.

Not to completely switch tone, but since we’re talking about nostalgia, here’s a video I stumbled across of a Russian singer singing “Where does childhood go?” It’s truly horrible. I should probably be embarrassed for posting it. But it's fully on topic -- and fully Russian.

In Russia, many men now carry purses.

I'm not really sure what else to say about this.

Freedom

All we have to do now
Is take these lies
And make them true somehow
--George Michael

Alla Vasilievna wears the same white shirt with the same beaded necklace every day. She has short, dyed blond hair that she pulls while she's talking. She's at once a cosmopolitan world traveler and a deeply nationalistic Russian (unconscious racist overtones and all). And she's a terrific Russian teacher.

Yesterday's topic of discussion was freedom.

Alla Vasilievna asked us all what freedom means to us. Lena, a Cornell student and daughter of Russian immigrants to the US, said freedom is the opportunity to make of your career and your life whatever you want to. Tamara, a history professor from Germany, pointed out that poor people aren’t free because they don’t have the same choices rich people have. Terry, a native of Trinidad-Tobago now living in Washington, DC, said that he has very little, but that he is freer than people who are in slavery to material items. And Pavel, a lawyer from the Czech Republic, said that he doesn’t feel free in Russia because he always has to carry papers with him and because someone refused to sell him beer when a policeman was nearby.

And then, animatedly pulling at her hair, Alla Vasilievna explained that to the Russian psyche, freedom is not an obviously and inherently good construct in the same way that it is to people from some other countries. There is a fear, she said, of unchecked freedom, of anarchy. The idea of the “will” is an ancient one in Russian culture, but the word for “freedom” entered the language more recently and is not understood to have a necessarily positive connotation.

Alla Vasilievna also drew a distinction between personal freedom and political freedom. Personal freedom, she said, is the freedom to choose what you do, where you go, who you marry, etc. Political freedom includes things like freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, etc. According to Alla Vasilievna, personal freedom is important to Russians, but political freedom is "not as interesting." When I pressed her, saying the line is not very clear and using freedom of speech as an example, she even went so far as to say that as a Russian, she felt just as free under Communism as she does now, because she still had personal choices about her career, her family, and the rest of her personal life, and government is another realm altogether.

Now, I'm not a Russian, and I get that I can probably never completely overcome my own cultural upbringing and fully grasp another culture. But is this a bit of a stretch in defense of the Russian people? Alla Vasilievna added that Russians feel free because their country is so large and they have myriad options for travel or living within their own country, unlike smaller countries with close boundaries. And then she capped off her defense by asking each of us what we do when the sign says "don't walk" but there are no cars in sight? Apparently Russians tend to walk, but people from other European countries wait for the light to change. "Who is more free," she asked?

Today we talked about religion (that's a topic for another post ... or hundred posts). Alla Vasilievna mentioned that she is Russian Orthodox, and I asked her about practicing under Communism. She said that she went to church secretly because she knew that if she was caught, she could lose her job at the university or compromise opportunities for advancement. Which sounds to me, with my American predispositions about freedom of religion, like an infringement of personal freedom.

And yet, I believe Alla Vasilievna. I don't know to what extent she represents the rest of her country, but I believe that she secretly attended church and felt somehow personally free at the same time. And I'm fascinated by the idea that in this country, the lines between church and state, between personal and political freedom may not necessarily be drawn more thinly or thickly than in a place like America, but rather on another plane altogether.

Russia

It is impossible to comprehend Russia with the intellect,
Or to measure her with any common measure;
Russia has a unique posture --
It is only possible to believe in Russia.

--Feodor Ivanovich Tiutchev, 1803-1873

Where am I, you ask?

I'm in Moscow.

Why am I here? Great question.

A few years ago, at the recommendation of several friends, I started reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. She writes about her travels to Italy, India and Indonesia on the heels of a wrenching divorce in an attempt to rediscover meaning in life. But I found myself resenting Gilbert and all her exotic wisdom so much that I had to stop reading after the first few chapters.

Nice for you, I thought, that you can just pack up and travel the world to mend your broken heart. Nice that you have the means and the time and everything to do whatever you want. If I had that luxury, I could also write full-time about the purpose of life, have more spiritual epiphanies and sort through all my personal psychoses.

But I don’t have that luxury. I’m stuck here in what feels like a dead end life with crushing student loans, an hour-long commute to an unfulfilling job, a crisis of faith, disappointment upon disappointment in my personal life and no idea what to do next. And all I’m getting from reading your "inspirational" book is that if I want to find purpose and meaning and healing I need to have a ton of money so I can travel the world. What about the rest of us? What about people who have to find a way to sort things out on a budget, while still juggling life's responsibilities?

And yet, here I am. I’ve arranged for 16 weeks of leave from my job to work on an important-sounding writing project. I've put all my earthly belongings into a 5' by 8' wooden crate. I’ve scraped together enough money to get to Russia and (hopefully) survive there for ten of those weeks. Maybe I bought into it after all. Maybe a part of me really believes that leaving my life behind, even temporarily, and living a foreign life in a foreign country while writing about foreign people is the path to life's answers. Maybe I resented Elizabeth Gilbert because I wanted to be her. Or maybe I just bought exactly what she was selling, without even realizing it.

A few weeks ago, I said to M., Maybe after three months in Russia I’ll know exactly what I want to do with my life. I’ll have direction and answers.

Probably not, he said.

Wow, I thought. That's a little mean.

But he was right, and that's when I realized how hard I was trying to be Elizabeth Gilbert. Life's answers aren't just out there for the taking, growing on mango trees in Thailand or currant bushes in Russia. It's not like there's an on-demand channel for them. I'm just as likely to come back and be right where I started as I am to find answers to any of life’s questions, solve my crisis of faith and have clear direction for my career and my love life.

And you know what? It's a relief to think that maybe I won’t figure it all out this summer. Or ever, for that matter. And so in the end, the answer to why I'm here is that I want to be here. Sure, maybe I'm trying a little too hard to find meaning. Welcome to my world. And yeah, maybe I'm just running away. So what? (Thanks, Dad, for helping me come to terms with that one.) It comes down to the fact that I just want to be here, and I can. And so I am.

It's like this guy said, after quitting his fancy New York City engineering job (what is it with our generation?) to walk across America. (Yep, just walk. He loves walking, apparently. And he’s meeting people and seeing the country and getting to walk.) He said:

"I didn't want to be too ambitious about what I would figure out on this walk. I didn't want to tell myself that when I was done, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. But maybe in the back of my head somewhere, I'm kind of hoping that."

Amen, brother.

Quote of the Day

"We would like to draw your attention to the fact that hot water in the dormitory will be closed until June 30 due to technical reasons of Moscow government."

Um.

Remember me?

Hi. I'm back.

Little brown dress

Would you -- could you -- wear the same thing every day for a year?

This person did. And I'm fascinated by it:

So, here's the deal - I made this dress and I wore it every day for a year. I made one small, personal attempt to confront consumerism by refusing to change my dress for 365 days.

In this performance, I challenged myself to reject the economic system that pushes over-consumption, and the bill of goods that has been sold, especially to women, about what makes a person good, attractive and interesting. Clothes are a big part of this image, and the expectation in time, effort, and financial investment is immense.

She blogs all about her experience and insights over the course of the year, and as I read I found myself secretly wishing I could wear the same thing every day, realizing that it's not realistic in my world -- but then thinking, ok, what IS realistic? Ten items of clothing? Fifteen? Yeah, maybe, actually. Twenty? That's still a LOT less than what's in my closet right now. And it's also a lot more than most people in most countries in the world own.

Anyway, I have approximately one million more thoughts related to this topic. The idea of simplicity, of simplifying life, seems to be popping up every time I turn around -- in movies, music, and friends' homes.

So this post is kind of just a teaser. More thoughts on this later.

Everybody hurts

Without going into personal detail, can I just acknowledge something here?

Sometimes I hurt. Sometimes I hurt a little, sometimes a lot.

Don't worry, I am fine. But the past couple of weeks have not been fine. That's just kind of how life works sometimes. I'm coming out on the other side of this one, amazingly intact, and starting to have some pain replaced by wisdom and insight and even peace. But a part of me -- call it the emo part? -- still wants to acknowledge it, to say, this is how I felt. Not, this is how I fixed it, or this is what I learned, or this is who helped me -- but simply, I felt this. I am a real person having a real human experience, and this is how it feels sometimes. And I know I'm not the only one who feels it.

And so, in the spirit of teen angst, this song from my teen years is for all of us.

Getting my stuff done

I'm having one of those days.

Four in a row, actually.

In fact ... posting this video to my blog is a shining example of my amazing non-productive productivity ...

My dad and the untold story of black mormons

I saw a moving film (for the second time) on Saturday night called "Nobody Knows: The Untold Story of Black Mormons."

It does a beautiful job of covering, as one of the producers, Darius Gray, put it afterwards, both the the bitter and the sweet. I felt somehow healed by it, not just in terms of racial reconciliation but also in terms of reconciling my faith. I highly recommend it to anyone who has the opportunity to see it -- whatever your race or religion. Check out some extended clips from it here.

Coincidentally, I also received a short memoir from my dad this week on the same topic. I was excited to get this piece of family history -- I'd never heard all the details before. Like my dad, I am proud of the progress my country and my church have made over the past several decades. Thanks, Dad, for recording and sending this!

"In light of the recent inauguration of President Obama, our first black president, I thought it would be fun to share a set of cultural experiences I had in South Georgia.

"In 1979, I was living with my growing family in South Georgia. Just one year after the revelation on blacks receiving the priesthood, our small branch of the Church, in Americus, Georgia, was the only integrated church in the County, with 50% black population. I was a counselor in the branch presidency, and we were having trouble getting white members to accept black members attending church with whites, refusing to sit anywhere near them, and certainly not on the same pew!

"I had a black home teaching companion named Willie, and after home teaching the relief society president, I learned from the elder’s quorum president that I was never to bring Willie with me to her house again. Not letting us in the house the first time, she had let us visit with her on her old southern porch. Next time, I was informed, she would not be so kind.

"At work, I was teaching multi-cultural training, with a 50% black and 50% woman workforce. The white men didn’t like us “HR black lovers” too much, because of this training, and said it was totally unnecessary, since they had been raised by black mammies, and therefore got along with their black brothers quite well.

"On the home front, the white man who built my house came by one night, under the cloak of darkness, to tell me that if I sold my house to a black man, which I was considering doing, he, the builder would be run out of town and it would destroy his business.

"One day, Sister Stevenson, a black member of our branch asked my wife Vicki and me to sing at her son’s funeral. Her son had been killed in a drive-by shooting. So Vicki and I went to the funeral at a small, one-room church out in the country. The church looked like an isolated wooden shack, with a red dirt parking lot, and a single picture of Martin Luther King hung from the white walls inside.

"When it was our turn to sing, there was no piano for the accompanist we had brought, so we proceeded to sing Oh My Father “acapella.” In the middle of the first verse we realized the crowd of black family members was beginning to sing with us, clapping and swaying to the beat. So, yes, you guessed it, we went the distance with all the verses with black choir accompaniment. Vicki and I adapted to the southern singen style, and found ourselves exhilarated by the spiritual experience we were having together.

"After the funeral, and at the luncheon, most of those black family members and friends hugged us and told us how much they liked the song, accepting us as members and friends of the family. I was deeply moved by this experience as our hearts were touched by their kindness and love. I have often wondered since then, when and how we might begin to be as loving and Christian as this community of black people. 30 years later, I take great joy in seeing how much progress the Church and our nation have made."

Obamarama

It's really the only way to describe DC last weekend: Obamarama. One big Obamafest. Or, as one columnist put it, a combination of an Obama-themed flea market, a tour bus park, a street party and an armed camp.

Another way to describe it would be our mantra for inauguration day: "More miserable = more memorable!" The complete story:


Yes, I managed to roll out of bed with a 6 on the alarm clock, dress in five layers on top and three on the bottom, and pack sardine-like onto a train with folks from Missouri and North Carolina for what turned out to be an hour-long ride into downtown. More miserable = more memorable!

By some miracle, I actually met up with my friends (Kim, Richie, Hannah and Greg) in the throngs of people. In eight years in Washington, I've never seen anything like these crowds. We waited in line for a couple of hours -- I won't comment on the tundra that was DC except to say that I've never been happier to pay above-market price for anything than I was to purchase $5 handwarmers some lady was hawking out of a backpack. But it was ok, because more miserable = more memorable!

Our line eventually dissolved into a crowd of confused people. At one point, people started chanting, "Let us in! Let us in!" and I pictured myself actually dying heroically while protecting the two women next to me in wheelchairs from being trampled. (More miserable = more memorable?!)

We squirmed around the outer edge of the crowd to the front where security guards were turning everyone away (even though we all had tickets!), saying the mall was at capacity -- which turned out not to be true, as we found out by running half a block down and cutting onto the mall between some parked tour buses. After jumping a concrete barrier, pushing through another crowd, breezing through a make-shift security point and running across two downed fences, we ended up with a great spot on the north side of the Capitol reflecting pool -- just as the ceremony started. From there on out, it was much more memorable than miserable.

It was true -- there was real energy and comraderie in the crowd. My favorite moments of the ceremony included:

• Aretha Franklin's song (she rocked), especially when she sang the line "Land where my fathers died" -- it gave me chills. (Yo Yo Ma was cool, too, but the slow song, although beautiful, didn't match the upbeat tempo of the crowd. I did love it later when I watched it on TV.)

• Obama's speech, especially this paragraph:

"Those values upon which our success depends - hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism - these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility - a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task."

• People-watching in the crowd around me, especially all of the older African-American ladies dressed to the nines in their pearls and fur, walking with their heads high and seriously contagious smiles on their faces. The meaningfulness of this event to the black community in DC can hardly be understated and has touched me over the past couple of weeks.
  

So there you have it. My view of the Obamarama. But this post would not be complete if I didn't include a picture of the cookies we frosted at Collette's house sporting the Obama logo. Ryan and Kim brought some Obama cookies from New York, too -- please note the "black and white" cookie, as well as the mini-pecan pie -- "Yes Pe-Can!"

Whatever your politics, it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement of this weekend -- of being alive to see history in the making. Here's to America!

The problem with getting to work on time

... is that it makes the day too long!

That's what it says on a refrigerator magnet given to me by someone who knows me WAY too well.

Last week I discovered another problem with getting to work on time. Well, in this case, early. I arrived at 7:40, almost an hour and a half before our office officially opens. I turned on my computer and then walked out to the cafe to get water and tea. As I was about to walk back to my desk, I realized I didn't have my little grey fob-thingy to get me back in. I was locked out, trapped in the lobby, and no one else was in sight.

I didn't know what else to do, so I watched CNN for a while, all about Bush's farewell address and the plane crash into the Hudson River. I tried using the lobby phone to call and see if any of my coworkers who usually arrive early had snuck in through the other entrance. Finally, at 8:10, the director of our project came into the cafe. I, of course, pretended like I'd only been in the cafe for a few moments and nonchalantly let him hold the door open for me because my hands were full.

His reaction to seeing me at 8:10 am: "What are YOU doing here so early?"

My nephews are cuter than your nephews

Sorry, but it's true. Could these guys possibly be any more ADORABLE?!

Seriously. Just try to resist these handsome baby blues ... go ahead, try.















Thanks for the pics, Em! I love them! And I love the real you guys, too!

Everything we have ever loved

"Christmas--that magic blanket that wraps itself about us, that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. It may weave a spell of nostalgia. Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer, [or of craziness], but always it will be a day of remembrance--a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved."
~ Augusta E. Rundel

It has been such a day for me. Thank you, dear family and friends, for being part of my life and for including me in yours. Merry, merry Christmas!

Year-end stats: 2008 (aka my sort-of Christmas letter)

• Houses lived in: Just 1! (This is the first time in six years I've stayed put in the same house and the same room. Yay!)
• Herb gardens planted: 2
• Herb gardens still alive: 0 (except for one determined rosemary plant)
• Pounds lost in biggest loser competition: 10 (see here)
  
• Pounds gained back at end of competition: none of your business
• Episodes of LOST watched: 72
• Writing classes taken: 1
• Book club meetings hosted: 10
• Countries visited: 3 (Egypt, Jordan and Israel; see here and here)
  
• States visited: 4 (See here, here, and here for Colorado; here for Idaho/Utah; and here, here and here for North Carolina)
  
• Trips to Utah to see family: 3
  
• Vacation days left at end of year: 0
  
• Pounds of Hunter's seriously sharp cheddar cheese consumed: ~10
  
• Awesome kids I teach music to at church each week: ~40
• Presidential elections survived in DC: 1 (Third one! Can you believe I've lived here more than 8 years?!)
• Times pressed snooze: 365 x ~5 = ~1,825
• Minutes spent commuting: ~21,600 (45-60 each way every day - see here and here)
  
• Books started: ~50
  
• Books finished: 15?
• Major reports released at work: 4
• New blogs started: 2 (see here and here)
  

'Tis the season ...

... to elf yourself!

Images of Christmas

Washington, DC Temple:







Our house decorated for Christmas:

His charisma is killing me

I was walking past a stack of newspapers on my way to the printer this morning when I saw a headline out of the corner of my eye that literally stopped me in my tracks:



"Obama's Charm Offensive."

Man, I thought, you just can't win with some people, no matter what you do. People are offended that he's a nice guy who's good with people?

Then I caught the subhead: "Radically different from Rahm." Wait, I thought Rahm was the offensive one. I'm so confused.

Luckily there was a second subhead that shed more light: "Republicans clearly flattered by personal calls." And suddenly I got it. "Offensive" is a noun here, not a verb. He's waging a charm campaign. Killin' 'em with kindness. Ha ha!

I immediately remembered the list of funny actual headlines we got in one of my college journalism classes -- things like "Iraqi Head Seeks Arms" and "Red Tape Holds Up New Bridge" and "Kids Make Nutritious Snacks." In fact, I just found a similar list here:

Funny Newspaper Headlines:

• Drunk Gets Nine Months in Violin Case
• Safety Experts Say School Bus Passengers Should Be Belted
• Survivor of Siamese Twins Joins Parents
• Iraqi Head Seeks Arms
• Eye Drops off Shelf
• Reagan Wins on Budget, But More Lies Ahead
• Shot Off Woman's Leg Helps Nicklaus to 66
• Enraged Cow Injures Farmer with Axe
• Two Soviet Ships Collide, One Dies
• Two Sisters Reunited after 18 Years in Checkout Counter
• Cold Wave Linked to Temperatures
• Red Tape Holds Up New Bridge
• Deer Kill 17,000
• Man Struck by Lightning Faces Battery Charge
• New Study of Obesity Looks for Larger Test Group
• Kids Make Nutritious Snacks
• Chef Throws His Heart into Helping Feed Needy
• Fire British Union Finds Dwarfs in Short Supply
• Ban On Soliciting Dead in Trotwood
• Lansing Residents Can Drop Off Trees
• Local High School Dropouts Cut in Half New
• Vaccine May Contain Rabies
• College Opens Doors to Hearing
• Old School Pillars are Replaced by Alumni
• Include your Children When Baking Cookies
• Hospitals are Sued by 7 Foot Doctors
• Bank Drive-in Window Blocked by Board
• British Left Waffles on Falkland Islands
• Air Head Fired Steals Clock, Faces Time
• Lung Cancer in Women Mushrooms
• Farmer Bill Dies in House
• Teacher Strikes Idle Kids
• Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash
• Probe Told Miners Refuse to Work after Death
• Drunken Drivers Paid £1000
• War Dims Hope for Peace
• If Strike isn't Settled Quickly, It May Last a While
• Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead
• Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Spacecraft

(This list also kind of reminds me of some e-mail forwards I got circa 1998, back when it was cool to forward funny jokes and I would even print some of them out and put them in a binder -- true story. Didn't grasp the whole Internet thing at all back then.)

Anyway, I'm kind of proud to have discovered my very own unintentionally funny headline.

And here's another thing about this front page that you might have found interesting: the picture of the guy with the white hair. Um, that's not Rahm. Or Barack. Did they get mixed up and put someone else's picture under that headline? Nope. Turns out that pictures belongs with the story BELOW it, headlined "Larson: I'm not afraid of Speaker."

Note to editor of The Hill newspaper: Might be time for a small chat with your copyeditors and layout folks. (Try not to be too offensive, though.)