The first 100 days a president is in office is often used to define the entire term's agenda. The most important, or most pressing business gets addressed first- or at least that's the goal. The administration is full of energy, enthusiasm, support, hope, and fresh gratitude for getting elected. Some go as far as to say it the most productive, if not only productive, time of the entire term.
During RA training in college, I recall learning, similarly, that what a freshman commits to and does in their first 100 days of college will likely play a big role in shaping their entire college experience. 100 days is long enough, they said, to try out a few new things, find a niche, a few friends, and to start forming habits, trends, patterns. Students who start out partying, continue partying. Students who start out going to the gym, continue going to the gym. College, more than maybe any life stage, is full of change and growth, and yet the stats they showed us back then still supported this 100 day trend.
I recall reading (wouldn't be able to tell you where, or who) that the first 3-4 months (ie. 100 days) in a new job, or new home, set the patterns and habits that tend to stick for years to come. Workers who start out arriving on time or arriving late continue those trends. The time you get up, where you park, whether or not you pack your own lunch, if you say hi to the door man- they are all small parts of a routine that start out as a myriad of small decisions and quickly become a routine rarely requiring questioning or second thought.
The "100 days" theory, which I more or less to believe to be true, isn't meant to be restrictive and prescriptive. It is simply descriptive of the way things often go. Habits and patterns are comfortable, even if they are unintentional. The discomfort of being in a new place drives us to develop routines that foster a familiarity that brings comfort and belonging.
Of course change is always possible. Change, though, is often reactive. The first 100 days have the freedom of being more proactive. Most decisions in life lie somewhere on the spectrum between proactive and reactive, often having a good mix of both. There is much importance and value in reactive change and decision making too- realizing something is not the way you want it to be and working to change it is what most of us spend all day doing in one way or another. But, there is something special about more proactive change- you've got a few more raw materials to work with, fresh dirt, new seeds, rather than old soil that needs fertilizing and a garden that needs weeding and uprooting.
Since we've just moved, I've had lots of proactive questions for our new life. Small questions like where to get groceries, and big questions like how will we establish life in a way that cares well for ourselves as well as our new city? In some sense, there are no small questions. Everything says something about what we value and why. The challenge (and fun?) in being proactive is that it marries the big and little questions to produce or create a culture of "me" or "we." Culture creating is a more helpful term, I find, than culture change. We're created to create, are we not? Given how hard culture (and habits, patterns, trends...etc) is to change once it's in place, it seems worth spending time thinking about the culture we want to create before it mindlessly forms on its own.
I've been in Florida 18 days and thought a lot about what creating life here might look like. So far I've settled on planting gardens, killing mosquitoes, getting to know the names of my neighbors, killing more mosquitoes, learning about who lives where and why in this city, not having a TV, getting reacquainted with my piano, and going for long walks.
December 10th. On December 10th I'll have been here 100 days. I wonder what kind of culture will be created by then?
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Called to Exile
"Calling" is a tricky word. "I've found my calling," people say. "I was called to go to ___." "I'm trying to find my calling." Calling, in our culture, is used most often as a noun, a destination. It arouses the notion that by some mix of skill and circumstance and effort and success and a dash of mystery and aligning stars, we find a vocational, relational, geographical resting place that feels more like home than anything else we've found. Calling feels like a new outfit that fits just right and gives you that confident bounce in your step.
What I've noticed, is that this glorious notion of calling can actually be quite debilitating, paralyzing. What if it doesn't all happen so neatly? What if it isn't obvious to what or where you're called? What if you spend years, decades, searching for your calling? What if your interests and your gifts don't match up? What if life is just hard, and "calling" is a privilege that comes at the expense of survival? And how can you ever be really sure you've found it?
I don't mean to sound cynical, and I do believe that the God who knows every hair on our head makes unique people for unique purposes, and that it is incredibly energizing to find that one job, person, place, that seems to perfectly connect with your own personhood. Calling, though, was never meant to be so finite, so specific as to mean a job or person or place. Calling was always meant to be a verb.
"But the Lord God called to the man and said, "Where are you?"" Gen 3:9
We were called, from the beginning, to return to God. To look for him in both gardens and concrete jungles. To let him find us, naked and ashamed and broken, and to let him re-set our paths. What if to find our calling meant to find a gracious God, looking for us between trees and along garden paths, longing to redirect our steps towards a journey of grace, mercy, freedom, life? What if calling actually means listening for the whispers and shouts of "Where are you?" as we move through life, and to respond with, "Here I am." (Gen 22:11, Gen 46:2, Ex 3:4, 1 Sam 3:4, Is 6:8, Acts 9:10)
"Where are you," God calls.
"Here I am," we say.
With that, God becomes our sherpa, travel companion, path straightener, brush clearer, guide. He sends, leads, and sometimes exiles. He calls us, not to a job or city, but to find him.
I'm moving soon, and that brings up all kinds of questions of calling and notions of being sent and lead and, yes, even exiled. Because, if I'm honest, going to Florida feels more like exile. Leaving family, friends, faith communities, cities I know and love, job offers full of vision and mission I believe in, and life rhythms that are comfortable. "Here I am," but do you have to send me to Florida?
I've read and re-read passages about God's people being lead through deserts and wilderness, with the great promise of a flourishing land of milk and honey. I've longed to feel apart of that journey, to feel purposefully lead with vision for a new home.
I'm tempted to linger and wallow in those passages that talk of the great places God promises to bring his people and the ways he'll provide for them there. I long for this move, new job, new life, to feel a part of God's great plan and vision in a way that it just doesn't (even if I know- head knowledge- it is).
But those promised land and beautiful Jerusalem passages end, and like any good story the plot twists. How easily the land of milk and honey becomes wilderness and desert. How far God's beautiful plan for the world was from the cities and temples his people built in the promised land. It was never about the land, was it? It was about learning to live as a "called people." It was their called-ness to be with God, to be sought after and to seek, that made their land and life good. God called his people to the promised land to dwell with him, but the promised land became desolation as his people started to dwell alone.
Exile results. God calls his people to exile. They leave all they know- their culture and familiar surroundings. Just as he lead them to the promised land, he lead them into exile. God wasn't banishing them, he was saying to them in a new way, "Where are you?" The capture of God's people, their exile to Babylon aren't happy passages to read. The joy of journeying onward towards the promised land and basking in the bounty of God's provision seems miles away. Strikingly, though, his instructions to his people in exile aren't any different than those he gave them in the promised land. "Live, love, flourish, seek and find me" God tells them. Even exile can become a place of flourishing if life is lived with God.
God always calls his people to himself. Exile and wilderness aren't only, or even primarily, about location and lack of comfort, they are where people have forgotten to seek God, where they've forgotten their calling. The promised land and flourishing cities, similarly, aren't just prime real estate filled with great jobs, they exist anywhere God's people remember their calling- that they are called to be with God.
"Where are you," God asks.
"Here I am" I say.
"Me, too," God answers. "Me, too"
What I've noticed, is that this glorious notion of calling can actually be quite debilitating, paralyzing. What if it doesn't all happen so neatly? What if it isn't obvious to what or where you're called? What if you spend years, decades, searching for your calling? What if your interests and your gifts don't match up? What if life is just hard, and "calling" is a privilege that comes at the expense of survival? And how can you ever be really sure you've found it?
I don't mean to sound cynical, and I do believe that the God who knows every hair on our head makes unique people for unique purposes, and that it is incredibly energizing to find that one job, person, place, that seems to perfectly connect with your own personhood. Calling, though, was never meant to be so finite, so specific as to mean a job or person or place. Calling was always meant to be a verb.
"But the Lord God called to the man and said, "Where are you?"" Gen 3:9
We were called, from the beginning, to return to God. To look for him in both gardens and concrete jungles. To let him find us, naked and ashamed and broken, and to let him re-set our paths. What if to find our calling meant to find a gracious God, looking for us between trees and along garden paths, longing to redirect our steps towards a journey of grace, mercy, freedom, life? What if calling actually means listening for the whispers and shouts of "Where are you?" as we move through life, and to respond with, "Here I am." (Gen 22:11, Gen 46:2, Ex 3:4, 1 Sam 3:4, Is 6:8, Acts 9:10)
"Where are you," God calls.
"Here I am," we say.
With that, God becomes our sherpa, travel companion, path straightener, brush clearer, guide. He sends, leads, and sometimes exiles. He calls us, not to a job or city, but to find him.
I'm moving soon, and that brings up all kinds of questions of calling and notions of being sent and lead and, yes, even exiled. Because, if I'm honest, going to Florida feels more like exile. Leaving family, friends, faith communities, cities I know and love, job offers full of vision and mission I believe in, and life rhythms that are comfortable. "Here I am," but do you have to send me to Florida?
I've read and re-read passages about God's people being lead through deserts and wilderness, with the great promise of a flourishing land of milk and honey. I've longed to feel apart of that journey, to feel purposefully lead with vision for a new home.
I'm tempted to linger and wallow in those passages that talk of the great places God promises to bring his people and the ways he'll provide for them there. I long for this move, new job, new life, to feel a part of God's great plan and vision in a way that it just doesn't (even if I know- head knowledge- it is).
But those promised land and beautiful Jerusalem passages end, and like any good story the plot twists. How easily the land of milk and honey becomes wilderness and desert. How far God's beautiful plan for the world was from the cities and temples his people built in the promised land. It was never about the land, was it? It was about learning to live as a "called people." It was their called-ness to be with God, to be sought after and to seek, that made their land and life good. God called his people to the promised land to dwell with him, but the promised land became desolation as his people started to dwell alone.
Exile results. God calls his people to exile. They leave all they know- their culture and familiar surroundings. Just as he lead them to the promised land, he lead them into exile. God wasn't banishing them, he was saying to them in a new way, "Where are you?" The capture of God's people, their exile to Babylon aren't happy passages to read. The joy of journeying onward towards the promised land and basking in the bounty of God's provision seems miles away. Strikingly, though, his instructions to his people in exile aren't any different than those he gave them in the promised land. "Live, love, flourish, seek and find me" God tells them. Even exile can become a place of flourishing if life is lived with God.
God always calls his people to himself. Exile and wilderness aren't only, or even primarily, about location and lack of comfort, they are where people have forgotten to seek God, where they've forgotten their calling. The promised land and flourishing cities, similarly, aren't just prime real estate filled with great jobs, they exist anywhere God's people remember their calling- that they are called to be with God.
"Where are you," God asks.
"Here I am" I say.
"Me, too," God answers. "Me, too"
Monday, June 20, 2016
Half Mast
Our flag has spent a lot of time at half mast the last several months, years. So much time, in fact, I can't always tell if it's meant to be there to symbolize a new loss or tragedy, or if we've just left it there as the new normal.
I don't know that I believe we live in more tragic times than in the past. Perhaps we're more aware of it all from the media. Our tragedies are different than those past, but we've always had tragedy in our midst. Well, not always, but almost.
Whose job is it to decide when our nation's flag should be lowered as an acknowledgement of tragedy? Who gets to decide what is "enough tragedy" to lower the flag. How many people have to die? What other countries do we show solidarity to, and for how big a tragedy? How long does the flag stay low? How do we decide we've "recovered," nationally, and can raise the flag high again? **
It's a rhetorical question. I know there are regional and local variations, and there really must be someone who gets to decide. I'm sure there are protocols and flow charts.
Flags, I know don't solve problems. They aren't even a particularly personal way of showing support or solidarity. But they've become a visible and public demonstration, and certainly aren't without meaning, either.
I wonder, if we each had our own flag to raise and lower, in demonstration of support and empathy, how would we each choose to do so? Maybe it isn't even an American flag, maybe a family flag, a Stefanie flag.
I suppose what I'm getting at is that it seems that we could easily find endless good reasons to always fly at half mast. There's more than enough tragedy out there to go around. I don't say that with a sense of depression, but simply out of truth. Life on earth is a bit like our half mast flag- simultaneously symbolic of greatness and tragedy. To fly high seems to discount the true and great hurt inside and around us. To lower our flag to the ground undervalues and dishonors the great hopes of freedom, love of neighbor, and fullness of life we strive for and get some real glimpses and tastes of in this country, world.
Whether our flag is flying high or lowered, I'm reminded that I'm not only a citizen of this country. I'm a citizen in God's kingdom. While He mourns and weeps better than any of us over the tragedy of this earth, He's able to fly his own flag of victory high, knowing that goodness and truth, beauty and honor, justice and peace, love of neighbor and life everlasting will win, have won, are winning. His flag flies high not out of nationalistic pride or the limits of his empathy, but out of power, love, and ultimate victory.
** I always feel a little awkward about showing pride in our American Flag, or really national pride at all. Maybe it's the post-WWII German in me who is has a healthy fear of nationalism. I love many parts of our country, but intense nationalism scares me a lot.
I don't know that I believe we live in more tragic times than in the past. Perhaps we're more aware of it all from the media. Our tragedies are different than those past, but we've always had tragedy in our midst. Well, not always, but almost.
Whose job is it to decide when our nation's flag should be lowered as an acknowledgement of tragedy? Who gets to decide what is "enough tragedy" to lower the flag. How many people have to die? What other countries do we show solidarity to, and for how big a tragedy? How long does the flag stay low? How do we decide we've "recovered," nationally, and can raise the flag high again? **
It's a rhetorical question. I know there are regional and local variations, and there really must be someone who gets to decide. I'm sure there are protocols and flow charts.
Flags, I know don't solve problems. They aren't even a particularly personal way of showing support or solidarity. But they've become a visible and public demonstration, and certainly aren't without meaning, either.
I wonder, if we each had our own flag to raise and lower, in demonstration of support and empathy, how would we each choose to do so? Maybe it isn't even an American flag, maybe a family flag, a Stefanie flag.
I suppose what I'm getting at is that it seems that we could easily find endless good reasons to always fly at half mast. There's more than enough tragedy out there to go around. I don't say that with a sense of depression, but simply out of truth. Life on earth is a bit like our half mast flag- simultaneously symbolic of greatness and tragedy. To fly high seems to discount the true and great hurt inside and around us. To lower our flag to the ground undervalues and dishonors the great hopes of freedom, love of neighbor, and fullness of life we strive for and get some real glimpses and tastes of in this country, world.
Whether our flag is flying high or lowered, I'm reminded that I'm not only a citizen of this country. I'm a citizen in God's kingdom. While He mourns and weeps better than any of us over the tragedy of this earth, He's able to fly his own flag of victory high, knowing that goodness and truth, beauty and honor, justice and peace, love of neighbor and life everlasting will win, have won, are winning. His flag flies high not out of nationalistic pride or the limits of his empathy, but out of power, love, and ultimate victory.
** I always feel a little awkward about showing pride in our American Flag, or really national pride at all. Maybe it's the post-WWII German in me who is has a healthy fear of nationalism. I love many parts of our country, but intense nationalism scares me a lot.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Live Where You Live
I walked to work one day last week, something I fantasize about doing regularly in the future. I walked behind a little boy and his grandmother. He was probably 5, maybe a tall 4. She was probably 40, maybe a young looking 45. He had a superman cape on and those shoes that light up when you stomp. He clutched some nondescript glazed pastry in one hand, the kind you can get for 1.99 at the check out counter of 7-11. His other hand was holding onto grandma. Grandma was holding him tight in one hand, and swinging his batman backpack in her other hand. They weren't rushing, but walked steadily, with purpose. I walked behind them for about 5 blocks until they reached his school and we parted ways. She let go at one point and told him to run ahead and get his energy out before school started. Off he darted, happy to have some freedom. Her newly unoccupied hand reached for a cigarette which she enjoyed over the next few blocks, still swinging batman with her other hand. She caught up to him, put out her cigarette and dropped him off at school. His batman backpack looked huge on his wirey frame, but he darted happily inside the brick building. You could tell life wasn't perfect, but grandma loved him and he loved batman.
It was only about 7 minutes in total, but it reminded me of how valuable it is for me to be present and to live life in the same geographical and social space as my patients (another life long fantasy). There's more information to be gotten from that morning observation than from 10 minutes of diligent question asking in an exam room.
I thought about that kiddo the rest of the day. I wondered if he was hungry after the sugar rush wore off? I wondered if he had asthma, and grandma's smoking made it worse? I wondered what his home life was like? I wondered what he learned in school, and what was inside that big batman backpack? I wondered if he would get mislabeled as ADHD, or if stomping his feet to make his shoes light up filled him with feelings of security and magic powers, like batman, to face an imperfect world every morning. Kids are resilient, people say. But are they? Really? Look how many people grow up to have physical, mental, relational difficulties because of their childhood. That's not resilience, it's incubation.
A few miles away from that morning walk, and two years ago, I remember sitting in my hospital's lobby. This time, I was a patient, waiting for lab work. I had decided I'd go to doctors and deliver my baby at the hospital in which I worked. On the one hand, it was convenient. I was an intern with no time, and proximity and inside connections were gold. On the other hand, I knew all too well the flaws and messiness of my hospital. Sitting there in the lobby, it was pretty clear I wasn't the typical patient.
Similar to being a neighbor in the neighborhood where I work, being a patient in my own healthcare system was probably the best medical education I ever got. I learned about long wait times, frustrating insurance, chaotic offices, an overwhelmed hospital, and being surrounded by people who didn't look much like me. I pushed a baby out in a hospital room that was less than luxurious, yet had everything I needed. I faced my own sense of entitlement that things should work better for me!
But it isn't the humble environment or semi-chaotic atmosphere that I remember. It's is the deeper joy and importance of having my vocational, social, health, and geographical worlds collide. It is the deeper meaning behind having my baby delivered by a Nigerian, washed by an Ethiopian, and handed to me by a Korean. There's a peace that comes with being fully present- it overcomes awkwardness and social or cultural barriers. I've since delivered a few other babies in that same room, and each time had heightened meaning because of my own relationship with that space.
Live where you live, I've learned. Work where you live. Be where you live. Don't just see patients, be one. Don't just treat patients, live with them. It makes me a better doctor, to be sure, but also a better neighbor. We're all just neighbors in the end, aren't we?
It was only about 7 minutes in total, but it reminded me of how valuable it is for me to be present and to live life in the same geographical and social space as my patients (another life long fantasy). There's more information to be gotten from that morning observation than from 10 minutes of diligent question asking in an exam room.
I thought about that kiddo the rest of the day. I wondered if he was hungry after the sugar rush wore off? I wondered if he had asthma, and grandma's smoking made it worse? I wondered what his home life was like? I wondered what he learned in school, and what was inside that big batman backpack? I wondered if he would get mislabeled as ADHD, or if stomping his feet to make his shoes light up filled him with feelings of security and magic powers, like batman, to face an imperfect world every morning. Kids are resilient, people say. But are they? Really? Look how many people grow up to have physical, mental, relational difficulties because of their childhood. That's not resilience, it's incubation.
A few miles away from that morning walk, and two years ago, I remember sitting in my hospital's lobby. This time, I was a patient, waiting for lab work. I had decided I'd go to doctors and deliver my baby at the hospital in which I worked. On the one hand, it was convenient. I was an intern with no time, and proximity and inside connections were gold. On the other hand, I knew all too well the flaws and messiness of my hospital. Sitting there in the lobby, it was pretty clear I wasn't the typical patient.
Similar to being a neighbor in the neighborhood where I work, being a patient in my own healthcare system was probably the best medical education I ever got. I learned about long wait times, frustrating insurance, chaotic offices, an overwhelmed hospital, and being surrounded by people who didn't look much like me. I pushed a baby out in a hospital room that was less than luxurious, yet had everything I needed. I faced my own sense of entitlement that things should work better for me!
But it isn't the humble environment or semi-chaotic atmosphere that I remember. It's is the deeper joy and importance of having my vocational, social, health, and geographical worlds collide. It is the deeper meaning behind having my baby delivered by a Nigerian, washed by an Ethiopian, and handed to me by a Korean. There's a peace that comes with being fully present- it overcomes awkwardness and social or cultural barriers. I've since delivered a few other babies in that same room, and each time had heightened meaning because of my own relationship with that space.
Live where you live, I've learned. Work where you live. Be where you live. Don't just see patients, be one. Don't just treat patients, live with them. It makes me a better doctor, to be sure, but also a better neighbor. We're all just neighbors in the end, aren't we?
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Street Cleaning, Solo-Parenting, and Margins
Tuesdays were my least
favorite day of the week this year.
Tuesday is street
cleaning day on our street. (don't even get me started on how ridiculous street
cleaning is) I'd guess that most of DC has felt the burn of waking up on
"street cleaning morning" with a sharp pang of "argh.
*&*$^&$^** I forgot to move the car." It might only be 7:01AM, but
you probably already have one of those infuriating pink tickets.
If you park before
6:30pm on Monday night you have to go out and move your car to the other side
of the street before 7am on Tuesday. And then if you get home before 7pm on
Tuesday night you have to move your car back to the normal side by 7am on
Wednesday. I repeat, *@^&@&$*@!!.
With Jonathan away in
NYC during weekdays this year, street cleaning day has become particularly
painful. Do I drag a newly bathed, ready-for-bed kiddo out to the car, strap
him in, and drive around until I find a new parking spot? Do I wait until he's
in bed, sneak out and hope he's ok and drive around alone to find a new spot?
Sometimes I found a spot immediately, other times it was a 15 minute ordeal
complicated by weather or traffic or other people's poor parking.
It's such a simple
thing, but each week it brought to surface the difficulties of solo-parenting.**
If this year had a
theme, it would be margins. I did a lot of living life in narrow margins.
Margins provide extra
space. Room to correct mistakes. Wiggle room. Cushion. Protection.
Life without much margin
feels tenuous, and perpetually vulnerable. Small deals become big deals. A kid with
a cough becomes a potential day-care phone call that he needs to be picked up,
which turns into leaving patients waiting or unseen. A patient close to her due
date becomes a potential 2am phone call saying I need to go to the hospital and
figure out what to do with my sound asleep kiddo. A night on call means
planning weeks in advance about who can pick up munchkin from daycare, feed
him, and be with him all night. Staying later at work means late dinner for
munchkin means cranky-pants kid. Not being able to carry everything from the
car to the apartment turns into worrying what item is least likely to be stolen
while it sits in the backseat, and wondering if it’s ok to leave munchkin alone
in his crib while bringing in groceries up 3 flights of stairs. Spending 2
glorious hours from 6-8pm feeding, bathing, and playing with legos means maybe
my medical board scores won’t be as high.
I’ve never in my life
spent so much time double and triple checking when I leave the house that I
have everything- phone, keys, wallet, food, kid…etc. Forgetting those things
becomes lots more complicated when you’re alone. I worried more about getting a
flat tire or having the ER suck all the battery out of my phone and being
unreachable more than ever before.
Small deals become big
deals when life doesn’t have much margin. Distant worries become real fears.
Potential snags in the day seem to become imminently possible and probable.
Were there friends to
call? Sure. But this is DC. Everyone is busy. It’s hard to call for help at 2am
when you have to go to the hospital no matter how good of a friend.
By the grace of God, I
haven’t had any big emergencies. No 2am hospital calls that didn’t work out in
the end. No late dinners or early mornings or street cleaning days or chief
resident emergencies or lack of groceries that had any lasting impact.
Practically and tangibly, things worked out. But life still felt vulnerable,
hanging in a delicate balance between “things working” and “system failure.”
There didn’t seem to be any middle ground.
I’ve learned how much I love
margins. I’ve thought deeply about individuals and groups who permanently live
life without much margin. Single parents, unemployed, homeless, disempowered
minorities, the chronically ill. Small things become big deals. Life is more
delicate.
Everyone needs margins
and help on their “street cleaning” days.
**I use term solo-parent
rather than single parent because, well, I'm not single. Jonathan may have been
away a lot, but we're still together, and we're only apart for a year. He was
always there for a supportive text or call or email. Once he even rushed back
from NYC on a train (I wouldn't let me him tell me how much last minute tickets
cost) when I had to bring Theo to the hospital. We saw him for long weekends
almost each week. We mutually agreed that this was the best plan for us this
year. I'm not single, but I learned a lot about what single parenting might be
like.
Friday, April 29, 2016
Presence makes the heart grow fonder
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
But does it, really?
We drove up I-95 to Philly last weekend, and as the skyline began to peek up over the industrial graveyard that is the 20 miles between Wilmington and Philly, my heart had a few extra pitter patters. I love Philly; it feels like home, still. As we walked through the streets all weekend I felt comfortable- the way I feel when I pull off work clothes and step into running shorts and a sweatshirt. I suppose as I think about where I might want to live in the future, and feel absence from a city I love, I feel fondness. But it's nothing like being there, being present. Presence makes the heart grow fonder.
I went for a run today through DC. I've always enjoyed getting to know cities by running and walking through them. I've never loved DC the way I love Philly. It takes work to love DC. I don't think after or long for it when I'm away. Certain people and places, sure, but not the city as a whole. Today, running 9ish miles, I loved the city. The Ethiopian man who runs the corner store on my street waved hello. I passed the empty store front a block down which, after 7 years of emptiness, is showing a few signs of new life. I passed the Howard dorms- someone finally washed off the graffiti mourning the death of Trayvon Martin from the cracked bricks. The building looked empty without that spray paint memorial. I ran past Howard, Bread for the City, down through Chinatown onto the national mall, over to the Supreme Court, back down the mall and over to the White House, up 18th street, past Community of Hope, Christ House and the Potter's House, past Whitman Walker and Upper Cardozo and La Clinica Del Pueblo. I ran past playgrounds and schools, police and homeless folks. I didn't see anyone I recognized, and yet everyone seemed familiar. It's been 7 years, and I know this city. I've walked through almost every neighborhood, maybe even every street, at some point. I don't just know where things are. It's deeper than that. I know it the way good friends know each other- able to spend time together, anticipate each others thoughts and feelings, and move through life together in a sort of duet. The city has a rhythm, different neighborhoods with different beats, and I've become a part of it. Presence, being present, makes my heart grow with fondness for this city.
I've spent about 60-70% of this year with J living in NYC. Do I love and miss him when he's away? Sure. Solo-mommying is no joke, and deserves a blog post of its own. But it's his presence that makes my heart grow fonder, not absence. My favorite text of the week is, "my train's here, see you tonight!" I suppose the times of absence have grown my appreciation for his presence. But, when it's time for him to return to NYC for the week, I realize that it is actually his presence that grows my appreciation of his presence. Presence makes the heart grow fonder.
This has been an encouraging theme as I think about moving to a city for which I currently don't feel much fondness. I feel, well, mostly nothing about Tallahassee. Not good, not bad, just fact. It's a fact I'm moving there. But presence, being present, grows fondness. Maybe I'll grow to love this new city, too. Despite my introvert desires to move into our new big house, spend any extra time reading books and building a deck and growing gardens and having kids, and just living off the fondness I've stored up for Philly and DC, I know I can't. I need to be present. I'll always love those cities, but I suspect my fondness will dwindle the longer I'm away from them. They'll always be special, but I'll fall out of touch with that deep city rhythm that I feel a part of now. Maybe on my first day living in Tallahassee I'll go for a nice, long, run.
Presence makes the heart grow fonder. Being present in and with cities, neighborhoods, communities, families, friends grows my love for those places and people. Absence, perhaps, helps reveal the fondness. But presence? Presence grows the heart.
But does it, really?
We drove up I-95 to Philly last weekend, and as the skyline began to peek up over the industrial graveyard that is the 20 miles between Wilmington and Philly, my heart had a few extra pitter patters. I love Philly; it feels like home, still. As we walked through the streets all weekend I felt comfortable- the way I feel when I pull off work clothes and step into running shorts and a sweatshirt. I suppose as I think about where I might want to live in the future, and feel absence from a city I love, I feel fondness. But it's nothing like being there, being present. Presence makes the heart grow fonder.
I went for a run today through DC. I've always enjoyed getting to know cities by running and walking through them. I've never loved DC the way I love Philly. It takes work to love DC. I don't think after or long for it when I'm away. Certain people and places, sure, but not the city as a whole. Today, running 9ish miles, I loved the city. The Ethiopian man who runs the corner store on my street waved hello. I passed the empty store front a block down which, after 7 years of emptiness, is showing a few signs of new life. I passed the Howard dorms- someone finally washed off the graffiti mourning the death of Trayvon Martin from the cracked bricks. The building looked empty without that spray paint memorial. I ran past Howard, Bread for the City, down through Chinatown onto the national mall, over to the Supreme Court, back down the mall and over to the White House, up 18th street, past Community of Hope, Christ House and the Potter's House, past Whitman Walker and Upper Cardozo and La Clinica Del Pueblo. I ran past playgrounds and schools, police and homeless folks. I didn't see anyone I recognized, and yet everyone seemed familiar. It's been 7 years, and I know this city. I've walked through almost every neighborhood, maybe even every street, at some point. I don't just know where things are. It's deeper than that. I know it the way good friends know each other- able to spend time together, anticipate each others thoughts and feelings, and move through life together in a sort of duet. The city has a rhythm, different neighborhoods with different beats, and I've become a part of it. Presence, being present, makes my heart grow with fondness for this city.
I've spent about 60-70% of this year with J living in NYC. Do I love and miss him when he's away? Sure. Solo-mommying is no joke, and deserves a blog post of its own. But it's his presence that makes my heart grow fonder, not absence. My favorite text of the week is, "my train's here, see you tonight!" I suppose the times of absence have grown my appreciation for his presence. But, when it's time for him to return to NYC for the week, I realize that it is actually his presence that grows my appreciation of his presence. Presence makes the heart grow fonder.
This has been an encouraging theme as I think about moving to a city for which I currently don't feel much fondness. I feel, well, mostly nothing about Tallahassee. Not good, not bad, just fact. It's a fact I'm moving there. But presence, being present, grows fondness. Maybe I'll grow to love this new city, too. Despite my introvert desires to move into our new big house, spend any extra time reading books and building a deck and growing gardens and having kids, and just living off the fondness I've stored up for Philly and DC, I know I can't. I need to be present. I'll always love those cities, but I suspect my fondness will dwindle the longer I'm away from them. They'll always be special, but I'll fall out of touch with that deep city rhythm that I feel a part of now. Maybe on my first day living in Tallahassee I'll go for a nice, long, run.
Presence makes the heart grow fonder. Being present in and with cities, neighborhoods, communities, families, friends grows my love for those places and people. Absence, perhaps, helps reveal the fondness. But presence? Presence grows the heart.
Monday, March 28, 2016
Walking Down the Aisle
I married a Republican*. I've always voted Democrat. I'm not a huge fan of those labels, but they're commonplace and simple to use.
I've become a little more Republican. He's become a little more Democrat. Heck, we've even talked about voting across the aisle depending on the year, the candidate, the issues at stake.
Speaking of aisles, we walked down one. Together. Almost 6 years ago.
We don't always agree, and there are times when we cut the conversation short, because arguing it out and getting in our talking points isn't worth going to bed feeling disconnected.
Republican and Democrat aren't our most important labels or descriptors. Christian, wife, husband, mommy/daddy, son, daughter, sister, brother, economist, doctor, nerd. They're not the only descriptors, but they aren't un-important. They're part of a story that shapes how we see and interact with the world around us.
I can't laugh quite as much as some anti-republican jokes on late night comedy, because I'm watching them sitting next to my favorite Republican. Jonathan can't write off Democrats as all being tree-hugging, non-profit founding, government dictators, because I'm sitting next to him when we watch Fox News.
We agree on a lot, the vast majority. But sometimes we don't. And that's ok. At the end of the day, we trust that what each of us most desires is real, true, good life, for all people. Neither of us think that's found wholly, fully, perfectly in presidents or government. We both see, differently, how our leaders and government structures affect the world we live in in real ways. I tell stories about the injustice of healthcare and welfare. He tells stories about the injustices of bad economics. We both long for a country and world more full of life, peace, justice. My ability to think about life, peace, and justice is bigger, not smaller, because of our cross-political relationship. Isn't that the point? I've had the experience of getting frustrated about bad democratic policies. And...Jonathan has hugged a few trees since we've been married.
We live life not reaching across the aisle, but walking down the aisle.
We are at our best when we're in motion, walking together, not seated comfortable and holding hands across an ideological aisle. Walking means neither of us are fully comfortable, easily defined or contained, and that's a good thing.
The carpet in the aisles is a little more worn. You can't help but bump into people. And when the people from either side are trying to move in different directions? Forget it. Mass chaos, stepped on toes. No one gets anywhere fast. Aisles work best when people are moving in the same direction, even if at different speeds, with pit stops and side conversations.
Here's to hoping we can all spend a little more time in the aisle.
*Disclaimer, Jonathan said it was OK that I outed him as a Republican, and that he isn't really that Republican.
The carpet in the aisles is a little more worn. You can't help but bump into people. And when the people from either side are trying to move in different directions? Forget it. Mass chaos, stepped on toes. No one gets anywhere fast. Aisles work best when people are moving in the same direction, even if at different speeds, with pit stops and side conversations.
Here's to hoping we can all spend a little more time in the aisle.
*Disclaimer, Jonathan said it was OK that I outed him as a Republican, and that he isn't really that Republican.
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