A political path to inner peace

New Year's Eve, 2010 It is the last day of a long year, equal parts glory and disaster. An even draw between Good (great) and Bad (terrible). Truth is, I had a feeling from Day One--364 sunsets ago--that it would be a Good Year. Sure, Team Bad got a few hits in. In fact, they straight up schooled me on several occasions. But turns out I'm still an optimist. Even in hindsight. So here we are on this 365th day, just before sunset. Six wise women sit around a wooden table on a porch at a house in the middle of a marsh. The light is that special December grade of bright that makes everything sparkle. As if Mr. Clean has just whipped through this corner of God's creation and winked at us. There's so much goodness in the air, I suddenly get the feeling that if the marsh had arms, it would reach out and hug me. Wrapped in soft grasses, pluff mud, and maybe a couple of oysters for good measure. I wouldn't mind. I love you too, Marsh. After my mental pluf...

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...

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. ...

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....

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, ...

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 micro...