A political path to inner peace

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