The day of our departure...

is tomorrow. Sorry to be so quiet this week, but it's been quite busy as you can well imagine. Packing. Unpacking. Repacking. We travel only with carry-on bags, so we've gotta keep things to a bare minimum. The children are finally in bed. I'm going to be up for a while still. Tomorrow we leave here around noon and fly to Miami. Then at 6 in the evening, we take off for Madrid. After months of planning, the day of our departure is upon us.

Fortunately, I will have access to a computer in the apartment where we will be staying, so I hope to post blogs on a regular basis. More regularly than I have in the past two or three weeks. At least, that's the plan. Actually, let me revise that. We will arrive on Friday. We will then leave Madrid for five days from Sunday until Thursday. After that, I should be able to regulate my posting a little more.

Please bear with me. Please feel free to write to me at gailnhb@yahoo.com. Please ask questions. I will try to answer them. Please give sage and timely advice on travel with children. Tell me of your favorite haunts in Madrid, little towns you loved in Spain, shops you returned to again and again. In return, I will describe our apartment, our neighborhood, our new food selections - all that kind of stuff. What an adventure this promises to be for all of us!

I am so looking forward to this trip. So much to see, taste, learn, and experience with the children. I am going to try not to teach them a whole lot; my goal is to let them learn a lot on their own. If they have questions, I will do my best to answer. Otherwise, I want to keep as quiet as possible and watch them figure a lot out on their own. This is going to be tough for me. I'm a talker. I'm a teacher. I want to tell all that I know - hence, the blog. So I'm using this trip as a test of my ability to take off the teaching uniform and just be a Mom. Be a loving and generous travel companion for my two youngest and most dear friends on this Iberian journey. Be a fellow explorer. Be a listener. I hope and pray that I will be able to bring those newly learning skills back home.

Well, I'm off to clean the toilets one last time, find our money belts, straighten up and clean off the homeschool table (our school year is officially over!), and do some serious journaling before bedtime. So much to write. So much to wonder about. So many questions to pose - then upon my return I will see how many of them have been answered. Perhaps I will return with only more questions - and no answers at all. If that happens, the trip will have been a success. Living the questions... That's the true story of my life.

On the road again, Gail

The Dreaded "D" word...

Today on Oprah, Brooke Shields bravely told the story of her severe post-partum depression following the birth of her daughter. As she lay on the operating table after her emergency c-section, as her doctors tried to put her uterus back into place, as she watched her husband bond with their newborn daughter, Brooke was overwhelmed with rage and fear, and went on to harbor feelings of self-loathing for months. Eventually she was able to find a doctor who helped her, advised her to take medication, and she has emerged from those dark months of dark moments willing to tell her tale and encourage other women to seek help, to not try to manage their anguish alone. Oprah and the studio audience applauded her courage to tell her story not only on television but also in a new book called Down Came the Rain. There she sat, the Hollywood beauty, the tall, thin one, the model, the actress, the one I have come to admire over the years – there she was on international television admitting to having visions of the death of her child, her own suicide, and eventually wishing her daughter lived somewhere else. Anywhere else, just not in her house. The audience was quiet. Oprah was quiet. I was quiet. And from the midst of the quietness, the truth rang out loud and clear.

We all have times of severe depression. We all have times when we can envision the deaths of those around us, even the people we love most dearly. We all have times when it seems like the best answer to the biggest questions in our lives is: escape. We all wonder about our career choices, parenting choices, our choices of spouses or significant life partners. We look back on childhood and wonder if we were adopted. We look at ourselves in the mirror and wonder who it is that is gazing out at us. What brought us to this position in life? What mistakes have we made that landed us in this place, with this job, in this house, with this spouse, and with the future that seems to loom ahead?

Okay, Gail, enough with the “royal we” thing. I will tell the truth. I too have suffered from depression. Way back when I was a sophomore in college, I broke up with my first “real boyfriend.” Well, he wasn’t so much a boyfriend as he was a college professor I had gotten involved with. Anyway, it was over. He moved on, and I moved into the gloomiest basement suite of Hotel Depression that was ever rented out. I spent countless hours weeping in my dorm; I’m glad I had a single room. I stayed awake many nights in a row with an aspirin bottle in one hand and a pillow in the other. I screamed curses at him at the top of my lungs into my pillow and kept the aspirin close at hand in case the need arose to take 20 or 25 at a moment’s notice. I was in a bad way for weeks. I lost weight. I missed classes. I spent several nights at the college infirmary talking to a nurse who assured me that if I allowed myself to cry freely eventually the tears would stop and I would be better. At first, I didn’t believe her. Then I gave in to the sorrow, and a few weeks later, I emerged from my period of mourning as a new woman, brought back from the very brink of death.

While I have never felt that type of despair again since then, I admit to many bouts of post-marital, post-motherhood, real life depression. There are mornings when I wake up that I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to cook or clean or do laundry or homeschool. The only thing I want to do on those days is run away. I want to pack a bag, grab a few books, my journal, some pens, and hit the road. No turning back, no turning back. There are times when I look at my husband and wonder why I married him. Or more accurately, I wonder why he married me. I look at my children and wonder what I was thinking when I begged Steve for children. I look in the mirror and wonder what on earth I’m here for. Perhaps I have kept Steve from marrying the woman he was really supposed to be with. Perhaps these children would do better with a different mother, a more loving, kind, more interested mother. I sit with my Bible on my desk some mornings and wonder exactly what would happen if I stopped pretending that I love the Lord and that I believe all that is written in the Bible. What if this really is a colossal waste of time and energy? What if I reneged on my life and walked away from all of it? I could find an apartment in a small city overseas, find a job, buy a few new skirts, a great pair of boots, a good hat, and get on with what my life was really meant to be.

On those days when the dark clouds roll in, I make a big mug of tea, eat a lot of chocolate, cry a lot, watch television, write in my journal, and wait for night to fall so I can try again another day. I write in my journal a lot about the life I would live if I ran away from this life. I write about the man I’d be shacking up with somewhere in Europe, the fantastic life we’d lead, the motorcycle we’d buy and zip around on, and the trips we’d take around the world. Because of course he’d be filthy rich, I’d be free of the stretch marks that make me look a lot more like a zebra than a human being around my midsection, I’d have bigger breasts, a smaller waistline, and he’d adore me relentlessly. When I finish describing my fantasy in all its sordid details, I close my journal, finish my tea, cry a little bit more, and then I get on with my life. This life. This wonderful life. I remember that my depression doesn’t change the fact that mine is a glorious life.

Fortunately, the bouts of depression don’t last long. Most of the people who know me have no idea how deeply I go during those tough times. But if Brooke Shields can tell the truth publicly, so can I. Life doesn’t always look like what we think it will look like. It doesn’t always work out as we expect and plan that it will. Perfect pregnancies end in emergency c-sections. Good marriages end in divorce. Nice Christian girls contemplate suicide. Hard working students cheat at school, get caught, and lose college scholarships. Kids get cancer. Friends disappoint. Churches fall apart. Yet we try desperately to keep our secret moments of despair to ourselves because we are convinced that no one else feels as we do. And since we are convinced that they don’t, we know that they will be really disappointed to find out that we do.

Let me rephrase that: there are many moments when I am convinced that no one else feels like I do. No one else looks at their children and wonders what would happen if I left them asleep in their beds and headed for the airport. No one else loves God as much as I do but still struggles with repetitive crises of doubt and fear of completely wasting my time with this “religion” thing. No one knows the trouble I’ve seen. Today Brooke reminded me that many people have known the trouble I’ve seen. Many have suffered the same sorrow. All of this is the stuff of life. Some write books about it. Some write blogs about it. We all need to come out of the closet about it. I just did. Who’s next?

It's a Wonder-Full Life

I cannot believe it has been over a week since my last blog. These days have flown by, and they show no signs of slowing down. If today really is the 2nd day of May, then we have only ten days before we are off to Madrid for 33 days. The kids are concerned that a month is too long to be away, that they will miss their friends, and that life will cease as they now know it. I reminded them that it’s been over a month since we returned from England, but it doesn’t feel like very long, does it? Silence. They nodded. I assured them that the month will absolutely fly by; in the end, it won’t feel like long enough.

Let’s see. What has happened to me in the past week? What has happened that is worthy of comment, worthy of the time of my faithful few readers? The grandfather of my dear friend Karen passed away. Yup, that’s right; her grandfather! How awesome for her and her two sisters to have moved fully into adulthood with Grandpa still alive. Even my children, who have already lost both grandfathers to death, were incredulous at the news. I certainly mourn her loss, but I envy her many years with him.

Three friends sent me reading materials in the past week. An article about self-publication (Thanks for the hint, Virginia), someone’s beautiful, but slightly exaggerated Christmas letter, and that kind person who patiently packed my order at Amazon.com sent me two books I will take along on our Iberian adventure. And the week before last, another friend sent a book with recommended sights for our next trip to England. It’s such an honor to be remembered by my friends, to be thought of on a trip to the post office, to be fondly recalled as stamps are posted on envelopes. To receive mail is a miracle unto itself, but to have mail sent with my face and my spirits in mind, that is sublime. As is the heartfelt email. I receive many forwarded stories, poems, jokes, and accounts of political foibles that are usually quickly forgotten. But several recently received tales of forays into Italy, Cuba, Norwalk, Sandy Hook, Wilton, Atlanta, and even my beloved Charlotte – those are the most cherished of all. Thanks again to all who write to me and encourage me to write.

Earlier on this gloriously sunny and warm day, the children and I walked to the home of a neighbor and pried open the door to the tiny little home of six tiny baby bluebirds erected in her backyard. Mama Bird was in the nest with all her babies tucked beneath her, protecting them from the intrusive and noisy Belsito investigative team. We peeked in, wished them well, and then closed the door behind us. On our way past the house, we decided to check on the gecko that lives on her front stoop. Green where his body intersected with the tree and black where its tail crossed the wrought iron handrail, that little crawly critter moved us to giggles as he withdrew haughtily into his leafy loft when we bent in close to stare at him. Just across the street from our house, another neighbor is harboring baby birds in the bush outside her kitchen window. We checked on those slightly older bird-babies on our way home. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Three women were trying to figure out the best way to aim wayward sprinkler heads so as not to water the street, and Rocky, the immovable Husky, basked in the sun, expending only enough energy to wag his tail and invite the kids over for a quick back scratch. What a way to begin our homeschooling morning!

After lunch and a trip to Sonic for strawberry limeade, we drove to Kristiana’s horseback riding class. Rolling hills, horses nibbling on grass in the field, cats curling around the feet of watching and waiting parents, and Kristiana trotting around the dirt track atop Gray Master – there was a quiet majesty in that meadow as I stood there smelling the heavy, horsey air, watching planes streak across the clear blue sky, and wondering what could possibly make that moment more wonder-full.

On the way into the house, I grabbed a bag of shrimp out of the garage freezer, sautéed them with butter, olive oil, and garlic salt, and served them with brown rice and spinach salad. The meal was cooked and on the table in less than half an hour. It was a rare culinary moment: no one complained. With the last grains of rice still on his lips, Daniel sprinted outside to join his friends for one last game of basketball before everyone headed in for the evening. Kristiana picked up her pen to continue writing her latest novella: a story of intrigue, defiance, and family ties in a slave cabin back in the 1800’s. I cleaned up the kitchen, took out some garbage, dusted the hardwood floors a little, and then I remembered.

I remembered that in the midst of the most mundane, the washing of dishes, the filling of empty water bottles, the sorting of laundry, the vacuuming of beige carpet, and the drinking of sweet white wine – in the midst of the ordinary, life is extraordinary. Nope, there aren’t always deep lessons to absorb and impart. There aren’t always life-altering conclusions to draw.

Sometimes just being alive is the lesson. To stand there in that field, to watch Kristiana ride her horse, to listen to Daniel’s basketball bouncing on the driveway, to smell the residual shrimpy smell even as I sit her at the computer, to feel the hard plastic of the keys beneath my fingertips, to thank my husband for bringing me this glass of wine, and even to join a friend in weeping over the loss of a loved one, to be aware of all five of my senses – every last bit of it is miraculous.

One of Kristiana’s basketball coaches had a great response every time I used to say, “It’s good to see you.” He’d always say, “It’s good to be seen.” You are absolutely right, John. To be seen, to be above ground, to be breathing and typing and cooking and cleaning and loving my children, even yelling at them for giving me a hard time this morning because hot chocolate and banana bread for a midmorning snack weren’t enough – they wanted the morning off from school – even then, angry and resentful that they weren’t more thankful, I knew that there is great value in the unimportant. Every simple, recurring, monotonous moment of life is to be celebrated. As one of my favorite cinematic characters wrote to her children in her final journal entry: “There is great beauty in the world. Go well, my children.”

That is my daily dream: to see the great beauty that there is in this world, to go well in it and through it, and to celebrate even the most commonplace occurrences. This last blog-less week gone by, I have done just that.

Dance like no one's watching.

Last night my husband and I went to see Savion Glover perform. He tapped and sang and laughed and brought us all to our feet with a performance the likes of which I had never seen in all my 39 and a half years. His sweat soaked through four shirts several towels that were strategically placed around the stage as he lead his band of four outstanding musicians by the movement of those magnificently jubilant feet. Whenever the audience applauded yet another astounding maneuver, their applause annoyed me because the sound of their hands drowned out the sound of his tapping. I remember being transfixed when he performed with Elmo on Sesame Street years ago. I went out soon thereafter and bought the Elmo’s greatest hits videotape so I could watch that skit over and over. Over the years as I have sorted through our old toys and videos and passed them along to needy friends, I have always kept that tape. With dreadlocs flying, sweating dripping, and my heart on the tips of his toes, Savion Glover absolutely blew me away.

After intermission, he introduced three extremely talented young people, the youngest of whom is only 15, who are literally and figuratively following in his footsteps. The three of them tapped in unison, took turns trying to out-dance each other, and followed Savion’s lead in several numbers. They looked out above our heads the whole time that they performed, swinging their arms, swiveling their hips, and soaking through their own shirts. As I watched them, I predicted that at least one of them will return to Charlotte’s Blumenthal theater 10 or 15 years from now headlining a show of her or his own. (Yes, there was a lone female tapper – and she was white, swinging her nearly waist-length blond hair all around the stage.) I wondered where they would perform when they left Charlotte. I wondered if they practice together daily, if they do any other kind of exercise, how long their road trips last, and if their parents travel with them. I wondered how they met Savion and what he thinks of their talent. Just as he inherited the mantle from Gregory Hines, he is now grooming others to continue wherever he leaves off.

I also wondered what it is in my life that makes me dance, sing, sweat, laugh, and ignore the whole world around me in order to do that one true thing. I felt certain that if no one in the city had been wise enough to buy tickets for last night’s show, he would have danced anyway. He spent more than half of the show dancing with his back to the audience; he was obeying that oft-quoted phrase - He was dancing like no one was watching. I was honored and grateful to be there to watch him do it. The communication he had with his band and with the other dancers was eerie in its silent and, for me, imperceptible accuracy. With whom do I have that kind of intimate communication? Who walks in such lock step with me? Who hears my taps for help, or my taps for energy, and dances with me? Who am I training to carry on when I am gone? Whose taps do I hear and by whose side do I dance and walk and leap for joy?

As I watched them dance in unison, I thought that there are times when we must stand and move together with a common enemy before us. There are times when there is great power and usefulness in marching to the same beat. The allied forces in World War II fought violence with violence in order to win the liberation of Europe from the Nazis. I would argue that often it is more difficult to fight violence with peace, but sometimes peace is the only hope. Martin Luther King Jr. exemplified the power in numbers when thousands stood together non-violently against the most virulent and violent forces of his day.

When the dancers challenged each other to be more creative, when they broke ranks and told their own tales with their taps, when they acknowledged that even when the music sounds the same to our ears, sometimes our bodies respond differently – when they danced their solos, my heart raced right along with theirs as I recalled the countless times I have felt unique responses to identical stimuli. My experience of homeschooling is vastly different than my children’s. I read Greek myths to them and can barely keep up with names and places; they hear the same stories and point out similarities between those myths and The Chronicles of Narnia. I am flabbergasted by their insights. My experience of my marriage is different than my husband’s. I remember conversations and activities that he cannot recall. He plans ahead and buys gifts and plans trips that I have no idea of until the last possible moment. My travels in Spain and Italy cannot be compared to those of friends and family who have seen the very same sights and architecture. There is glorious variety in our diverse experiences. There is great joy in sharing our tales of the road. When we finish our personal recounting of our life stories, when we have compared notes, agreed and disagreed, then we can join hands again, recalibrate our steps so that they fall as one, and march on.

And that young blond woman was certainly a surprise. Images of Sammy Davis Jr. and Gregory Hines and Savion Glover danced in my head; I never allowed for the possibility that there are white people who tap as well. Sure, there are tap classes at the Y and at local dance establishments. But I had never seen a woman tap so well, so fluidly, and so ferociously. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing any female over the age of 7 or 8 with tap shoes on. Thanks to Ashley and Savion, my eyes have been opened to yet another of my prejudices.

So of course I wonder: what are the other preconceived notions I harbor in the recesses of my mind and heart that must be uncovered and dealt with? What do I assume about women, men, children, teenagers, people of my own race as well as others, gay people, Republicans, straight people, Southerners, Californians, Northerners, Europeans, Indians, and all the other countless groups of people I know and know about? Will I be willing to tap myself on the shoulder and point out my biases when they arise in the future? A pet peeve of mine is this: I simply cannot stand is when people tell me they aren’t prejudiced. “Me? I’m not a racist. I’m not prejudiced against anybody. I see everybody the same way.” Well, that’s a lie. We all have prejudices. We need only be placed in the right situation, and words we never thought we’d say fly past our lips in record speed. Thoughts we never thought we’d entertain scroll across the screen of our minds without so much as a spell check. It happened to me just last night. It happens to me on practically a daily basis. And it happens to everyone; some are more willing to admit it than others.

Savion Glover never knew I was in the audience. He didn’t come to Charlotte with the intention of teaching a black homeschooling mother a lesson in racism and sexism and creativity and relationships - among other things. But I will not soon forget the many lessons he taught me last night. From Happy Tappin’ with Elmo to Tappin’ Happy in Charlotte, Savion and I have come a long way.

A word of thanks...

Thanks so much to all of you who write to me and encourage me to write more. I have a blog in the works even now. I saw Savion Glover perform tonight, and it blew me away. I've gotta write about dancing. Please keep coming back. Please keep writing. And don't be nervous about coming out of the woods of anonymity. I promise I won't bite. In any case, I wanted to respond to a comment I received tonight.

As for my book group's take on Nickel and Dimed: there was a fair amount of criticism of the style of the book, but not as much discussion on the content as I would have liked. We are a group of very wealthy women by all the world's standards, so it seemed hard to criticize ourselves. It's hard to admit that we too look at people at WalMart or the people who clean houses and make hotel beds with some disdain. I admitted freely that I have prejudices and struggle with biases. I know I have a lot to work on, but I look at it this way: anytime that I read a book or have a conversation or write a blog that motivates good introspection and self-examination is a blessed time. As long as folks are reading, thinking, asking about change, then there is hope for positive change. Even - or perhaps especially - when people disagree with me, there is so much to be learned. To be considered. To be reconsidered.

As for what you can do to make a difference, talk about injustice with your friends. Speak up when you see an employee somewhere doing a great job. Speak to the person, and write a note to the manager. Acknowledge the presence of working people when you see them. Whenever you have the chance, be sure that you pay and treat people fairly. Write letters to influential people you know. Advise them to read this book. Seek justice and right and fairness in all your dealings with people. If you have children or are around children, teach them about fairness and justice. Help them to see that the world isn't always fair, but they can each make a difference in someone's life. Just today, I saw many good bumper stickers. One that struck me a lot was simple: "Praying for peace." Another recent one was: "America, Bless God." And I thought: Yes, we must keep hope alive. In big ways and in small ways - like blogging. Like bumper stickers. Like questions that rock the boat a little. Even when it's the boat we are sailing in at the moment.

If we each make a determined effort to keep hope alive, to speak peace, to be peace, to seek peace and pursue it in all the areas and relationships in our lives, then there is a chance. If we speak up and stand up for the oppressed, for the disabled, for the lonely, and for the depressed - in other words, if we notice the people around us in the world and choose to involve ourselves in their lives and in their pain, then we will each be alleviating injustice.

As for me, I simply refuse to give up hope. That's why I write. I write to recover my lost and damaged dreams, to keep myself aware of my life and alive in the world. I write to analyze, criticize, and synthesize my thoughts in such a way that I can motivate others to do the same. I share it because if I didn't I'd be standing on a corner somewhere with a sandwich board around me shouting at passersby. I can reach a lot more people on the information superhighway. And I don't have to SHOUT! I write because you read and write back. But mostly I write because not writing is no longer an option for me.

Kinda like Savion Glover tonight: that is a man who simply cannot NOT dance. What joy. What energy. He is a tap-dancing, sweating, smiling, singing, force of nature. Imagine how much difference we could make in the world if we each found and honored that one thing in our lives that makes us sweat, smile, sing, and dance - and we did it with gusto? What if we did it until we soaked through our clothes, drew crowds, and launched each other out into the night with renewed strength and joy? Imagine what kind of world we would have. I can only imagine...

Thanks again for your kind words and gentleness of spirit. It means more to me than you know.

Peace, Gail

What would happen if...

The other day while working on one of my daily collages, I came across a quote I’d heard and read many times before, but for some reason this time I stopped and considered it as I never had before. This is Muriel Rukeyser’s quote: “What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.” Perhaps her answer is a bit overblown, but her question is radical.

What if I told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in all situations? While I don’t mean to imply that I am a bold-faced liar, I must admit that most of my interactions with other people involve some form of shading the truth. “Don’t you just love this roast beef?” “Well, not really. I find most beef dishes to be dry and tough,” is what I’m thinking, but what I say is, “I really like the sauce. Is that ginger I taste?” Or at the mall where I love to sit down at the MAC counter and have my face made up, the tight-bodied little artiste will adorn me with neon-pink eyeshadow that matches a newly released lip gloss, and then fawn over how bright my eyes look and how full my lips look. "Holy moly. Get this stuff off me. I look like Bozo’s psychotic mother-in-law,” is what I’m thinking, but what I say is, “I was thinking of something a little closer to my skin tone. My make-up colors are fairly modest.” When she turns her back, I grab a tissue and wipe off as much as I can. That's the sort of thing I do often during the course of my day.

But what would happen if I told the truth about my life? What if I told the truth about the fights I had with my three older brothers in the basement of our house on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn, New York? What if I told the truth about being on the school bus for an hour each way, the things other kids talked about, the way the bus driver spoke to us, and how many objects were thrown from the windows into the cars of innocent co-travelers on Brooklyn’s streets? What if I told the truth about being the first black girl to graduate from Poly Prep, about the things girls did and talked about in the locker room, about being surrounded by boys and girls growing up in Mafia-connected families, and about the drugs and alcohol that flowed so freely right there on campus? What if I told the truth about my freshman year at Williams, about the Political Science professor who taught me about Argentina, and the Englsih professor who introduced me to the underbelly of American politics as demonstrated by the invasion of Grenada? What if I talked about my rage against corporate America (even though this computer was paid for by two of the world's largest conglomerates), against most manifestations of religion in our nation and around the world, and about how disgusted I am with all the ways that the name of the God I love is dragged through the corridors of politics, power, and even our churches with absolutely no regard for what I understand His name to mean and represent?

What if I finished these sentences out loud, here in this blog, or in the presence of people who know me, trust me, and call me "friend"?
• Even though I love being a wife and mother, there are many times when…
• I really hoped that marriage and motherhood would be more like…
• If I hadn’t married Steve, I would be…
• The decision I most regret is…
• What was I thinking when I…
• If I had the chance to relive that moment, I would…
• If I had a million dollars to spend in any way I wanted, I would…
• If I knew that no one would ever find out, I would …
• If anyone knew the real me, the me that hides behind the image, I would…
• The thing that wakes me up most often in the middle of the night is…
• I think our President is…
• I wish this country would…
• I wish I could live in… because at least over there, the people don’t…
• At church, when I watch the choir sing and the pastor preach, I wonder if…
• How is it that people can call themselves Christ followers when they …
• If I weren’t a Christ follower, I would…
• I thought being a Christ follower would mean I wouldn’t have to deal with…
• Many times when I close my eyes to pray, I’m really thinking about…
• Who does she think she’s kidding when she says that kind of thing? Who do I think I am when I say most of the things I say?

I know that I am not the only one with these sorts of unfinished thoughts, sentences, and questions floating around in the miasma of my mind. I know because when I’ve had a second glass of wine with friends, they divulge similar secrets. I know because after the awkward pause in most conversations, the truth begins to ooze out around the edges of the polite banter. I know because my journal is full of these types of sentences in their completed forms, and everyone else I know who keeps a journal or writes with any regularity gets the same gleam in their eyes whenever I mention the cathartic nature of what Sabrina Ward Harrison calls, “spilling open.” I know because there is a blog (at least one, anyway) dedicated to finishing this type of sentence. Feel free to check it out at: http://postsecret.blogspot.com. The secrets posted there are outrageous and mundane, individual and collective, and each time I surf over there to see what’s new, I am secretly relieved that so many people out there already know so many of my secrets.

What would happen if one woman, one man, one boy, one girl, what would happen if I told the truth? I suspect that the majority of the barriers erected so solidly between spouses, parents and their children, extended families, blended families, friends, neighbors, and neighboring nations would unexpectedly, delightedly, and perhaps even permanently fall. Alas, I will likely never know. After all, I didn’t finish these sentences myself, did I?

Fewer and farther between...

Nowadays when I look back over my six-month history of blogging, I feel like I’ve let up, like I’ve stopped writing as much as I used to. And the truth is that in volume and frequency, I do write less than I did late last fall. When I am drifting off to la-la land late at night at the end of a blog-less day, often I will snap my fingers and chide myself for not writing something, for not reviewing a book, for not analyzing a poignant moment that took place over the course of my day. I certainly haven’t stopped thinking as seriously and carefully about my life now as I was in November or December. I certainly haven’t stopped reading good books. I’ve even taken to rereading some of the juicier ones. At the moment, I’m rereading Nickel and Dimed because somehow I talked my book group into reading it, and we will be discussing it at tomorrow night gathering.

What has changed is this: rather than analyzing and writing about life as much as I used to, I have begun to just live my life, enjoying it to the fullest, falling off to sleep at night completely spent and completely satiated. The surgical slicing and dicing that blogging had turned into is less appealing to me now than it was just a few short months ago.

For example, in the crazy pace of our recent journey to England, I had much less time to write. From morning until night we wandered, explored, toured, examined, and investigated as many sights as we could. We ate at fabulous Chinese, Indian, and Italian restaurants. We took hundreds of pictures. We walked and shopped and gazed and gawked and haggled and strolled, but we filled in precious few pages of our family vacation journal. I didn’t even cut out much time to write in my own journal. And my usual two dozen postcards mailed off to family and friends? Not this time. I spent far more time with my hand on my chin in wonder than with my hand on my pen and paper in reflection.

This past weekend, I made a quick turn around trip to New York City for the funeral of my sister-in-law’s mother. I flew into LaGuardia Airport on Sunday afternoon, rented a car, and drove to Teaneck, New Jersey for the viewing of her body at the funeral home. Four of her five children were there. And there was a stream of friends and family that came through that quiet lounge to see her one last time, but more importantly to talk about the legacy of her life. From there, I drove south to Princeton, New Jersey to spend the night with another sister-in-law and my two nieces. We talked and laughed, shared stories of travel, and ate a wonderful dinner. Up early yesterday morning, I made my way back to northern New Jersey for the funeral service. The stories her family and friends told of her full life, her busy life, her compassionate life were yet another reminder of the importance of giving of oneself to others, of focusing on the wants and needs of loved ones rather than on oneself.

Forget all the third person stuff – as I sat there listening, I was awed by the tales of her generosity of spirit, her love for children, and her determination to make her life as bright and wide-ranging and glorious it could be despite the fact that her husband left her with five children to raise, a mortgage to pay, and no real reason for the abandonment. It struck me that I tend to focus so much on the recording of my life, on the distilling of the facts and the parsing of each day’s events that I don’t just live my life. I don’t simply enjoy what’s happening to me; I gather material. I sort through the evidence of a life well lived and search for details that will fill the lines of a journal page and the paragraphs of a blog with clever witticisms and well-turned phrases. While I certainly would love to be known as a good writer, I would much rather be known as a fearlessly loving, generous, kind, passionate, and compassionate woman. In order to be that woman, I've gotta get up from the keyboard and get out into the world, and be the wife, the mother, the daughter, the sister, the friend, and the truly unique person I've always dreamed I could be.

So I have decided to let myself off the hook. I will no longer berate myself for missing a day or a week or even a month here online. I cannot imagine missing that long in my journal, but if I do miss a few, that’s okay too. When I had more time and fewer demands on my life, when the afternoon skies were dark and there were no soccer practices or other activities to pull me away from my computer, then writing was more natural and appropriate. But with Charlotte’s sunny spring days, with the grass and flowers in full bloom, with friends and neighbors calling regularly, out for driving and walking in the evening, and dropping by unexpectedly, I have found greater joy in relating face-to-face than finger-to-keyboard. As the days lengthen, as the calendar fills up with soccer games, play dates, and nights out with Steve, as the day of our departure for Spain approaches, and with two Bibles studies to prepare for and teach (and one is in Spanish!), these blogs will probably be fewer and farther between. But such is this life of mine… gloriously full.

PS. Only five minutes ago, I came across a quote and an idea that I want to develop for a blog tomorrow or Thursday. I guess these fingers have a lot more typing in them yet…

I think I might be pregnant...

I recently finished reading a book called Expecting Adam. (Thanks Joanne, for the awesome recommendation.) It’s the story of a woman’s pregnancy and the radical transformation that her son brings to her life, not only during the pregnancy, but also during every moment that has taken place since his birth. While I am not pregnant and hope to never be pregnant again, I would confess that those weeks and months of being with child were among the best of my life. New life growing within me, new souls being incubated before their emergence into the world, my body being all they needed for those nine months and for the six that followed their birth – those sensations will never be forgotten.

But they were also difficult months. Worries about their health, their intelligence, and my ability to birth and raise them raged through my hormone-laced brain on a daily basis. I wondered which of their parents they would most resemble, whether or not they would like me, and whether or not my in-laws would finally accept me once I gave them grandchildren. I rubbed my tummy with oils and lotions in an attempt to avoid stretch marks: to no avail. My midsection looks like the hide of a brown and tan striped zebra. I ate as much protein as humanly possible in order to make big, fat babies who embraced healthy eating from the start; I didn’t want a scrawny pre-mature baby so tiny that I couldn’t hold or nurse her. I needn’t have worried. The first time around, I gained forty-one pounds and gave birth to a nine pound daughter. The second time, I gained a more manageable 28 pounds, and he still managed to be more than eight and a half pounds. Then I took a break from peanut butter, boiled eggs, and spinach salad for about a year.

Even though I won’t be having any more children (Lord, please hear this plea for a child-free future…), I have come to a new understanding about pregnancy as a result of reading this heart-warming memoir by Martha Beck. At many points in life, we are the incubator for something or someone new. We carry within us the potential to birth many new lives. I remember vividly the sudden emergence of one of my 7th grade students when he finally “got” Spanish. One day he asked how it was possible for children in Spain to learn Spanish if they didn’t know English. Everyone in the classroom laughed at his question, but as we collectively came up with the answer, he developed a profound love for the language he had never known before that day. His insatiable thirst to learn more grew daily after that discussion. I hope that Jason is still studying and speaking the language of heaven.

Right here at Silvermine Academy, our homeschool on Brownes Pond Lane, I am thrilled as my eleven-year-old daughter is currently bursting into bloom as a creative writer and confident mathematician. She has doubted her ability for years, but in these past few weeks, along with the daffodils, tulips, and Bartlett pear trees that blanket our neighborhood, she has blossomed brightly and colorfully. Daniel too has finally discovered the joy of reading. He has loved sports since he could stand and walk, and now he realizes that there are equally exciting athletic adventures in the pages of biographies as there are on the cul-de-sac in front of our house. There are no words to describe my joy at seeing their ongoing growth into the young woman and young man they are becoming. I watch them as they do their work, I read their stories, I listen to their excited accounts of what they have come to understand, and I am proud to say that I have given birth to two people who love learning as much as I do.

During the course of Martha Beck’s pregnancy, it was discovered that her son would have Down Syndrome. After the initial shock of the diagnosis, she became a prolific reader and researcher about that syndrome and the possible effect it would have on her life and on the life of her entire family. Of course, there is no way to know the impact of a birth until the birth happens. No amount of reading and research and determination could have prepared her for the amount of criticism she received for making the decision to keep the baby after she was given his diagnosis. She was told by many that at the age of 25, she could easily have more children. She could easily avoid all her own pain and suffering as well as that of her unborn son by having an abortion. She and her husband decided to follow through with expecting Adam, birthing Adam, and giving him all the love they could muster. They have never regretted their choice.

I cannot imagine the pain, the fear, the anxiety that she dealt with during the course of that pregnancy. But I can imagine, and I understand fully, the pain, the fear, and the anxiety of being told that a decision I have made, that a life-long commitment I have made is an ill-advised one. Ridiculed for our decision to marry and form an inter-racial couple, Steve and I made the decision not to abort our relationship. Warned by many not to move our inter-racial family south of the Mason-Dixon line, Steve and I made the decision to come to the most beautiful, most affordable, and most welcoming city we have ever lived in. Advised not to leave the country so soon after the tragedy of September 11th, 2001, I made the decision to go ahead with my plans to travel to Italy in early October of that year, and it turned out to be the most spiritually, emotionally, and personally enriching solo vacation I have ever taken. Sometimes it makes most sense to consider most strongly the option that is most vigorously opposed by others… sometimes.

Expecting Adam is one of the best books I have ever read. The sorrow, the joy, the terror, the transformation, and the numerous encounters with Powers that were beyond anything she could ever have asked or imagined pointed Martha towards caches of strength she never knew she had. They forced her to face an unknown future, embrace the uncertainty, and prepare as best she could for labor, delivery, and raising a son that many people rejected before he was even born. Expecting Adam forced me to consider my own future in a delightfully new light and prepare for whatever is left in me, whatever is left for me to labor over, deliver, and nurture. Perhaps I've got a travel memoir on solo journeys, a book of personal essays, a guide to homeschooling, or a thousand more blogs in me. One never knows. I’m gonna wait and see; I won’t find out early.

Sweet Honey and Salty Tears

Sweet Honey in the Rock sang a song years ago that contains this line: “We who believe in freedom cannot rest until the killing of black men, black mothers’ sons is as important as the killing of white men, white mothers’ sons.” In the past few days as weeks as stories of death and dying seem to dominate the news more than usual, those words have echoed through my mind. How much value is assigned to the dying in my world? How much value is assigned to the living? Whose life matters most? Why do some lives seem to matter more than others? When a life hangs in delicate balance between life and death, whose business is it to decide who lives, who dies, and when? Who gets to decide?

Last week, a 41 year old woman died after years of love, support, hugs, kisses, and a feeding tube. An 84 year old man died after years of leading one of the most powerful organizations in the world. A few days before that, nine people died in a shooting at yet another school in yet another shocked community in yet another obscure American town. The police chief in Baghdad died at the hands of his own countrymen. Over thirty drug dealing men, women, and children (yes, the children sold drugs too) were shot and killed in a gun battle with police in Rio de Janeiro. Hundreds died after an earthquake in Asia. Thousands died of disease and starvation. Most of those people who died had no one storming the doors of courthouses on their behalf in an effort to prolong their lives. Most of those who died did not have thousands of people outside their windows praying and hoping for a recovery. Most of the hundreds of thousands of people who died during the last two weeks died quiet deaths, unnoticed deaths, unreported deaths, and unrecorded deaths.

On a much more personal note, my sister-in-law and her brothers made the decision to turn off the ventilator that kept their mother alive. There was no fanfare, no media coverage, and no international intrigue. She had been in a coma and demonstrated no signs of brain function for over 24 hours. The agony of that decision is incomprehensible to me, just as it must be to everyone who has ever had to make that decision. When my father died four years ago and we made our way out of the hospital leaving his body behind, I wanted to grab every person I saw in those hospital corridors and tell them that my father had died. I wanted everyone around me to understand that one of the most special, most spiritual, and most loving people that had ever walked the face of the planet had died. When the parents of slain students in Columbine had to make funeral arrangements for their deceased children, they must have wanted to do the same. And the same is true even for the parents of gang members who are shot and killed in their own destructive life cycles. The parents of murderers who are executed on death row weep as much as the parents of their victims. Every death is personal. Every death is tragic.

So why does there seem to be a hierarchy of life value? Does the life of a North Korean soldier count more than the life of his South Korean enemy combatant? What about an American soldier versus an Iraqi rebel? Does the life of a homosexual AIDS victim count less than the life of someone who was infected by a blood transfusion? Does the life of a child count more than the life of an adult? Did my father’s life count less than the life of the Pope? What about the grandmother in Sweetwater, South Africa who had lost all her children and grandchildren to AIDS? Does her sorrow somehow matter less than the wealthy American husband who lost his family in a private jet crash?

I remember very clearly the first time I heard about entire generations of people in various countries who are born, raised, married, become parents, and even grandparents without ever sleeping under a roof. They are homeless all their lives. They never have running water or take a shower. They never know the dignity of privacy to care for their hygienic needs. To this day, that truth causes me to shudder. The accounts of genocide, of decapitations, of lynching, and of utterly barbaric treatment perpetrated by this nation’s forefathers on the natives who were living here when they arrived are often overshadowed by the stories of scalpings and assaults on Europeans and the plundering of their settlements. For some reason, the lives of the Europeans amounted to more than the lives of the “savages” they encountered in their new homeland. In college, I wept openly upon learning about apartheid in South Africa, political repression in South America, and persistent racism in South Carolina. Fellow students who insisted that “those people” wouldn’t know what to do with democracy if they had it, that “those lazy people” couldn’t handle freedom sometimes shocked me more the people we studied. Sadly, the cycles of killing haven’t stopped. Sadly, I don’t expect that they will anytime soon.

But there is a part of me, a teeny, tiny, hugely naïve part of me that hopes and prays that someday soon we will begin to see the equivalent value of life in this nation and in our world. There are thousands of people who willingly stand on picket lines, give themselves over to arrest and imprisonment to protect the lives of unborn children but will spend almost no time speaking against the unjust deaths of civilians who lose their lives as “collateral” in war torn areas of the world. There are many who protest the infiltration of drugs into the suburbs and are shocked over the deaths of clean-cut, good-looking, popular high school students who somehow became drug addicts, but have little pity for the thousands of inner-city young people who die because they couldn’t get asthma or diabetes medication due to lack of access to medical help. The shooting at Columbine High School brought this nation to its knees in sorrow over the loss of so many innocent teenagers in a masterminded bloodbath, but a similar incident on an Indian reservation made headlines for just a couple of days. Who decides that some deaths are more tragic than others? Why do some lives matter than others?

When will the deaths of black men, women and children, of Hispanic, of Asian, of Caucasian, of Vietnamese, of Iraqi, of Italian, of Spanish, of Sudanese, of Rwanda, of Haitian, of Cuban, of Nicaraguan, of Nigerian, of Liberian, of Russian, of Chinese - when will all killings and all deaths matter to all of us? Do true freedom and true democracy exist if all lives do not have true and equal value?

Joy, my thoughts and prayers are with you and your brothers as you mourn the loss of your beloved mother, Ida.

Road Trippin' - a not-so-short story.

The trip to England was awesome. We flew directly from Charlotte to Gatwick Airport outside of London, took the express train into the city, and immediately plunged ourselves into London’s fray. We climbed into the back of one of those old-fashioned taxi cabs, took a brief and expensive tour of the city, and wound our way to a hotel near Euston Station. Thankfully Steve had booked adjoining rooms everywhere we went because there was no way that the four of us could have squeezed into a single room. We dropped off our bags and headed for the nearest Tube station: the race had begun.

Truthfully, London is a blur. We went to Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, Leicester Square, Trafalgar Square, St. Paul’s cathedral, Kensington Palace, the Marble Arch, Wellington Arch, the Shakespeare Globe Theater, Vinopolis (a museum dedicated to the production of wine), and a host of other places. We climbed to the top of many double-decker buses, rode in countless taxis, ascended and descended the escalators in countless Tube stations, and walked for miles every day. We took a train out to Windsor Castle where I managed to lose the cap to one of my favorite pens by dropping it down onto the train tracks. My dear and adventurous friend, Kim, flew over to London and spent an afternoon with us and the evening with me. We wandered through the oddly captivating Tate Modern Museum before sipping a glass of wine in a noisy Irish Bar. Thanks for coming all that way, Kim; it was great to see you.

After six days in London, we rented a car and drove to Cambridge for lunch, some shopping, and a punting tour on our way up to York where we stayed in a well-appointed bed and breakfast place called 23 St. Mary’s. The full English breakfast every morning included eggs, sausage, ham, fried toast, tomatoes, mushrooms, hash browns, baked beans, black pudding, and all the fruit, cereal, coffee, and tea we could manage. What a hearty start to several long days of walking and shopping around that quietly majestic city. What a rich history it has of invasions by Romans, Normans, Saxons, and anyone else willing to battle the wind and rain, subsequent battles for freedom, and nowadays waves of tourists threaten to conquer it yet again. As for the shopping, we were glad to add to England’s economic stability during our twelve days. (This is one month when I am extremely glad that I don’t have to deal with the Visa bill!)

As we drove south towards Bristol and a memorable visit with friends we’d known years before in Connecticut, we stopped in Stratford-upon-Avon hoping to catch a glimpse of the place where Shakespeare was born. It took me no more than ten minutes of strolling through that noisy and filthy city to understand why he left and moved to London. Yikes! We couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I, who have an impressive collection of postcards from many years of European travel didn’t stop to buy even one there in Stratford.

Driving in England was a gut-wrenching, eye-opening, nerve-rattling proposition - and all I did was sit in the passenger seat trying to make sense of the most confusing map I’ve ever seen. Steve was the courageous one who got behind the wheel and transported us from place to place without going the wrong direction at the numerous traffic circles or venturing into the other lane of traffic. Even traveling at 75 miles an hour, we were passed on the right and left on the England’s super-highways. On dark country roads, I had to serve as both co-pilot and radar detector – not for speed traps, mind you, but for quickly approaching curbs and sewer openings. It was harrowing, but we survived. I, of course, never even considered the possibility of driving. I gladly criticized and nagged at my poor husband with terrified abandon, but never once volunteered to take his place in the driver’s seat.

Paul and Lindsay Smith welcomed us to their beautiful Bristol home with grand style and open arms. Cold wine, hot tea, tasty meals, and spicy conversation made our last weekend in England memorable. Lindsay and I snuck off to Bath for a day of sightseeing and wallet lightening. The sun shone bright high in the sky, and so did our smiles as we recalled days of warm friendship in Connecticut, told stories of current life dramas, and shared our hopes and dreams for the coming year. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed her elegance, her intellect, and her wisdom until we had those precious hours alone together. How I wish we lived closer to one another!

When it came to time to make the circle complete and return to Gatwick, we said farewell to the Smiths, and headed to the nearest supermarket. On this trip I discovered a whole new level of pity for my husband's allergy to chocolate. Cadbury bars of all varieties and sizes abound in that land of milk and cocoa. At the Portishead market, the children and I filled our basket with chocolate bars, imperial mints (something I’ve never had here in the States), and black currant goodies of all kinds (black currant is one of my favorite flavors, discovered years ago in Amsterdam and only rarely sighted here at home). I bought black currant gum, cough drops, tea bags, anything and everything I thought I could shove into vacant suitcase corners. We will eat English treats for weeks to come. Cheeks and sacks full of sweets, we wound our way north and west to the Wayside Manor Inn for our final night before the dreaded return flight; no one wanted to come back home.

When I travel, the smallest details invariably prove to be the most memorable. Every time I look at the green marker with the black cap, I will remember day we spent wandering through the largest occupied castle in the world, Windsor Castle. Every time I look at the canvas bag with the huge colored polka dots, I will remember the Paper Chase shop in Cambridge where I stocked up on paper and stickers for our craft cupboard here at home. I will never wear my new and exquisite agate cross without remembering the look of pride on Daniel’s face as he presented it to me and explained that he’d picked it out at Cambridge University’s King’s College Chapel gift shop. The little girls in their neat school uniforms sketching tennis rackets and old fashioned tennis attire will make my memories of Wimbledon so much more poignant. Watching Steve and Daniel throw the rugby ball to each other in York’s pervasive light drizzle is a sight that will not soon be forgotten. But perhaps the moment that will stand out most from this entire trip took place on the last Saturday night of our sojourn. Lindsay was preparing pizza for the children’s dinner and leg of lamb for the grown ups. We were all gathered in the kitchen talking and sipping wine from Spain’s Rioja region – or perhaps it was the kir that Paul so graciously made for me. Anyway, Lindsay put in a CD of Latin American music, and we all started dancing. The four of us Belsitos and the three Smiths all took to the hardwood, shaking our hips, arms and legs flailing, as flickering candle light and laughter bouncing off the walls of their conservatory windows. What a simple and glorious moment that was. Thank you both for your warm and gracious hospitality.

I love to travel, and this trip confirmed that we all do. In order to keep the travel virus alive and well in all of us, six weeks from tomorrow, the children and I will head off for another adventure. I don’t think our Spanish lessons have gone well enough here in Charlotte, so we are taking an extended field trip to Spain. We have rented a tiny apartment in Madrid for a month, and we will see if we can’t concentrate a little better in our home away from home. Steve will join us for the last eight days and help us haul all our loot home.

Since we can’t take any of this hard-earned money with us when we die, we may as well make the best of it while we’re alive. I hope Kristiana and Daniel don’t mind how we are spending their inheritance…

Good Friday? Yes and no...

Thirteen years and nine months ago, I arrived in Williamstown, Massachusetts with my fiancée on the Friday afternoon before our wedding. We greeted our friends and family members as they arrived in town to celebrate our upcoming nuptials. That was a good Friday.

Eleven years and four months ago on Friday, October 29, 1993, I checked into the now non-existent St. Joseph’s Hospital in Stamford, Connecticut after carrying Kristiana around in my belly for 42 weeks. Yup, upon her arrival early the following morning, she was a full 15 days later than her due date. When I hoisted myself up into bed that afternoon and began the process of labor and delivery, even though many hours of pain and hard work lay ahead of me, that was a good Friday.

Just over five years ago, the airplane in which I was traveling landed at the airport in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It was there that Steve and I embarked on our first and only cruise – from BA up the Atlantic coast of South America to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. That was a good Friday.

And two weeks ago today, we walked, rode, tubed, shopped, and wondered around London with our mouths hanging open on what was our first full day of vacation. That was a good Friday.

On the other hand, just over 2000 years ago when Jesus Christ was judged by and condemned to death by an angry and cruel mob, when He was stripped, whipped, spit upon, battered and bruised, when His brow was ripped open by the crown of thorns, and He was nailed to the cross and left to die on Calvary’s hill, that was not a good Friday.

Yes, I know that three days later He rose from the dead. Yes, I know that all of human history has been affected one way or another by that death and resurrection. Yes, I know that without the suffering, without the horror of that Friday night, there could be no joyful celebration on the first day of the following week when the tomb was found open and the grave clothes found empty. I understand and believe all of that with all of my heart.

But still, on the day that it all took place, when the earth shook, when darkness fell in the middle of the day, when the curtain in the temple was torn in two from top to bottom, when the Mel Gibson’s proverbial teardrop fell from heaven, that was not a good Friday.

I’m glad that the story didn’t end on that sad Friday. I’m glad that that sad Friday was transformed into Good Friday when Sunday morning arrived. I’m glad that the solemn ceremonies of this day can be offset by the knowledge that, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.”

He is Risen.
He is Risen indeed.

Maundy Thursday

I have always hated my feet. To their credit, they have served me faithfully for nearly 40 years now without ever developing so much as a callous worth complaining about. They have produced no hangnails, nor have they ever refused to transport me to any chosen destination. The only complaint I have ever reasonably made about them is in relation to their size; they require size 11 shoes. Standing at 5 feet and 10 inches in height, I would look odd with size six feet, or so I’ve been told. I, however, would love the opportunity to test that theory out myself.

In the past couple of years, two things have altered my attitude about my feet. First of all, I have spent a fair amount of time in the past six weeks looking at my feet than ever before. I have begun to practice yoga. Bent over at the waist trying to put the top of my head on the floor, I have plenty of time to look at my feet. Extending my feet five feet away from each other while bending one knee to the vertical and making sure it stays “on the little toe side of the foot” provides me with ample opportunity to examine the big and little toes of my big feet. The other (relatively) newly undertaken habit in my life is the magical practice of receiving pedicures. I don’t get them often; in fact, I have had fewer than ten pedicures in my life. There is a spa just a few minutes from our house where a wonderful and tender-hearted woman has made my barge sized feet feel like the most beautiful and petite little paws she has ever encountered. She soaks them, scrubs them, removes any hard and dry skin, paints the nails, and does just about everything else she can think of to make me and my feet feel most welcome in her little corner of paradise. My feet and I are most grateful for her tender care. Even though I haven’t been back to the spa in more than a year, I have taken better care of my feet with scrubs, buffers, and creams since meeting that darling foot specialist than ever before. Both yoga and meticulous foot care have caused me to appreciate these brogans in a new way.

I won’t soon forget the discomfort I felt the first time I received a pedicure. It was at a salon in Connecticut where the women who performed the manicures and pedicures did not speak to each other in English. They greeted and conversed with their clients in English, but the rest of the time, they spoke to each other in a language that none of their clients understood. So when the time came for me to extract my feet from my socks and deposit them into the warm, bubbly water, I couldn’t help but wonder if any of their animated exchanges revolved around my extreme lower extremities. I wondered if the rough skin on my feet was the worst she’d ever seen. I wondered if my nails were the hardest she’d ever had to cut. I wondered about every possible worry related to my feet that day. As soon as she was done and my toenail polish was reasonably dry, I tipped her generously and ran out to my car with the cotton still between my toes. I swore to myself I’d never humiliate myself like that again. How could I ever bare my toes in front of innocent bystanders? Why would I subject anyone to the offense of having to wash my feet?

Which brings me to Maundy Thursday. Today is the day when Christians around the world remember two important practices introduced on this day in history by our Lord Jesus Christ. First of all, He instituted the most important meal in the life of the church: the Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper, Communion. With the breaking of bread and the sharing of the cup, His followers remember and celebrate His death on our behalf. I am reminded of last year’s movie phenomenon, The Passion of the Christ, and the scene where Christ sat with His disciples at the Passover Table and gave to them an entirely new way of understanding the tradition of the unleavened bread and the wine. His broken body and shed blood are symbolized in those two basic elements in such a simple way that even my young children are moved to silence and reflection whenever Communion is shared at our church.

But what I never connected to the holiness of this week until this year is what Jesus did for His disciples before the Eucharist. He removed His outer garments, tied a towel around his waist, got down on his knees, and proceeded to wash the dusty and tired feet of His dusty and tired disciples. Those were not the dainty, well-scrubbed feet of the average suburban mom. Those were not the feet of well-fed and well-dressed businessmen whose feet are regularly shod in fine Italian shoes. Those were the calloused, rough, road-weary feet of fishermen who had spent most of the previous three years walking all over the Middle East. But there He was, Christ the Lord, on His knees with a water basin nearby, cleaning their feet with the same hands that had fed thousands, healed hundreds, held children, and been lifted up in prayer to His father in Heaven. Those same hands of mercy and compassion that touched countless lives expressed that same mercy and compassion as He tenderly caressed one of the least appreciated body parts. And when He finished washing their feet, He instructed them to follow His example and wash each other's feet.

Could I have done what He did? Could I have bent down in front of twelve people that I knew would betray me, abandon me, and deny me and washed their feet? Could I have humbled myself in front of the people who looked up to me, who relied on me, who depended on my for nearly everything they needed and washed their feet? Can I do that now with my husband and children, the same people who criticize me, slam their doors in anger against me, refuse to eat the food I’ve cooked, and reject my attempts to heal the rifts between us? What about neighbors whose dogs leave unexpected gifts on my lawn and friends and relatives whose careless comments leave me wincing – can I bow down before them also and wash their feet? Can I overcome my feelings about my own feet long enough to wash anyone else’s? Have I ever obeyed that part of Christ's instructions to His church?

It’s one thing to come to appreciate the strength and stamina of my feet while grunting and stretching my way through a yoga workout in the privacy of my own home. It’s one thing for me to pay a total stranger to pamper my feet in the privacy of a spa’s back room. It’s another thing entirely for me to set aside my dignity and my foot-phobia, to risk the funky smells and unusual growths and thick yellow toenails of those whose life paths I have crossed in order to follow the example of Christ’s servant leadership as demonstrated centuries ago on Maundy Thursday.

Now it's time to say 'Good-bye"...

The day of my departure has arrived. Our bags are packed. Patience is in my backpack right next to the chocolate-mint Balance Bars. The children have new sneakers and a renewed spirit of adventure. I have my colored pencils and markers in my carry-on, but what I hope will be marked with indelible ink is my soul. So many museums to see, parks to explore, hills, vales, and villages to be awed by. I will miss my house, my friends, and my life here, but all of this will be enhanced, perhaps even profoundly, by leaving it behind for a few days. Certainly, that is my hope, my wish, my dream for this journey.

It's going to be cool and cloudy in London during the next week - at least in comparison with the weather here in North Carolina. May our hearts be warmed, our spirits be transformed, and our minds be newly informed in the coming fortnight. I may try to duck into an Internet cafe on the road and write something short, but I may just collect tidbits of stories along the way and share them when I return.

Please say a prayer for us. Light a candle for us. Relax into a full Lotus pose and meditate for us. However you do it, remember us in your thoughts and prayers. I will do the same.

Bye for now, GailNHB

Forty-eight hours and counting...

The countdown is on. The packing has begun. Well, I’ve packed the kids’ stuff anyway. Daniel couldn’t care less about what he wears, so I pick out shirts, socks, and underwear, and roll them together into little wraps. He can pull one pack out each morning, and his whole outfit is set. Kristiana picked out her own clothes, but I make the same rolls with her clothes. Each of them will carry three pairs of pants to go with the six changes of shirts, and they are set! Everybody pulls behind a rolling bag, has a small backpack, and nothing gets checked in. We will be gone for twelve days, so we pack six changes of clothes and do laundry in the middle of our stay. I owe this method of packing to Rick Steves, whose travel tips and advice have changed the way I travel. He is THE ONLY SOURCE of travel guides and ideas for me when I do any European travel.

I tend to wait until the morning of my departure to pack my own clothes. For those of you who haven’t seen me of late, I have a new addiction: skirts. I wear a skirt nearly every day. In the past eight months, I have worn pants less than a dozen times. Many of the people I have met in these past few months look at me askance and make a comment of some sort when they see me in pants. It’s not a religious thing. It’s not even a modesty thing, although most of my skirts are pretty long. It’s just that I have found skirts to be infinitely more comfortable than pants. No worries about puddles on public bathroom floors. No worries about being hot and bunched up on hot days. No worries about being underdressed in any situation. Plus I have a friend who is an awesome seamstress who has made me a dozen or so skirts in the last year – for free. I wrote about her in an earlier blog: her son is the one I visited in prison. I have done lots of Spanish to English translation on his behalf. She pays me in skirts. Nice deal. Anyway, when I travel, I wait and pack my skirts and tops on the day that we leave. I love that feeling of packing my things because if I’m rolling up my clothes, then the day of my departure has arrived.

Back before my first trip to Italy in the fall of 2001 – less than one month after September 11th – I discovered a book titled, The Way of The Traveler, by Joseph Dispenza. One of the things I love most about this fantastic little book is the author’s careful articulation of his vision of travel: “Every time we leave home and go to another place, we open up the possibility of having something wonderful happen to us. When we move out of the familiar here and now, we set in motion a series of events that, taken together, bring about changes at the very root of our being.” I look forward to seeing and experiencing the ways that this trip will change the very root of our family. Twelve days on the road in unfamiliar territory, trying desperately to learn another language on the fly, figuring out what’s good to eat and what is best to bypass, driving on the other side of the roads, catching up with old friends, perhaps making new ones – all of this and so much more will surely give us all a lot to journal about.

He breaks down every trip into five parts: the call of the road, preparation, the encounter (at the destination), the homecoming, and recounting the tale. Each step of the process involves careful thought, preparation, and most of all, a mindfulness that is often missed in the rush of the trip. Be aware. Be careful. Be alert. Soak in the details of each stage of the journey, from the choice of the destination, to the choosing of mementos, to the photo sorting at journey’s end. I have benefited enormously from this book, and every trip I have taken since that Italian sojourn three and a half years ago has been enhanced by the principles gleaned from Dispenza’s book. I could write volumes about the ways in which my entire life journey has been altered by the reading of this book and the application of its suggestions. Perhaps someday I will...

This morning I introduced my children to one of the most important packing tips Dispenza recommends. Along with our shirts, jeans, skirts, and socks, we must be sure to slip in our spiritual provisions, those intangible virtues and values that will make the road rise up to meet us in meaningful ways. We spent time together this morning making a list of the qualities each of us will need to make the most of this journey. Sure, we will carry English pounds, our passports, credit cards, an itinerary, lotion, deodorant, and lots of vitamins. But this morning the children made lists in their journals of the other things they need to carry; their lists included patience, a sense of adventure, kindness, laughter, and gentleness. I was impressed with how well they articulated their spiritual needs for this undertaking. On my list, I included a willingness to be a passenger and not the driver on this trip, humility, grace, compassion, and love. I know I will need them all. This trip will be quite different from my annual solo jaunts; this is taking my mothering and teaching and wifely duties on the road. I will need every ounce of quietness of spirit, flexibility, and openness to new food that I can muster.

To those who have sent tips and suggestions for England, many thanks. To those who haven’t had a chance yet, please drop me a line soon. I covet your insights. Time is short; forty-seven hours from right now, we will be on board, somewhere out over the Atlantic Ocean making our way to the land from which this nation declared its independence a little over 225 years ago. I can’t wait.

Cheerio.

War and Peace and Elections...

It’s been over 18 months since the United States and several allied nations invaded Iraq. The military pulled Saddam Hussein out of a hole under a house and have had him in custody for months. Thousands of Iraqi soldiers have been killed or imprisoned as a result of this operation. Sadly, many civilians have lost their homes, livelihoods, and even their lives; war doesn’t just affect the soldiers. Coalition forces worked hard to stabilize much of Iraq, and the first free elections in that nation’s history were held just over a month ago. Bravo for the Iraqis; I continue to hope and pray that they will someday know lasting peace, that the suicide bombings would stop, and that stability would prevail in that strife-torn land. Although the weapons of mass destruction were never found, the initiative has been considered a success by the government of the United States.

Everywhere I go I see bumper stickers and car magnets that remind me of the need to pray for our troops. I receive emails with photos of soldiers sleeping in the mud, in sand trenches, and I pray for their soon and safe return as often as I think about them. I know people whose cousins, sons, husbands, brothers, sisters, mothers, aunts, and friends have died in, returned from, or are still serving in Iraq. I know that I am not alone in my prayers that this conflict would end soon, that the Iraqi government would be established, and that all the coalition soldiers, Americans, Polish, Salvadorans, Italians, and from every other nation represented there – that they would all go home soon. I think the best way to support our soldiers is to bring them home, run them a good hot bath, feed them well, and let them sleep for about two weeks – with full pay. Everyone wants the war to end and for peace to reign.

Almost exactly a year ago, on March 11th, blood once again flowed from the bodies of innocent civilians when bombs exploded on several trains in Madrid killing over 200 people and wounding more than 1,000 more. Soon after that attack, it was discovered that the bombings were carried out under the direction of Al-Qaeda, the same group held responsible for the horrors of September 11th. Being that I have good friends in Spain, I immediately wrote to them and called them to make sure they were okay and to ask whether they or anyone they knew had been directly affected. The people of Spain took to the streets by the thousands to protest the violence, to call for peace, and they pleaded once again with their President to withdraw the troops from Iraq.

I say “once again” because before the war in Iraq began, the Spanish people had protested for weeks against the planned invasion. Like many of their American counterparts, the vast majority of Spaniards disagreed with the decision to go to war against a nation that had no direct link to the terrorist acts of September 2001. But Aznar went against the will of the majority of his people and made the decision to join President Bush’s coalition and sent Spanish soldiers to fight. I remember how angry my friend Leticia was at the time; she told me, “He will lose next election; the Spanish people won’t forget this.”

The bombings of March 11, 2004 occurred only two or three days before their national election, and just as Leticia promised, Aznar was voted out. The main campaign promise of the man who took his place was that he would bring the troops home. He carried through on his promise within months of taking office. Much of the American press about the Spanish election was critical of their choice to replace Aznar. Many critics said that by withdrawing the troops, Spain was giving credence to the terrorists. Although the number of people lost in Spain was not as great as that of September 11th, their personal and national sorrow was no less acute. For the parents and siblings and children of those soldiers, none of the political arguments mattered. For the families of the Spaniards who lost their lives in Iraq none of the arguments mattered. For the millions of people who had protested the war long before those bombings, the opinion of foreigners didn’t matter; they never wanted to be a part of this war and they opted out as soon as they could. For many of their countrymen, however, it was already too late.

As I think of my Spanish friends preparing to commemorate the one-year anniversary of their nation’s single largest act of terrorism in decades, my heart goes out to them. My mind cannot fathom the horror of how that beautiful and elegant city was torn apart that fateful Friday, and a few days later was draped in silence as its citizens raised their hands in symbolic surrender to the perpetrators of the terror. I so wish I could have been there to see them as they painted the palms of their hands white and walked in silence for hours, not only in Madrid but also in towns and villages all across that land to show their solidarity and their commitment to not draw blood anymore, to stop the killing, and to seek peace.

So why was it that last month when President Bush, Condoleeza Rice, and other representatives of our nation visited Europe to rebuild broken lines of communication between the US and nations there, no one went to Spain? Why would preference be given to nations who made a sovereign decision not to join the conflict, but the one nation that sent its troops, saw them killed in action, had their nation attacked, and then made the sovereign decision to withdraw them – that nation is ignored in this new round of coalition building? The Spanish people did what many American soldiers - and what their own soldiers - died to bring about in Iraq: they voted. They voted freely and fairly. They went to the polls and let their voices be heard. And for that they have been ostracized by the United States. I just don’t get it.

Aren’t free elections and democracy the point of all this bloodshed?