This I believe...

Based on Edward R. Murrow's 1950's radio series, This I Believe is a public radio broadcast that engages people in writing about their core beliefs and values.  In about 500 words, all different people, from Brian Eno (whose full name, by the way, is Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno) to Susan from New Lenox, IL, write about the beliefs that guide their daily lives. Mr. Eno writes about his belief in singing, whereas Susan writes about her former belief in the "unpredictable movement of the cosmic wheel [determining her] fortune for good or for ill" and how now she believes that happiness is a conscious choice--realizing that although she cannot change her situation, she can choose how she reacts to her circumstances.  (As it so happens, these are two of my own beliefs.)  Yesterday, while babysitting, I decided to try this exercise for myself.  I hadn't yet read either essay mentioned above, but knew about the concept.  And so I began writing.  Michael was busy doing his own writing: a comic book about his super hero, Super Goose and the villain, Poop Toddler.  I'm not making this up.  I wonder what he would write about for this exercise.

I had heard about This I Believe first from my mom, a Unitarian Universalist minister, but more recently from Jay Allison, the show's host, when I saw him as a guest on Portland's own public radio broadcast, Live Wire.  Below is a little bit of what I wrote yesterday--with some minor edits.  

"I believe in the power of music as an instrument of peace. I believe in the inherent worth of all human beings. I believe that if we can take more time to listen and consider what other people are saying to us, the world would be a better place.  I believe that children have a lot to teach us about ourselves and the world.  I believe everyone has the right to be happy and healthy and is entitled to his or her own opinions.  I believe we are all capable of creating our own possibilities and realities for our future.

Music as an instrument of peace. This is hardly an original idea.  I don't know the history and the facts, but I do know that when a simple message is communicated through song, it has the power to transform, transport, elevate, and inspire.  I know that when a group of people join together in actual harmonies, that there is no doubt that there is a possibility for world harmony.  Coming together in music is an agreement that says, 'We will stand together.  We will speak together. My tones and rhythms will complement yours and I will listen to you as we go along.  And I will stay with you.  We will begin and end as one, and in the process, we will create something beautiful with a combination of voices and tones never joined before.'  If that is not a precursor to creating peace, I don't know what is. "

The rest of it is pretty rough and incomplete so I won't include it, but it's an interesting exercise that will challenge you to consider your own belief system.  I'm not talking necessarily about religious beliefs, but that's not to say that those personal beliefs aren't or shouldn't be rooted in an established doctrine.  We all live our lives day to day guided by ideas and values, but are not very often pushed to clarify or put words to those beliefs. My friend that sat with me at Live Wire that night said she was going to have her whole family do this exercise over Thanksgiving. So after the turkey and the pie and the football, if nobody's up for a rousing game of Balderdash or Scrabble, maybe you'll want to suggest a family writing exercise.  Or not.  But maybe.  

Happy Thanksgiving!

These Photographs

Tonight I had the distinct pleasure of hearing Annie Leibovitz speak about her new book, Annie Leibovitz At Work, a book targeting the young photographer, with sections about various kinds of work--from nudes to groups to the creation of specific photos, like the one here, taken hours before John Lennon was killed. The funny thing about hearing artists speak is that they are artists and not, for the most part, public speakers. But we can let this go, especially for someone like Leibovitz (pronounced with a V, not a W), who had the chutzpah to ask the Queen to remove her "crown" (apparently it is a tiara, not a crown).

When my aunt handed me and Zach our tickets, she said, "You're front and center." We found our way to the Orchestra, showed the usher our ticket, and sure enough, seats 3 and 4, row A, were open. So we sat and I kept thinking, "Wow, that was really nice of Julie to give us these seats. I wonder where she's sitting." I glanced around, saw a few familiar faces, but as the lights dimmed, I turned my attention forward and thought, "If I'd known I was sitting up front, I would have worn high heels." Julie told us afterwards that they were for the Dress Circle (the lower balcony) and it just so happened that nobody noticed and that nobody came to claim those seats. That explains why our seats were even better than the Powells'.

For the next hour and a half, all that stood between me and projections of Annie's photos on a screen the size of the proscenium was the proscenium itself. As far as I was concerned, there were not 2700 people behind me. Just me, Annie, and the photographs (and Zach).

Ms. Liebovitz spoke of her early days at Rolling Stone, where she began working at the age of 21 and by the age of 25 was chief photographer. It wasn't until her early 30's that she became the chief photographer at Vanity Fair. I'll be lucky if I've moved out of Julie's house by the time I'm 30, much less working as the chief of anything. Hearing her speak about working closely with Hunter S. Thompson and the Rolling Stones, learning lessons about photographing actors from Sylvester Stallone, and seeing politically significant photographs from Nixon to Obama, I realized that here was a woman who went to art school to be a painting teacher but emerged as a photographer who would go on to weave herself into so many significant moments--politically, socially, and culturally--whether or not she knew it at the time. I think it's pretty amazing, actually, to build your own celebrity, willingly or not, based on a behind the scenes relationship to everything that is going on around you. There is a section in her book called Being There. And that is all that she does. She is present and aware, and always being there. I think there's something to be learned from that.

driving, footing, and bicing

I'm unemployed. Again. Or as my good friend's sister called it this summer, funemployed! I'm always working on putting the "fun" back into funemployed. Day 1's effort consisted of catching up on Entourage with On Demand, pricing airline tickets, emailing and stressing about said plane tickets (not as fun), not booking said plane tickets and exploring this city by foot. There seem to be four acceptable modes of transportation in Portland, OR: hybrid, foot, bus or bike. Light rail and streetcar are good too. Sure, people drive Jeeps and VW's, but you get fewer nasty stares from the bike commuters if you're in a Prius. The looks that I catch in my headlights on a near hit on Ladd Avenue seem to say, "Get an effing bike...oh wait, you drive a Prius? That's okay. Sort of." Okay, I'm making that up, but today I skipped the wheels altogether and headed downtown in my New Balances. It wasn't quite clear enough to see Mt. Rainier as I crossed the Thurman Bridge, but it was still a really beautiful day. Thanks to the alphanumerical grid of NW Portland, I was able to reach my destination by way of a route I had not gone before. I discovered new shops, new schools, and new angles from which to view the cityscape. On my way home, though, when I was running a bit behind schedule, but it was faster to walk than wait for the next bus, I thought, "Man, I could really go for a bicing." A what!? A bicing!

I was introduced to this community bike-share over the summer while in Barcelona. For a yearly membership of 24 euros, commuters can check out a bike from one of a number of stations throughout the city. In Barcelona, the first 30 minutes is included with the membership, and after that, there is a charge of 0.30 euros per half hour. 24 euros and zero emissions? You really can't beat that. Bicing definitely came to the rescue a couple of times during our stay, particularly when we had to get far past Montjuic to go to the UPS holding station but the metro was under construction. So we hit the streets with a good map and a few bikes. Problem solved.

Bicing/SmartBike is run by US-based Clear Channel. So where is it in the States? As a car owner who doesn't yet own a bike and who doesn't always want to wait for the bus, a bicing-like program would be a welcome addition to this already bike-friendly city. Turns out that in August 2008, a trial fleet of smartbikes was introduced to Washington DC. Our country's 120 bikes and 10 stations (all in DC) are easily rivaled by Europe's 13,035 bikes and 1,254 stations, but at least we're giving it a go.

While I don't know the current status of the planning process in Portland, a cursory perusal of local blogs seems to suggest that mayor-elect Sam Adams is on the case for a public bike-share. At least he was as City Commissioner. We'll see what comes of his mayoral term. The likely advocates of such a system would be cyclists--people who want to advocate a 2-wheeled culture to overpower the imposing 4-wheelers. But are they? They already have bikes; They're never hankering for a bicing. I may have to wrangle my Barcelona travel companion (also a Portland resident) to champion the cause with me if we find that nobody else is doing it or find that it has simply slipped through the cracks of electoral excitement. More research is definitely in order, but if you're in DC, check it out and let me know how it is.

Don't settle for less

I am an unlikely romantic, but a romantic nonetheless. For the last few years, my life has been less like a fairy tale and more like a bad sitcom, at least insofar as romance goes. Don't worry, this post is not a whine fest or an introspective on the ramifications of being the child of divorce. But I do find the subject matter at least slightly amusing because a friend of mine from college who recently read my blog said, "I like your style. It's very Sex and the City." This coming from a man. But Carrie Bradshaw never had a story like this:

Julie (*name changed) is my hair dresser. She also is the hair dresser for my mom, my sister in law, and my two step sisters. It's a family thing. Julie is 51 years old, never married, and a wonderful woman--and by far the best hair stylist I have ever had. This past spring and early summer, she had been doing some self improvement exercises, reading books like A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose. In doing this she realized that she was settling when it came to her personal life and made the move to break it off with her then boyfriend. Around the same time a friend of hers had an opportunity to go on a free cruise to Italy and Greece in a luxury suite and offered to take Julie with him. She gladly agreed and embarked on said vacation with her [platonic] friend.

To back track a little, when she was about my age, or younger, Julie had spent a couple summers in Greece and had fallen in love with a man named Stavros (*name not changed because it is so awesomely Greek) but at the end of each trip, she returned to the States, and Stavros stayed in Greece. Now, more than 20 years later, she was docking in Greece again. She phoned Nikolas (*name changed because I don't remember his name), who had married her friend, though they were since divorced. Julie said, "Come meet me in Athens for the day." He said, "Better yet, I'll pick you up and bring you to town [where she had spent her summers] and everyone will come to the coffee shop and be so happy to see you." But before hanging up she did not fail to say, "And if Stavros is around, it'd be good to see him, too."

Nikolas had called everyone he knew and said that he had a surprise for them. Some agreed, but others needed more incentive. But when they heard who it was said, "I'll be right there." On the drive, he called Stavros from the car: "Hey Stavros! Come to the coffee shop. I have a surprise for you." " No no, I'm busy. I can't." "Hold on." and he handed the phone to Julie. Remember, more than 20 years. "Hello?" says Julie. "Julie??" He knew it was her just from her voice. "Julie, is that you? Hold on, I'll be there in 20 minutes." As it so happens he was recently divorced and told Julie he'd been in love with her for 20 years and they would never be apart again. She told him that she can't possibly move to Greece and he said, "No, I will move to Boston." And while they knew they wanted to spend their lives together, they weren't going to get married just for the sake of the green card. So he said, "I will go get a visa so no one can question our intentions." He went to the consolate (or embassy or wherever) and told his story. "Why didn't you marry her 20 years ago?" asked the official. "I know I know..." He then proceeded to obtain a 10 year working visa for the US! About a month ago Stavros actually moved, and I just found out a few days ago that they are engaged and we're keeping our fingers crossed that my mother gets to perform the wedding. Let me also not forget to mention that he is movie-star handsome.

It is a story like that and the story of a woman I met, widowed by the war before the age of 30, who found love again and is taking a chance with odds against her (in a shack in New Zealand with no running water), that keeps me a hopeless, although unlikely, romantic (not to be confused with a hopeless flirter according to urbandictionary.com). I think my romanticism also has something to do with my strong affinity for Hugh Grant movies. So if you, too, are a fan of love, but prefer to take a more activist stance on it, be sure to check out my friend Josh's new website: AllorNotAtAll.org. It's new, but get on board early and let's make this movement happen! Because why should we settle?

I knew it didn't make sense...

It was kind of you, my readers (all three of you) to not call me out on quite the blunder in my midnight entry. See, I was going on about how Lew was born between Kristallnacht and the signing of the armistice treaty. At the time it struck me as odd that those two things would be happening around the same time. And it seems that my history degree and analytical training/reading skills completely failed me at the moment that the post went to publish. Because while November 10 is the eve of Armistice Day, the treaty itself was signed 20 years earlier. Good job, Annie. Do not let my chronological misprint take away from what I expressed about Lew, but it does make for slightly less dreamy writing to say that between the terror of the Holocaust and the 20 year anniversary of the ending of a World War... So we'll focus on Kate Smith and that, perhaps, with the help of Irving Berlin, she was really singing about America being blessed with Lew's presence.

A septuagenarian celebration

It's after midnight. No, we're not going to "let it all hang out." We're not even going to "chug a lug and shout." (Don't be alarmed. I had to Google the lyrics). We're going to celebrate the fact that right now, in all time zones of this great country, my step-father, Lewis Lloyd, is 70! Happy Birthday, Lew Lew!

Among many things, my step-dad has an encyclopedia for a brain. If he were writing this blog, he would not have to check Wikipedia to know that November 10 is the eve of Armistice Day, the end of World War I: the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. He might not know, however, that on November 10, 1938 Kate Smith sang Irving Berlin's God Bless America for the first time. But chances are he does know that.

It seems that Lew was born at a pretty interesting time in history--a day nestled between the Kristallnacht and the signing of the armistice treaty. It's kind of amazing, actually, that in the midst of what I'm guessing was total chaos on the other side of the globe, Lew was born and into this world came the kind and loving man who would live a lifetime of stories before coming into our lives. It took me a little while to even get a vague picture of the life that Lew had long before I met him. He often tells stories using only first names of world class artists. I soon learned that Bob is Robert Rauschenberg and that Merce and Twyla will often dance across the stories of his life. This past summer I was in the kitchen with Lew and my mom and overheard a story he was telling her in which he kept referring to "Leonard." Leonard this and Leonard that. He may have even called him Lenny. I looked up from my magazine and said, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but who's Leonard?" "Bernstein." Right. Of course.

I could go on and on about Lew Lloyd for quite some time, but I will just say how grateful I am that in a time of the terror of the Holocaust and the likely tumult of a World War's ending, there came a child that grew up to lead the wonderful life that Lew has lead and raised the amazing family that I am so lucky to now call my own, and has brought such happiness into my mother's life. I am grateful for his generosity, his kind spirit, his enormous intelligence and sense of culture, and his humor--all of which come in handy when needing help with a New York Times crossword puzzle.

I love you, Lew Lew! Happy Birthday!

Yes. We. Did.

Yes we did, and I have the button to show for it.

July 27, 2004: My uncle decided to leave the DNC in Boston a little early that night. I had been listening to the speeches over the course of a couple of days from high up in the nose bleed section, more distracted by my immediate surroundings than the color of Hillary's suit. But that night, my uncle handed me his floor pass and I found my way to sit next to Marianella, one of Tom's staffers. I was excited to hear Teresa Heinz Kerry, but before she came on, I was going to have to listen to some senatorial candidate with a name that I couldn't seem to get to stick in my head. "What's his name again?" I said to Marianella. "Barack. Obama," she said with great excitement. But I kind of shrugged my shoulders and took my seat, hoping I would have enough energy to stay awake for Teresa. Dick Durbin introduced the young State Senator and the signs went up--a sea of "OBAMA," a site that has now become more household than I would have imagined 4 years ago--and the cheers began. Seemingly everyone in that room had heard of this guy except for me. So I sat and listened: "Tonight is a particular honor for me because, let's face it, my presence on this stage is pretty unlikely." His presence on that stage? How about his presence on stage in front of 100,000 people in the city of my alma mater, St. Louis? How about his presence on stage in front of a countless number of people in Grant Park? How about his presence on the stage on January 20, 2009, behind a podium that will bear the Seal of the President of the United States? How about THAT?

Obama spoke for I don't know how long, but he spoke in a way that captured everyone in that convention hall. He spoke in a way that convinced me that there was no way that he could be reading from a teleprompter. He spoke in a way that inspired all of us to believe in the politics of Hope: "the hope of a skinny kid with a funny name who believes that America has a place for him, too."

At the end of Obama's speech back in 2004, I, someone who was FOR Kerry and not just AGAINST Bush, turned to Marianella and said, "Too bad we can't vote for him!" It even crossed my mind that maybe he could run next time, but surely that wouldn't happen because who goes from State Senator to President in 4 or even 8 years? But I can admit when I am wrong. And guess what? I was so wrong. And I am so glad that I was.

I can proudly say I was one of the first million to join the Obama movement. I went against many of my high school friends working on the Clinton campaign. I even took on the whole Firestone family in a heated discussion one summer night on the Cape. (Btw, a huge congratulations to Mike Firestone, the Field Director for the NH Coordinated Campaign, on the Shaheen victory). I had the bumper sticker, and knocked on doors as a way of avoiding studying for organic chemistry. Because some things are just more important than the finer points of a nucleophilic addition.

So here we are. November 7, 2008. I spent most of election night skirting around the swanky bowling alley where my organization was hosting our election night party. But not too long after the election was called by CNN around 8:03 PST, I stepped outside to get some air where a large crowd had gathered in the street, dancing to the music of a local marching band that had shown up unplanned. I have never seen such pure jubilation, especially not in this country. The band, March 4th, played for close to 2 hours. I all but abandoned post at the election party to join in the celebration. Never mind that our staff had been at work since 6:00 that morning. And so I went to bed that night feeling relieved, but more importantly, renewed.

The next evening at my choir practice, we sang "Strangest Dream." A song that we have been rehearsing for a couple of weeks now suddenly carried new weight. A new hope. A new reality.

Last night I had the strangest dream I ever dreamed before.
I dreamed the world had all agreed to put an end to war.

I dreamed I saw a mighty room and the room was filled with men.
The paper they were signing said they'd never fight again.

And when the papers all were signed and a million copies made,
They all joined hands and bowed their heads and grateful prayers were prayed.

And the people in the streets below were dancing round and round.
Their guns and swords and uniforms were scattered on the ground.

Last night I had the strangest dream I ever dreamed before.
I dreamed the world had all agreed to put an end to war.