A political path to inner peace

The cold is biting. In that--you thought you were packing for the beach but instead the humidity is snow--kind of way. It's cold in the unfamiliar sense. Not that I haven't known cold, freezing, tundra-like settings. Old man winter and I had six long years to get to know each other when I lived in Boston. You could say we were intimate. But this is South Carolina. For those of us who come here to escape, old man winter is an unwelcome guest in this land of hospitality. But it's Christmas, and we're cozy by the fire on the inter coastal waterway. Boats pass, birds call, and, according to my brother and nephews, the fish are biting. We've kayaked down the Wambaw River through 1,000 year old cypress trees. We've explored Fort Sumter, where the first shot of the Civil War rang out (General Anderson and 86 Union soldiers defending the port of Charleston before surrendering to the Confederate army). And we've come upon hundreds of wild ducks in the Sant

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. Julian of Norwich Revelations of Divine Love

December can be a tough month.  Winter sets in, darkness descending on day as if it has any right to the five o'clock hour.  Back off, nighttime.  I'm not finished wearing my sunglasses yet.  Oh, and winter clothes?  I much prefer you in boxes under the bed, thank you very little.  Yes, I have been a victim of S.A.D. in years gone past, but this winter, I've resolved to be a fighter.  With that in mind, here are my weapons of winter war, aka things to love in December: 1. The musical delight of Sarah Jarosz , with the energy of early Nickel Creek and the velvet voice of Sarah McLaughlin.  2. " CleanFlame "--fake firewood made from 100% recycled cardboard boxes.  It lights easy, burns long, and doesn't require Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe, to cut down several trees in order to keep me warm. 3. My grandfather's memory, summarized beautifully by the Times-Picayune here . 4. Yoga.  Any kind, at any hour, even if it means leaving climate-controlled

One of my favorite mantras since returning from Bhutan is "breathing is awesome!"  Some of you have heard me say it aloud, and it's certainly made appearances in this blog.  No, it may not be a traditional mantra (along the lines of omni mani padme hom or "honor the jewel of the lotus"), but I think the reminder is just as important. It's just this: the breath is always there.  You don't have to pay for it, you hardly have to exert any additional energy to capture it, and it is instantly effective.  I wish I could say the same things for my other favorite stress relievers...wine, chocolate, yoga.   Not so much. But the breath is your silent, ever present friend.  It does not leave you in times of stress or sadness.  But it is an underestimated, undervalued, often-ignored friend.  Poor guy.  When was the last time you took a deep breath?  Do it right now.  Doesn't that feel awesome?  Now give yourself a high-five for appreciating your "frien

Today is the first Saturday in a looong while that I've been in DC.  Which means it's also the first Saturday in awhile that I've been able to attend my favorite yoga class, taught by my favorite teacher (aside from my sister, of course). So, I'm in class this morning, feeling extremely grateful and pleased with myself for making it there in the first place, and for creating this space in my life to reflect and take care of my body.  It is no small feat these days, let me tell you. After a series of rapid vinyasas, I'm hoping that my audible breathing is more an indication of my mastery of Ujjayi breath rather than being out of practice.  Then Faith (our teacher) invites us to move from warrior three (balancing on one leg with the other extending out behind you) to eagle pose.  Oh god.  Cue unyogalike dread.  Eagle pose is not my friend, insofar as poses go.  It involves balancing on one foot while wrapping the other leg around the calf, and also doing a simil

My grandfather died in his home at the age of 88.  He was surrounded by his wife, four children, a handful of grandchildren and loved ones.  When he opened his eyes for the last time—just minutes before his last breath—my mother was standing on a chair, shouting and waving her hands.  “Dad, it’s me!  We’re okay!  It’s okay!”  A life fully lived, with only despair and joy pulling at the edges of the final passage.   As mom shouted on a chair and my sister held GrandSam’s hand, I was walking across a golf course in Kenya.  I glanced at my blackberry, nonchalant one moment, melting onto the green the next.  Salty sobs on African soil.  I was in Nairobi.  They were in New Orleans.  I felt the distance in my bones.  His departure was crushing. *** I met the man known as Dr. Sam Logan six years ago in Nicaragua.  Of course, I had known him my entire life—GrandSam was the only grandfather I ever knew.   But I didn’t know the depth of his being, the true parameters of his identity, un

As I mourn the loss of my grandfather, I found this reflection particularly beautiful ...  To deny the changeableness of life is like fancying a motionless sea, which can only exist in one's imagination.                         Bowl of Saki, December 6, by Hazrat Inayat Khan Commentary by Pir-o-Murshid Inayat Khan: If one studied the transitory nature of life in the world, how changeable it is, and the constant craving of everyone for happiness, one would certainly endeavor at all costs to find something one could depend upon. Man placed in the midst of this ever-changing world yet appreciates and seeks for constancy somewhere. He does not know that he must develop the nature of constancy in himself; it is the nature of the soul to value that which is dependable. But is there anything in the world on which one can depend, which is above change and destruction? All that is born, all that is made, must one day face destruction. All that has a beginning has also an end; but i

We are preparing for the passing of my grandfather, Dr. Sam Logan, Founding Director of West Jefferson Hospital, beloved member of Trinity Episcopal Church, lifelong supporter of the arts, world traveler, healer to the poor and needy, and adored pillar of his community. He will leave this world with a legacy of light and grandeur, carried on courageously by his wife, four children and their spouses, twelve grandchildren, three great grandchildren (with two more on the way) and hundreds, if not thousands, of friends and loved ones whose lives he has touched.  As we hold vigil for my mother's father, I am reminded of a similar process for my precious grandmother, Happy--mother of my father, for whom I was named, a giant of a woman despite her small stature. Below is the tribute that I wrote and read at Happy's memorial service, just one year ago.  I expect I'll write more about GrandSam as the depth of his passing settles into my spirit. I wish I could see the jig that

Up early (I love traveling backwards) and my first order of business is to shoot off a draft of a speech for next week's trip to Kenya.  Of course, a wireless connection is not easily come by in the home of my godfather the artist-ludite (who calls any computer an "evil black box of death").  Not to be deterred, I call my favorite uptown coffee shop, Refuel , fully expecting them to be closed on Thanksgiving Day.  To my great joy, Guthrie (the owner) picks up the phone.  "Well, we're not exactly open but I'm cooking up some grits and just brewed coffee.  Run on down here, girl!" I love this city. Minutes later, I'm sitting in front of my laptop, shaking my hips to classic New Orleans tunes.  The owner serves me two just-out-of-oven-still-steaming palmiers.  Hallelujah, lord these are delicious.  And sure, why not, I'll take a cup of coffee so long as it doesn't put you out.  So he cooks, I write, we both dance, and wow, there is just so m

I am lying beneath a cottony comforter on my godfather’s back porch.  It’s as light as the air—which is to say not at all.  But the thickness of both is deliciously enveloping, in that you’re-home-now sorta way.  It’s November 25, 1am on Thanksgiving eve, and the humidity belies New Orleans’ North American identity.  No passport needed, I’m in the tropics.  The New Orleans homecoming is always one of joyous chaos.  I can feel the energy somewhere over Lake Ponchartrain, rising above a horizon of dark water, followed by the lights of Metairie, Airline Blvd and the River Bend of the Crescent City.  Touched down, it’s soulful embraces and free-flowing, non-filtered love.  All around, don’t stop, can’t stop, oh-my-gah!-you’re-home-now love.  And I didn’t even grow up here.  Ahhh, yes. But. Lying here, mind brimming, can’t find the soft space of sleep between breath and thought.  My grandfather, a giant of a man, is not well.  He is lingering between the living and that great unkn

As is now apparent from this blog, writing=processing for me.  Shortly after my Incident, I wrote an email to all of my women friends in DC and beyond, recounting the experience and reminding them to stay aware of their surroundings.  (Like many, I never thought something like this could happen to me--as if I'm immune or invincible to worldly dangers!  Turns out there's no Superwoman belt beneath my business suit.) A couple days after I sent the email, I received a message from the founders of Hollaback DC, a nonprofit org that is fighting street harrassment and sexual assault in Washington (they also work in other major cities).  They had received my email via several forwards, and wanted to know if they could post it on their website.  Despite being in a dark place, I was uplifted that my story was circulating, and of course agreed to their request.  Several weeks later, I received another note from Hollaback, this time with the news that they had used my story in one of th

In a city of concrete and cars, I walk far too few steps on the padded ground of fallen leaves.  Yesterday I went on a perfect fall adventure to the outskirts of Washington, where the trees are turning and the wine is flowing in Virginia's rolling countryside.  We hiked along a quiet river, ate fried chicken and cupcakes, drank wine, and discussed everything from the war on climate change to the merits (errr, demerits) of people who look curiously similar to one another.  I of course have opinions on both, but no need to go into those here. We were 16 friends in a forest with no agenda but to enjoy one another and the quiet energy of the natural world.  And of course to celebrate the birthdays of three particularly awesome ladies. As the woods and river refueled me, I was likewise cognizant of the transmission of easy joy emanating from our group.  Lacking a better term, it was pure goodness.  Goodness that runs deeps through the Being of each person, displayed not by intentio

A rather important post script to my last post on "The Incident":  The man who attacked me mere yards from my apartment was arrested soon after, and charged with two misdemeanor counts for sexual abuse.  The Assistant U.S. Attorney who is prosecuting the case called this week to let me know that the defendant has pled guilty and will likely face 6 months in jail, along with one year of probation and community service.  I am submitting a written 'statement of impact' that the Attorney will read in court.  (I've opted out of taking the stand in person).  To be honest, I don't know how I feel about "justice" as delivered in response to The Incident.  On one hand, I'm relieved that he will be reprimanded, and hopefully encouraged to reflect on his behavior.  On the other hand, he is one among many who act this way.  Does the penalty really address the root cause of the injustice?  I don't know.

About two months ago, a man attacked me on my street.  I was walking home from dinner on a Tuesday night.  The street lights were bright, as was my mood.  I remember feeling particularly good about life.  And then he approached me from behind, grabbed me (not my purse), and turned my world upside down.  Three days after The Incident, bolstered by incredible support from friends, family and coworkers, I was in therapy.  Not the scary kind, but the comforting you-should-get-this-out-before-it-scars-you kind.  I couldn't stand the idea that this one person had instantly changed my character--that he had made me reconsider my notions of humanity and respect. Before The Incident, I was a person that loved someone before I met them; the girl who smiles and says hello to strangers on the street. All of the sudden, I couldn't bear sunlight on my own.  Walking from my front door to my car--a mere 100 yards away--was a journey of epic proportions, each step measured in fear.  I sen

It's been a busy couple of days for the residents of our Nation's Capital.  On Saturday, we welcomed hundreds of thousands of people to the National Mall, a historic public space, for the now infamous " Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear " with Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert (ehem, a fellow South Carolinian).  Three days later, we watched our democracy prove its point once again, as the Democrats lost control of the House of Representatives.   With my travel and spiritual preoccupations of late, I have been little more than a distracted spectator amongst the hype and fever of this rally and election environment.  If anything, I've been living proof that it's possible to reside in DC without being vitally entrenched in political discourse. That said, now that the results are in, I have the distinct sensation of sleeping through an alarm clock, and the subsequent anxiety that I've missed an important meeting.  It seems I hit the snooze button one too m

I think we spend an inordinate amount of energy focusing on what things would be like if they weren't what they are.  The fact is, they are what they are, and any energy spent on wishing them to be different is a waste of time.  I have several thoughts on this cumbersome aspect of human nature. 1. Acceptance is freedom.  Once you accept a situation for what it is, and stop wishing it to be different, you give yourself the liberty to make the best of it and move on.  A lovely gift indeed. 2. Acceptance is not denial.  Ignoring a situation, especially the unpleasantries that come with it, does not help you move on.  It only propogates a false sense of reality.  No one wants to live an illusion. 3. Acceptance is not resignation.  It is the proactive appreciation of circumstances as they stand. 4. Acceptance is not easy.  It often means conceding defeat or giving up a certain hope.  Neither of which are particularly fun, especially for optimistic people like yours truly.  On the

Several years ago--I can't remember exactly when--I took a second look at Pity.  The emotion never sat right with me, especially the indulgent kind that we often offer to our own damaged psyches or broken hearts.  A process that typically results in multiple empty Ben & Jerry's cartons and wine bottles, if you will. My trouble with the dark force of pity is derived from a basic understanding of--and trust in--human capability.  In sum, it's that every person has the cognitive ability to better his or her own life and all of the unfortunate situations in between.  Of course, there are any number of external factors that influence said life and situations; but all else being equal, humans are pretty powerful forces of nature.  We all express pain, suffering, and disappointment differently; and coping mechanisms vary from one person to the next.  But ultimately, each of us has the power to accept the negative situation, learn from it, and move on. In the world of clich

It was my first week back from Bhutan, and an email from a treasured colleague (a consummate DC networker with impeccable taste) pops onto my screen. "Caro--are you coming to the launch reception at my house this week?"  Without thinking, I write back "Sorry, I have a hair appointment."  What?   Several hours later, my boss asks me the same question, to which I give her the same answer.  "What do you mean you have a hair appointment?" she responds, "Caroline, have you lost your mind?"  Turns out while I was finding inner peace in Bhutan, I misplaced some of my sensibilities, particularly those related to work.  Luckily, that's why we have great bosses to remind us of priorities like important launch events for projects we deeply care about. The cocktail reception, like its host, is high-cotton.  After polite greetings to key people, I seek out a glass of wine and a colleague who is willing to listen to me talk about Bhutan for the thou

Alarm goes off at 6:30.  No thanks, alarm, maybe later.  Up around 7, turning on lights (ugh), making bed (so I don't get back in) and blasting iTunes (digging the new Ray LaMontagne).  Stare at closet, decide on black dress and beige suit jacket.  Top it off with a glamorous HandPicked necklace and tall black boots.  One dark cup of coffee and bowl of oatmeal later, I'm out the door. It's 60ish degrees outside, ominously cloudy, and way too humid for October.  I hike up my skirt ever so casually, jump on my bike, and ride across town to USAID's offices on G Street.  Just a 15 minute bike ride during rush hour, with my brown leather briefcase perched over my back-wheel-basket.  Did I mention I am wearing running shorts under my dress?  Yep, bright green ones.  And a helmet (of course!). Hikedupdress+tallblackboots+brightgreenshorts+bignecklace+helmet=Rush Hour Entertainment. The meeting at USAID is an interagency workshop on microfinance.  I, along with my Latin

Yes, my happiness-level of late has been markedly other-worldly.  But I still struggle with remnants of my pre-Bhutan life.  Which is why I was particularly delighted when a new practice came to me today during yoga class.  I will hereby call it the “ Practice for dispelling disappointment/frustration/attachment and moving forward into your own awesomeness ” Breathing in through the nose, while thinking of subject of disappointment/frustration/attachment : “I love you.” Breathing out through the nose : “I release you.” (Repeat) Breathing in through the nose, while thinking of yourself : “I love me. “ Breathing out through the nose : “I release you.” (Repeat ad infinitum) Breathing is awesome!

It’s come to my attention that I live a life of extremes.  Granted, they are the extremes of a young, white woman living in the United States of America. (Important to take all things into context.)  But, the fact remains that I am a pendulum of emotion.  Not necessarily swaying between sad and happy (though there is that).  Most of the time, it’s swinging between tranquil and ecstatic .  Or calm, pensive and… karaoke-singing-bourbon-drinking-all-out-thrilled-about-life . Both are part of me.  Neither of which I feel inclined to sacrifice.  But recently, I’ve found myself reflecting on where I am in the swing of things.  Longing for a better balance.  Somewhere between Bhutan and the bar down the street.  Life between savasana and the seventh glass of wine.  It comes down to the Middle Path .  As Buddha taught, it’s finding the balance between seclusion and extravagance, austerity and indulgence.  Ironic actually, considering how I’ve avoided being in the middle most of my life. 

I just ran an impromptu 5K.  With an Ambassador.  From Atlanta.  In Peru.  On the Pacific.  Did I mention I'm not much of a runner?  Turns out running isn't so bad when you have a enthusiastic partner, talking about Latin American politics and the dynamics of US foreign policy.  Whew! The day started with an early meeting at the US Embassy, where we spoke with colleagues who are working on financial inclusion here in Lima.  Then on to a local microfinance organization, Caja Nuestra Gente, to meet with the Executive Vice President.  Though he spoke the fastest Spanish I've heard since living in Chile, I managed to catch most of his presentation.  My favorite part: a new program that offers working capital loans to microentrepreneurs who collect, sort and sell recyclable materials to manufacturers.  Empowering low-income individuals and helping the environment.  I like it. After a delightful lunch with two government lawyers working on secured transaction reform (*enablin

It’s been two and a half weeks since I returned home from Bhutan.  I have fully reengaged in my Washington life.  And yet, the lessons from my sangha are still making their way into my consciousness. While in Bhutan, I found myself craving more.  More direction, more guidance, more exploration through organized activity.  Meanwhile, the rest of the group commented on how much we were already doing.  I felt otherwise—I wanted to pack as much into those two weeks as the hours of each day would allow.  One night, Atum (our subtly magnificent teacher) reminded us that we were witnessing huge archetypal images every day, absorbing them through our 'crown chakra,' and receiving lessons that we may not yet be aware of.  It was true.  I did not realize how much we were already processing—so much was our activity on a different dimension. Now, weeks later, the lessons are materializing as potent thoughts.  Concepts and ideas so strong that I have to pause in daily activity t

I am, once again, sitting cross-legged on the floor.  Unfortunately, Buddha is not in front of me this time, though a small version of him hangs around my neck. Instead, I am in the Miami airport—not exactly a refuge of tranquility and comfort.  But I’m talking to Mom, who is, on the phone.  She’s just back from Mexico, and I’m en route to Peru.  (Yes, I am my mother’s daughter).  We’re discussing Thanksgiving plans, and how I might get from New Orleans to Kenya that Sunday.  Not a bad conundrum to have, despite its logistical complications. Half way through a sentence, I look up into the crowd of waiting passengers and see a character from my past.  It’s Liz Carty, my first boss at Oxfam America when I began interning in their DC office.  She was witness to the beginning of my development career.  I had not seen her in over five years (though she kindly participated in my background check during my transition to State).  Minutes later, we are hugging, realizing we’re on the same

I have six unretrieved voicemails on my phone.  This is a new thing for me.  Not that friends didn't leave messages before--they left plenty.  The perplexing development is my comfort at letting the voicemails sit, unlistened to, with the glaring red '6' staring up from my phone.  Is this a minute consequence of my new spiritual self?  As If I am saying, "Hi, Six.  I am fine with your existence, and no, I don't need to diminish you in order to return to the natural balance of zero voicemails." Hmmm. *** Sitting on the floor in front of present Buddha, right ankle over left knee (mine not his), I tapped into something.  I didn't mean to; I was pretty new to this, after all.  But that's how meditation works--once you resign yourself to non-intention, the intention arrives.  And so it did: one phrase at a time, floating into my head.  I can still feel them sailing in, words strung together with the urgency of desperate need and the calmness of having

One month ago, I set forth on a journey of which the depth would far exceed the length. I returned ten days ago a changed person. Perhaps 'changed' isn't the right word. I was then the person I am now; I am now the person I was then. But an inner source has been tapped and a new dimension discovered; the center stronger and the path more clear. Of course, enlightenment doesn't happen overnight. Especially not for me. The separation anxiety I felt from my work was somewhere between 1) total panic and 2) the single-childless-woman's equivalent of postpartum depression. What do you mean there is no Blackberry service? The possibility of disconnecting entirely was more foreign a concept than 3G in a dial-up nation. By Day 3, I was in meltdown mode, with little chance of rescue. The only option was to drown in the ocean of calm. Of course, once I stopped flailing, I floated. Flying from East to West, against the spin of the Earth, I had the sense of going