WHAT WE'VE ALL BEEN WORKING FOR...

God bless the President-elect of the United States of America!

Water, water, everywhere

My new favorite place to swim: Lake Grapevine. Out in the middle of the waters, you can lose yourself for hours. It's the next best thing to being in the sea--and much, much warmer. I should have been a fish...

Reasons to be cheerful...

I'm proud of my adopted homeland tonight. Barack Obama has secured the nomination. No matter how little you have, donate something to his campaign now:

Contribute!

Congratulations! You're a history-maker.

A Road Less Traveled By

This speech will be talked about for decades to come. It will be taught in universities. It will be remembered as a pivotal moment in a country's history. I hope it is remembered as a road taken, not an opportunity missed. The transcript is here, and an extract is below:

"We can play Reverend Wright’s sermons on every channel, every day and talk about them from now until the election, and make the only question in this campaign whether or not the American people think that I somehow believe or sympathize with his most offensive words. We can pounce on some gaffe by a Hillary supporter as evidence that she’s playing the race card, or we can speculate on whether white men will all flock to John McCain in the general election regardless of his policies.

"We can do that. But if we do, I can tell you that in the next election, we’ll be talking about some other distraction. And then another one. And then another one. And nothing will change. That is one option.

"Or, at this moment, in this election, we can come together and say, 'Not this time.'"

Take the road less traveled this time, America, because here is the astonishing news: "At 11:00 on a Tuesday, a prominent politician spoke to Americans about race . . . as though they were adults" (Jon Stewart).

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
From "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

You can make a contribution to the journey here. Then find out how to get involved locally here.

So let the waves come; they will anyway

Water. I’ve loved it for as long as I can remember. As a troubled teen, I used to sit for hours on a huge rock lodged in the middle of a river and watch the water slipping softly by on both sides. There was something unspeakably soothing in its constancy. When it hit obstacles, it simply ran around them. It was infinitely gentle, absolutely unstoppable.

When I grew up, I moved to live near the sea and later to the beautiful English Lake District. From an early age, my children played in, around, and on the water too. I used to walk them home from school via our river where we would often stop to paddle or mess about with mud and sticks. In the holidays, I would take them camping by the beach at Whitby or rowing on Ullswater or Buttermere.

When we came to Dallas just over five years ago, we brought very little. You cannot carry a house on your back when you cross an ocean. There were the children’s toys, some clothes, a few of our most treasured books—and a small yellow dinghy that has been gathering dust in the garage for far too long. It’s hard to say why I would bring a dinghy to Dallas, but there it is, a message, a reminder.

Today, I unearthed it from its dusty hiding place and took it out to White Rock Lake with Lizzy who is always good for a lark. Joy rolled her eyes and stayed home; at 13, she is both too old and too young to mess about in boats.

Finding my dinghy, rowing out onto the water again, was like unwrapping a present sent to me from a younger—and perhaps wiser—self. Life has been a little choppy of late, and there have been days and weeks when I have felt the water has been almost over my head. I have felt that I was, as Stevie Smith put it so well, “not waving, but drowning.” It has been hard to breathe at times, and I don’t fool myself that there aren’t more of those times to come. But today, in the sunshine, with cold, wet pants, bare, muddy feet, and laughing birds wheeling overhead, I remembered that water has always been my friend.

So let the waves come; they will anyway.

Lizzy and I laughed as we sat in the middle of the lake in less than dry condition, reciting lines from one of our favorite poems by Edward Lear:

The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, ‘How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

Lizzy looked down at her damp feet and, for the first time, questioned the efficacy of the pinky paper all folded neat. We agreed it probably hadn’t worked very well.

Hanging with Senator Chris Dodd

Senator Chris Dodd stopped by the law offices of Kelly and Witherspoon Sunday evening with Arizona Governor Janet Napolitano. There was no fanfare. They just wanted to come by and encourage the local volunteers who have been campaigning so hard in the last few weeks--among the hardest workers, as usual, were Joy and Lizzy, proudly pictured here with the Senator.

Senator Dodd is a lovely, gently spoken, inspirational figure who reeks of integrity. He thanked us all for our work and told us a little about why he's supporting Barack Obama. He congratulated me on my first vote as a US citizen.

Both Senator Dodd and Governor Napolitano let us know we get to rest for a day after the primary, but then it's back to work for the long, hard haul to the White House. Anyone who thinks the next step is going to be easy is fooling themselves, they told us. When the Democratic party gets together around Obama's candidacy, THAT's when the big guns will come out.

I believe it, but I'm also encouraged by the way some moderate Republicans (Obamicans, they call themselves!) have been reacting to our candidate. They see him as an inspirational leader that America needs. And they didn't just tell me that. My two new Republican friends told countless voters too as we phone banked together through the day.

In other news, it was slightly disconcertibng to be followed around a Fiesta parking lot by CBS news this morning who stuck a mike down my shirt and listened in as I talked to voters and flyposted leaflets--before being asked to leave by the manager who didn't disclose who he was supporting in the primary! The guys told me the segment would be on the news this evening. I don't know whether it was, but I enjoyed my chat with the reporter once the mike had been removed and I could once more think straight. He hasn't voted yet but will be doing so on March 4. He's not sure whether he'll go back in the evening to caucus. And no... He didn't tell me who was getting his vote!

Volunteering at the Fort Worth Rally

I kept my daughters off school on Thursday, as you can see (left, at the top of the picture).

We have been volunteering locally at weekends for the Obama campaign and received an invitation to help at the Fort Worth Convention Center rally where thousands of people were expected to come and hear the Senator speak. We arrived six hours before the event, as requested.

Joy and I got separated from Lizzy early on. She called us gleefully from the main floor where she was acting as a runner and helping seat disabled visitors. Joy called her sister a "punk" under her breath; she and I were stuck outside helping get satellite trucks parked and keeping others away. Told we would not be forgotten and then (it seemed) promptly abandoned, we stood in the exhaust fumes of ABC and Faux news vans with two other volunteers and did our job faithfully for hour after hour.

Now, I'm a campaigner for hope, but I think I'm a realist too. My new friend, Ada, was adamant someone would come back for us eventually, but I began to try to let my co-workers down gently. "You know," I said, "I'm sure they mean well, but they have hundreds of volunteers to coral, and thousands upon thousands are pouring this way. The number of jobs they're working on in there will keep multiplying. We need to face the fact that we might not get in. Heck--the four of us are the only volunteers here who haven't even been able to get our credentials. We have nothing to prove we're in any way connected to the campaign--and now they've locked the doors for the bomb sweep."

But even at hour three, Ada was adamant. "The press director said he'd come back and get us. We're gonna be just fine. This is a campaign of integrity," she told me firmly. "They'll keep their word."

I had no doubt Brandon, the busy press director who left us with the trucks, meant to keep his word, but he had a lot on his plate, what with the Secret Service (who I tried to wave away at one point thinking they were visitors parking in my Sat truck spots--whoops!), the growing press crowd, and the sheer volume of logistics he had to juggle. I wasn't holding my breath that integrity alone would reach as far from the center of action as a side road full of trucks and cables where four slowly roasting volunteers waved on the traffic and dreamt of the possibility of a restroom sighting somewhere in the distant future.

...which all goes to show that I have a lot to learn about hope...

Just after hour three, back came Brandon to the rescue. The police were closing the road, so we were no longer needed to act as human traffic signs. He hadn't forgotten us. He walked us through every security check point, informing even the Secret Service that "These four are good; they're with me." He thanked us for our work and told us we were getting the best seats in the house. Then he politely but firmly argued us through every official until we were sitting on the risers right behind where the Senator would speak--with a bird's eye view behind the screen to where he would arrive backstage too. Though Lizzy had been giving me regular bulletins by phone throughout the day, it was a relief to her old mum when she was allowed through to join us too.

All in all, we had an incredible day, and of course being so close to our hero, Obama, was pretty cool, but it's sometimes not the obvious things that have the most impact. Lizzy had particularly enjoyed petting the Secret Service sniffer puppy and working the elevators, and Joy told me it was Brandon (pictured left) who was her new role model. We ran into him picking litter in his suit after the event was over, and Joy got her photo taken with him. He seemed surprised that she singled him out; it was a shame she never got to tell him why. He was in charge of so much, she told me, but he remembered the little things--like us! That's the kind of person she wants to be when she's all grown up and working in the White House.

In the picture at the top of the post, Lizzy (11), is standing in the middle at the back in the brown T-shirt. Joy (13) is to her right, and I'm to her left. Oh, and the cool-looking dude in the foreground... That's the next president of the United States of America!

Making history one Google map at a time

My daughters and I spent the day volunteering in downtown Dallas for Barack Obama's campaign. I had thought we would be there for an hour or two, but the girls just didn't want to leave. Lizzy (11) worked on signs and on the phones, helped orient new volunteers, and kept the call-sheets straight, and Joy (13)--who was having trouble with her voice because of a cold--provided printed and written directions to canvassers who walked and talked in various precincts.

After three hours, I suggested that Joy (above right) might want to go home since she's been unwell. "Nah-ah," she told me, hoarsely but with a huge grin: "I'm serving my country; I'm making history one Google map at a time!"

Lizzy (left, and right, working the phones) was equally immovable. We stayed another couple of hours at the Kelly & Witherspoon Law Center before I enticed them home finally with a promise that we would stop off at Obama Dallas on the way and that yes, we could volunteer at HQ on Friday night and be back at the law offices phone banking on Saturday morning. To say I am proud of my daughters' commitment would be the understatement of the year.

A vote and a kiss

I voted early in the Texas primary today. It was my first time as a US citizen, and it felt GREAT. The guy in the sparkly hat gave me a kiss to seal the deal.

It was Hershey's, of course!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LATE BREAKING NEWS - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I just inadvertently washed both my voter registration card and voting receipt along with my laundry. I don't think it will be a problem getting a duplicate card by November, but I want to caucus for Obama next month. (In addition to the primary, there's a caucus, so go back to your precinct at 7pm on March 4 to mop up the remaining delegates.) I have unraveled my very clean voting receipt; it's recognizable, but the signatures and some of the numbers have washed off. I am hoping it's enough. I'm looking into what to do if it's not.

- - - - - - - - - - - - ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL - - - - - - - - - - - -

My local officials assure me that because I voted early there'll be a record at my precinct. That plus my very clean voting receipt will be enough to get me in the door to caucus for my candidate on the night. Meanwhile, the very slow printer at the SOS's office is grinding out a new registration doc for me--should be ready in about a month, apparently!

- - - - - - - - - - - - IN GOOD TIME - - - - - - - - - - - -

UPDATE: My new voter registration doc arrived yesterday (26th) in plenty of time for the caucus.

Introducing...

Bella (bottom left), the newest member of our family, pictured with Joy, Lizzy, Starsky (bottom right), and Hutch.

When I was the Forest

Words by Meister Eckhart,

freely translated by Daniel Ladinsky.

When I Was The Forest


When I was the stream, when I was the
forest, when I was still the field,
when I was every hoof, foot,
fin and wing, when I
was the sky
itself,

no one ever asked me did I have a purpose, no one ever
wondered was there anything I might need,
for there was nothing
I could not
love.
It was when I left all we once were that
the agony began, the fear and questions came,
and I wept, I wept. And tears
I had never known
before.

So I returned to the river, I returned to
the mountains. I asked for their hand in marriage again,
I begged—I begged to wed every object
and creature,

and when they accepted,
God was ever present in my arms.
And He did not say,
“Where have you
been?”

For then I knew my soul—every soul—
has always held
Him.





From: Daniel Ladinsky’s Love Poems from God.

Resolutions

It's more difficult to choose a New Year's Resolution this time around. I usually pledge to give up smoking, but since I actually achieved that one some months ago, I'm forced into new territory for this revolution of the sun.



This year I will:




Get fitter. It took me three hours to walk around White Rock Lake this morning, and afterwards I felt as though my legs had been replaced with stumps. Note to self: next year, don't do it in open-toed sandals. It was CHILLY out there.

Learn to juggle. At least, I will progress from being able to throw all three beanbags in the air to catching one or two as well. A fellow teacher gave an excellent presentation on "juggling for life" to my students last semester. I don't remember much about what he said, but I got the definite impression my whole life would be revolutionized if I could just keep those things in the air a while. Not that I particularly need more revolution in my life right now...

Go back to my meditation class. As my favorite fridge magnet puts it: "Meditation: It's not what you think." 'Nuff said.

So... What will you do?

The parent trap

Introducing my esteemed mother who is visiting from England (left).

You may be wondering what she is doing cowering under a blanket with her feet up on a chair. No, this is not how the English traditionally celebrate Christmas. Allow me to explain.

Having found evidence of seasonal rodent visitors during the holiday, we decided to lay a trap. Let me tell you, this was not an easy decision for a family of vegetarians to come to, and in our defence, we did examine the humane contraptions offered by our local DIY store before discarding them on the grounds they would involve actual human-to-rodent contact.

Our first serious attempt to catch and kill our unwanted visitor (the English not being renowned for their hospitality, after all) was made using a trap invented for those--like mum, like me--who wish to carry out extermination without ever having to see evidence of the crime (a bit like Congress when it authorizes wars). The natty little black box we bought had an indicator light which promised to let us know when a creature was caught, killed, and hidden away inside its black plastic shroud. The only problem was that after several days, it had caught, killed, and hidden away precisely nothing.

Venturing out once again, my intrepid mother and I allowed the Home Depot guy to talk us into a traditional wooden trap on which we were to smear peanut butter. Following the instructions almost to the letter (ie getting the neighbor's boy to do all the smearing and setting), we awaited the sound of snapping and squealing with trepidation.

Of course, what the instructions don't tell you is that these traps do not always kill their victims outright. Sometimes, they simply trap the unwary and wound them badly, allowing them to scrabble about for hours with wood and metal hinges attached. This was the situation which led to my mother's pose (above left). You might note that the camera angle is above and slightly to the right. Yes indeed, I was the one standing on the table while taking the picture.

My oldest daughter declared us "a bunch of bloody cowards." In vain did I try to explain that a "bunch" could not truly be said to represent only two people and that my mother and I were therefore no more nor less than a couple of cowards.

Off went Joy to do battle, her sister Lizzy aiding and abetting in the scooping activity that followed. Later, I explained to my daughters how proud I was that I was the kind of mother that raised brave daughters. "So what exactly," scoffed Joy at her grandmother, "did you raise?" I quickly came to my esteemed parent's rescue. "Gran," I informed Joy, importantly, "was the kind of mother who raised daughters that would bear brave children!" What can I say--it's a generational thing.

Barack in the House

For my sins, I was substituting in the Dallas Independent School District recently. My two secret weapons were Mary Poppins and the future. Who knew that some students would give me their respect just because I sound like the legendary English nanny? With most, however, I had to work hard just to keep some semblance of order in the classroom. I told one young boy I needed better behavior from him because I wanted to hear he was working in the White House some day. When that happened, I told him, I wouldn't want to have to tell the papers he had once been naughty with a tube of glue. He just about broke my heart with his reply.

"But Miz Hill," he told me, as though explaining something incredibly simple to someone particularly stupid and unobservant, "I can't work in the White House. I ain't white."

I'm not voting for Barack Obama because he's black. I'm voting for him because I think it will make a refreshing change to have a man of integrity leading this country. Nontheless, I have to tell you this: it helps that the color of his skin might make a Dallas second grader think twice about the possibilities for his own future. It helps a lot.

Barack Obama: because we're all worth it.

Rebecca

I talked to my sister in England today. Being British, my family doesn’t do much in what my daughter Lizzy calls the “Ushy-Gushy” line. I think this year was the first time I ever told my sister I loved her--must be the recent naturalization ceremony I’m suffering from! Anyway, now I’ve said it, I can’t seem to stop.

I love my sister.

Just under two weeks ago, at the grand old age of 42, Rebecca suffered three strokes. Strokes, I have discovered, are not like sicknesses or diseases but more like car wrecks or bombings. Rebecca was hit in her language center as well as in her face and arm.

It’s wonderful to hear her speaking again. Her tone is modulated and tentative, like someone using a hard-won second language in place of her own. Some of the words are simply not there when she reaches for them. She picks her way through her vocabulary like someone stepping carefully in bare feet around broken glass. Here and there, the sharp edges catch, and the words fall away. It seems that communicating is sometimes like trying to bite into a hard green apple when half of your teeth have been knocked out of your head. The analogies between what my sister is doing and what my ESOL students do every day are startling.

Let me tell you a bit about my sister. She is wild and brave and irreverent. When I was 13, she would plaster me in make-up, stick my feet in high heels, and drag me down the nightclubs of Huddersfield for a taste of “life.” Should a bouncer question me, I was instructed to speak only in Dutch. Since all I could do in Dutch back then was swear up a storm (Rebecca having taught me well), it was a good job there were no linguists on site. At 15, after years of playing hookey, she announced she would not be returning to school unless they taught her something worth knowing. Convinced that would never happen, she vanished into London, then Holland, then South Africa for a time. Somewhere along the way, she picked up her legendary cooking skills, credentials to teach the Alexander Technique, a temporary husband, and her beautiful son Adam.

Today, my mother has called the carpenter in to my sister’s house to move shelves and put in banisters. I should mention this is the house Rebecca built herself, and I don’t mean she hired a contractor. She put on a hard hat and worked on that building site for two long years, she and the local cooperative.

My sister has fought many demons in her life, and though she has not always won the battles, she has never stopped fighting for long. Why should stroke be any different? Having convinced the hospital to discharge her early, she’s on a mission. Seven times a day, my sister picks up a book with her good arm and reads a paragraph. When she first began, the words made no sense to her, but little by little, she says, the mists are clearing. Her next goals are mastery of the computer and the cell phone which have temporarily become a mystery.

Life has done some incredibly mean things to Rebecca, and it can’t be denied she’s done life a few mean things in return, but the two hobble on together, despite their frequent differences, in grumpy communion and sometimes even in cahoots. Recently, I asked a class to write about the person who inspired them. The examples I gave from my own life were people like Nelson Mandela and Thich Nhat Hanh. I never thought to mention my sister, so I’m mentioning her today.

Tom One and Tom New

Let me tell you about the new man in my life. His name is Tom, and he has a sexy English voice. He only ever talks when he's telling me what to do next. Strangely, I do not find this irritating in the least. Tom has many wonderful qualities. He is absolutely sure of himself; he simply oozes confidence, and it's infectious. He never argues with me, even when I do the opposite of what he wants. He just continues to state his preference in calm, even tones. He usually gets his way in the end.

I had a panda once, also named Tom. He was black and white and very soft. We were together for years, from the time before I could talk to the time I set off, Whittington-style, to seek my fortune. When I was young and the world was unaccountably mean, I would string him up by his ears and punch him before repenting with tears and wailing. He always forgave me. As a teenager, I told him all my secrets. Later, we settled into a comfortable marriage of true minds which involved sleeping together but no talking. The last time I remember seeing him was in an orphanage in Romania just after the Christmas revolution when Ceaucescu got shot. I didn't mean to leave Tom there. Maybe he just needed a break. He wouldn't be the first or the last man in my life to jump off the train while it was still moving, but that's another story...

Sometimes I feel that my new Tom is really the old Tom who has reinvented himself for the twenty-first century and come running back to my rescue. He is smaller than he used to be, and harder. He fits in my purse and in the palm of my hand. My sister sent him to me, assuring me he was better than sex and religion combined, and he would change my life forever.

The packaging he came in trumpeted: "TomTom One: You will never be lost again!" I must confess this slightly unnerved me. I have been getting lost for forty years now; it is a state of being to which I am peculiarly accustomed. I have been lost in many places in the world, in many time zones. My friends would tell you I am capable of getting profoundly lost even in a supermarket or a car park. I was not sure how comfortable I would be with always being found. So far, perhaps surprisingly, things seem to be working out. And there's always the "off" switch...

It's the war, Stupid!

Back in 1992, so the story goes, the presidential contender who shot to victory had a sign hanging in his office to remind him to stay on message with the electorate:

"It's the economy, Stupid!"

So what’s the message in 2007? Some would like to debate about whether we should describe the deaths of thousands as a “waste” or a “sacrifice.” I can see the arguments on both sides of the issue, but let me be blunt: the body bags look the same however you describe them. This is not the question on which we should be concentrating.

Frankly, I’m less concerned with the correct way to label the slaughter on the killing fields of Iraq and more concerned with bringing it to an end.

We saw clearly in the last election how staying on message played a pivotal role in swaying votes. That’s not just a lesson for leaders but for all of us. If you are supporting Barack Obama for president, consider yourself drafted. Like it or not, you’re an ambassador for the cause. What comes out of your mouth when you’re asked the question, “Why are you voting for Barack Obama?” matters. So here it is in a nutshell:

“It’s the war, Stupid!”

Of all those running for office in 2008, Barack Obama was the only one who declared from the start that this war was wrong. Lately, a variety of contenders have noticed the body count. Some have even apologized for casting the fatal vote and admitted going to war was wrong. Here’s the thing that separates Obama from the pack: he knew it five years ago.

Tell your friend, your co-worker, the barrista in Starbucks who asks you the billion-dollar question that one of the reasons you’re voting for Barack Obama is because he had the wisdom to see ahead of the curve.

We need more from a future president than an apology for lack of foresight. I applaud those who have admitted their mistakes, but I’ll sleep better in my bed knowing the next Commander-in-Chief is not someone prone to wage war first and apologize later. We’ll all be safer with a president who has a better grip on foreign affairs than that:

someone who will exhaust every option for dialogue;

someone who will examine every piece of intelligence;

someone who will offer us a better choice than “waste” or “sacrifice.”