Whistler's Mother

That's me!

I have an eight year old who whistles all day through. She takes Snow White's advice to an extreme and whistles while she works, and while she plays, and while we drive in the car, and while she dresses, even while she eats -- don't ask me how.

I have come to the conclusion that if Whistler whistled half as much as my daughter painting a famous portrait of his mother was very inadequate compensation: she must have had more patience than Job. She deserved far better, like a whole collection of paintings -- maybe a town built in her honor as well.

All I know is that some days I feel like if I hear one more high pitched sound I may run screaming into the mountains and never come back.

I don't know how she manages to sit there looking so serene, especially while he was painting her, since it is a task that I am sure was accompanied by a lot of whistling. I just wish I could channel some of that peacefulness into my own demeanor.

Whistler's Mother: truly, my current hero.

Status

This is a non-creative, non-reflective post for those that read this blog for actual info on what is happening in our lives.

Two weeks ago on Tuesday, September 14 (two weeks after we had expected) we got the keys to our new home. It was not without last minute drama, including having to re-sign all the closing documents and having the Title Company lose the keys to the house. But, in the end, the home was ours.

The past two weeks have been a blur of reloading trucks, unloading trucks, unpacking boxes, organizing, and trying to get settled in -- which is a huge task.

We have been spending money like crazy -- it is amazing what it costs to restock a kitchen or reequip a closet with hooks and organizers, plus we have bought a new fridge, washer, dryer, china cabinet, entertainment center, barstools, outdoor furniture, lawn care equipment, rugs, decor... As people who rarely buy new things, especially big items, it has been rather odd to be constantly making purchases as we settle in.

We have also been in the midst of a construction zone as we are currently living in about 2/3 of our home and having the other 1/3 remodeled to create an office for Jeffrey, a bedroom for Mia, and a family room / playroom. So, part of our lives is in order and part is still boxed up in the garage. We have also been building shelves for storage in the kitchen and laundry room. So with all the other mess, we have had tools and sheetrock and sawdust and lumber everywhere.

Happily, it should all be finished by this weekend, and we are looking forward to finishing moving in then, so that maybe, finally, we can be settled into our new home and lives.

Living in Boise, Part I: Life in the Garden of Eden

Never in my life, until I arrived in Boise, have I met people who so openly and unabashedly rave about the place that they live.

Seriously. The degree to which people in Boise gush over the perfection of their city is almost nauseating. Or, at the very least, a little condescending in its implicit condemnation of all the other locations where people choose to live in the world.

Before we moved here, I was struck by the fact that -- despite several people giving me odd looks and asking why in the world anyone would ever want to go to Idaho, much less live there, and the fact that numerous East-coasters who I told of our move were convinced that Iowa and Idaho were actually the same state – I did not meet one person who had ever lived in Boise or known anyone well who had lived in Boise who did not have positive things to say about it. I thought this spoke well for the city to which we were relocating. I even found myself to be rather reassured that I had yet to hear a substantive complaint about the place from a former or current resident. But, since I have arrived on the scene here, I have been just amazed at the pride and affection that Boiseans (if that is what they are called) heap upon their hometown.

Every single person that I meet who hears we have moved here recently tells me, without a shadow of a doubt or a moment of hesitation, “You’re going to love it!” “This is the best place to live!” “Nowhere is better to raise a family!”

At first I wondered if this was just due to their lack of exposure to alternative locations. Perhaps people in Boise are just very sheltered and have never experienced the wonders of other locales?

But no.

I have found no pattern at all or any differentiation between life-long Boiseans and transplants, from Virginia, California, Missouri, Boston, Utah… Everyone is convinced that this is the best place they have ever lived.

And, the thing is: they don’t say it with a short list of complaints or items that they tolerate in order to live here (like the beltway and traffic is to DC or the cost of living is to NY). I can detect ZERO complaints.

And, as if it were not astonishing enough to discover that Boise is actually the closest place to heaven that you could find on Earth, I have also come to realize that Hidden Springs, the community that we moved into, is even more perfect.

Seriously, I think the only place that may compare is the Garden of Eden.

Hidden Springs is nestled in the foothills to the North of Boise’s historic district. After traveling for about five minutes on a winding, hilly road, you pull into the community of Hidden Springs.

Here, all the houses are beautiful craftsman and capecod style homes with well-kept yards lining winding streets. All the people are friendly. They smile at you and wait patiently as you walk, or more likely bike, through the community, on your way to the school, the library, the post office or the Mercantile: ice cream and candy bar, convenience store, and restaurant. There are a clubhouse, two pools, and a community barn. If you want you can join the community farm coop and grow your own organic vegetables, adopt a tree in the orchard, or help raise the 60 free range chickens at the still working historic farm. There is a preschool, swimming lessons, art classes, and aerobics offered in the community. There is even a dentist.

It is a place where all the parents happily walk their kids to school in the mornings and stand and visit outside; where I have no qualms about letting my children freely roam; where open space and nature trails can be found every few hundred feet. I even got a personal call from the principal at the school last week to check on how my children were liking it and how they were adjusting.

In the upcoming months there will be a triathalon for youth, a fall festival and pumpkin carving contest, and Halloween decorating contest, and community dance at the barn with free lessons, a family Christmas party with Santa Claus, and several other events.

At times I feel lucky to have discovered a community that I thought only existed in books and movies.

At other times I worry a bit because the movies it reminds me of are the Stepford Wives and the Truman Show.

(Maybe it is too good to be true!)

In fact, today my daughters were watching Toy Story III and I was observing the toys’ initial reactions to the beautiful, kind, perfect environment called Sunnyside Daycare -- before they discover that it is a benevolent dictatorship truly ruled through a heavy-handed system of monitors, control and fear – and I thought, “That is just how we have felt about arriving here: it is too perfect.”

I have yet to discover the malicious underbelly of Hidden Springs. I have not yet unraveled what means of coercion may exist, nor have I tested for what illicit substances may be added into the Hidden Springs water supply.

I was told, I hoped somewhat in jest (but you never know), that if people don’t love it in Boise than the other residents pretty much think there must be something wrong with them and subtly encourage them to move along -- since if you can’t be happy in Boise, you really won’t be happy anywhere.

In any case, I am not yet ready to drink the koolaid and say this is the greatest place I have ever been. But, I am looking forward to finally moving in and giving Boise my very best shot.

Because, really, if everyone here believes they have found Eden maybe they are actually on to something.

Ten Years

Over dinner the other night Mia told me that her class was learning a special song to sing Friday morning in honor of the tenth anniversary of the terror attacks of September 11, 2001. They were to sing, “God Bless America” and had been discussing the facts related to 9-11 in class over the past week.

As this anniversary date has approached I have naturally found myself reflecting on the events of that day. But, thinking about my daughter and her classmates learning about this event raised many questions in my mind. Most of the children in her school were not born that day, and the few that were could not remember it. I wondered what their perspective on it would be, how it was being presented to them: whether the magnitude or emotion of it could possibly be conveyed to them.

Ten years later it still does not feel that there has been sufficient time for the country to adequately reflect on or consider the events of 9-11-01 with true perspective. With troops still deploying to Afghanistan and Iraq, with the legacy of the George W. Bush administration still to be determined, with the recent assassination of Bin Laden, with the wound still raw and reactions still too emotional, I don’t think we can yet weigh the results, the implications, and the long-term effects of that singular day.

But, I have felt that perhaps ten years is enough time for me personally to reflect, to think back with greater perspective, and perhaps to finally record my experiences on September 11, 2001.

The morning was typical. I raced around the house, getting ready for work, grabbing something to eat and my make-up to apply during the inevitable delays crossing the 14^th Street Bridge over the Potomac. The news chattered in the background as Jeffrey and I chatted. NPR reporters discussed privitation of social security and recent suicide bombings in Israel and Pakistan, and I reflected on how fortunate I was to not have to worry about such threats in my life.

Mornings in a congressional office were formulaic. News clips were perused, the latest from CQ and Roll Call. Meetings were prepared for, and the latest news played on the television in our small lobby. It was in the midst of this routine that we were beaconed in to see the coverage of a plane striking one of the World Trade Center towers. With the rest of America, we supposed it was a strange accident, a freak error in air traffic control until we saw live on television a second plane fly into another tower. It was a quick mental jump to the fact that this could not be an accident, yet I am not even sure we thought at the time to use the word “terrorism.”

As the legislative staff returned to their desks and turned on the news on our individual computers, keeping an eye on this strange episode in New York while preparing for the days meetings, the local news broke in about a loud explosion at the Pentagon. It took a few minutes for news stations to shift, to cover this story too, but as I stood there listening, I began to realize what may be happening.

I recall turning to Jeffrey, who worked at the desk behind mine, and simply saying, “I don’t think we are safe here.” It is amazing to reflect now on how little the ramifications of a historic event can be fully realized when you are living in the midst of them. No one around us quite knew what to think, but as we talked it seemed increasingly obvious that if key US landmarks were being attacked the US Capitol Building where we worked was a potential target.

The chief of staff in our office was less concerned. She poked her head around the corner to say we were free to leave, if we were worried, but she was going to stick around and continue with her morning meeting with Kennecot Copper Mine. It was only a minute or two before the Capitol Police Officers began running through the halls at full speed and shouting at full volume, “Get Out! Get Out! Evacuation!”

I grabbed my purse, Jeffrey his phone, and our friend Wendy, the scheduler in our office, her rolodex (so she could call and cancel the remaining appointments for the morning). We made quick calls to family in Utah (amazingly able to get through before the lines were too crowded) to tell them to turn on the news and that we were alright, and we ran out of the building with scores of Members of Congress and staff.

There was no direction outside, no guidance on where to go; we had no evacuation plans. Our car was off limits as the basement of the House Office Buildings that had been closed. The metro was closed, as were key bridges across the Potomac, and our only way out of the city.

We wandered away from the Capitol building, feeling lost and scared. It was then that rumors began circulating. Police officers clearing the area told us that there was another plane headed toward the Capitol (which turned out to be true) and that bombs had gone off in other parts of DC including the Old Executive Office Building (which turned out to be false). Not knowing what was happening, we believed it all, and the potential for further threats seemed incomprehensible. Never in my life had I experienced something like this, and never had I felt the potential for harm and danger to be so real.

I was scared in a way I had never known before. I legitimately wondered if it was possible for us to get far enough away or to even go in the right direction to avoid the terrors which were raining down that day. I asked myself as we aimlessly walked east down the streets of DC, “What would happen if another plane struck right here and now or another bomb went off ? What if I did die today?”

There were no answers to be had from anyone around me. But, I prayed in my mind and with all my heart for protection for me and my husband, who I was so grateful was at my side and with me at that time. Even more, I prayed for peace that whatever happened I could be okay with it, that I would be right before my Maker. In an amazing way, I was instantaneously given that peace. I did not know or feel that we would be spared, but I knew I was not alone.

Aimlessly we worked our way away from the Capitol, unsure of where to go. We met up with several others from our office who had gone in different directions and determined to go to the apartment of the Congressman we worked for and wait, since it was the closest location we could think of off Capitol Hill and seemed better than wandering the streets. Together in Jim’s small living room we watched together in horror as the news unfolded. We saw the confirmed reports of a plane hitting the Pentagon. We watched the World Trade Center towers collapse as even news anchors could hardly choke back their emotions. We were numb, barely able to control our own.

Part way through the afternoon, Sarah and I wandered down empty streets near Eastern Market and found the only open restaurant or store, a Chinese dive, where we bought some take-out to take back to our little apartment refuge.

In the evening the news came that metro trains were running again. We rode in solemn silence, everyone. Our eyes told the stories of all we had witnessed and all that we feared. As we passed under the Pentagon the smoke was pungent, the train did not pause.

There were no buses running from Pentagon City that day. We walked the mile home with hundreds of others. Smoke was still rising from the Pentagon and filling the air. The grassy hill sloping up from the point of impact had become a make-shift memorial, already. People were camped out on the lawn, just starring at the hole left on this fifth of the building. Some mourning; some curious; many waiting, hoping for signs of loved ones. Our walk home was quiet. Along the way some neighbors had set up a small table and were passing out cups of water and lemonade to the tired, shocked wanderers on their way home. A way to try and be purposeful that day.

That night many Members of Congress would gather on the steps of the Capitol Building to demonstrate their resilience, their commitment to not let terror stop them from their work, and they would spontaneously render their own version of “God Bless America.” President Bush would address the nation, introducing to our vocabularies words that now seem common-place, such as “terrorism” (or “terra” as he pronounced it), “al-Qaida,” and eventually “Osama Bin Laden.” And, Jeffrey and I would huddle around the television set in the club house at our apartment complex to watch, since we did not have a working TV at home.

That night our ward’s bishopric, our local church leaders, would place phone calls to the homes of members of our congregation to ensure we were all safe and accounted for and discover that one man, Brady Howell, was not, and, never would be, although it was several days before he was confirmed to have died at the Pentagon.

And, that night, and for many afterwards I would lie in bed trying to sleep listening to the sound of planes circling over-head above our apartment, trying to remind myself that these planes were not a threat, they were there to protect me.

We went to work the next day, and the day after that, only to sit numbly at our desks watching more news and marveling at what it meant. Still unsure that we were out of harm’s way.

It would be a week before we were allowed to get our car out of the basement of the House Office Buildings, and then it would take an extra hour or more to drive in as new security measures were put in place to inspect our trunks and under the cars with mirrors for bombs. All around the Capitol Building there were new cement barricades and military personnel with AK-47’s patrolling. And, there was the constant presence of fighter jets overhead.

The terror attacks of September 11 brought life on Capitol Hill to a dead stop. Every tourist, every constituent, even lobbyists packed up and went home. The halls were empty. There were no meetings to be held. Every other agenda item was off the table. There was no talk of social security or education or immigration; they were not even considered anymore. We lived and breathed the effects of terrorism. I sat in hearings on the science of how and why the World Trade Center towers had collapsed; I wrote legislation and arranged briefings on how biometrics could be used to increase airport security; we discussed increasing the powers available to identify terrorists through what would come to be the Patriot Act. We watched the President begin a war. We heard the message that if you are not with me, you are against me loud and clear, and everything and everyone seemed to fall in line.

There was a sadness that filled those days, a fear, but perhaps even more a sense of vulnerability that my generation had never previously experienced. We had not really known war or terror in our lifetimes; we did not live with the sense of real threat from the Germans or the Japanese or the Russians as our parents and grandparents had. But now, we knew a new type of deep trepidation that ate away at our innocence.

Less than a month later, we would experience a new threat as anthrax was sent to Capitol Hill. We would be out of work for a week, waiting for sweeps and tests to declare our office uncontaminated, but it would be months before we received mail again – adding to the sense that everything was ghostly and dead. When it finally arrived, the mail was brown and brittle, exposed to radiation designed to kill any biological or chemical agent, but leaving an odor and texture to the paper (which was opened by interns wearing gloves) that made one wonder if the cure was as lethal as the disease.

When I recall those days I wonder at how very much I was changed by them. In no measurable way is my life really different. But, in so many subtle ways I have grown and changed, and my sense of the world around me has been profoundly altered.

When I think about how and what to tell my children of all that I and others experienced on September 11, 2001, I pray that they will be spared ever having to feel as I did that day. I hope that they can learn and understand without tremendous fear. But, I wonder if without the fear they can ever fully comprehend. I hope that this day in history will never be too glossed over, made too shiny and heroic, and stripped of the ability to impart deeper, penetrating lessons which have changed my life.

One of those lessons is a deep, abiding gratitude for individuals willing to sacrifice themselves for others. There are countless stories that evoke this emotion -- of office workers and fire fighters -- but I think each year with emotion of the men and women of United Airlines Flight 93 who, sensing the magnitude of what was happening that day and comprehending their own fate, courageously took down a plane headed towards me. I can never know what would have occurred if that plane had made it to the Capitol Building. I don’t know the damage that would have been sustained, where on the complex it would have hit, how the impact would have spread, whether I or my husband or others dear to me would have been injured or killed. What would have happened will always be a mystery. But, deep in my heart, I will always be gratefully in awe of those whose deaths spared me the answers to these endless questions. On recent visit with my daughters to the US Capitol I paused near a plaque engraved with the names of these individuals, these average passengers, who spared so many of us an even closer and greater knowledge of terror. Today, my heart is again full of thanks.

Another lesson is of perseverance and the source of true peace. I learned then and will hold with me all my life that during what felt to me to be the darkest of times, I can find the capacity to keep going, even with courage. Going back to work those days took real courage. Whether or not I was ever at risk, the potential for harm felt real, but so was my resolve to keep living my life and doing work that I felt was important. I found an ability I did not know I had to just keep moving forward, but I did not do it alone.

More than anything, I learned that it was not planes or soldiers or military action or the promises of politicians that would bring me peace and comfort and security, I found that I had a greater sense of internal happiness than so many around me during these days, and I knew it came from God. I learned how He could be with me and how He would reassure me in even the most troubling times.

Ten years later the fear and the horror has subsided, although it can come flooding back quickly when I pause and reflect, but the gratitude and the sense of God’s love have not waned.

Today, I am grateful for the gift of memory. I am grateful for the ways that what I have experienced can continue to teach me, for how what we have experienced as a nation, the loss and the terror, can still have a power to unite us and make us better, and for the possibility that these recollections can reach forward into the future and inspire and change lives for many more decades to come.

It Could Always Be Worse

My mom had a story she would read to me when I was going up entitled "It Could Always Be Worse."

It told of a rural farmer who was stressed about his small house, his quarreling family, and the demands of life. So, he went to the rabbi in town and asked him for counsel.

The rabbi simply inquired if he had any chickens.
"Yes," the man replied.
"Then, go home and bring the chickens in to live with you."

Now, all the previous conditions existed, but there were also chickens roosting in the rafters and dropping feathers in the food. Cackling about at all hours in the home.

So, a week later the man returned to the rabbi, complaining even more, and the rabbi inquired, "Do you have any goats?"

You can anticipate where the story will go; the goat also came into the home to live, and then, after subsequent trips to the rabbi, the cows and the pigs.

Finally, ready to lose his mind, the man returned to the rabbi, pleading for counsel to help him set his home and life in order. Now, the rabbi instructed him to return all the animals to the barn and pens.

Suddenly, the house was peaceful and serene. Everything was so very quiet. The rooms were so spacious. His wife and children were so very pleasant. Nothing had changed, and yet, everything was better.

Lately, I feel like the man having a similar series of conversations, but not with my rabbi, instead with God.

I made my complaints, and even charted a course to try and reduce stress and create more peace in my home and family life. Then, the plan commenced. And, I have had anything but less stress and peace.

We have been living without our own home for over two months now. We have been separated from Jeffrey for the majority of that time as he finished work in DC and did two weeks of training in Nevada. We have been sandwiched into cars, one bedroom, and small spaces. We have been living out of suitcases. We have had no schedule, no routine, and way too much fast food to eat.

We finally arrived in Boise two weeks ago so the girls could start school. The sale of our home was finalized, and we received the funds for it one week ago. But, our 8 day stay in a tiny 400 SF loft with a microwave and mini-fridge has been extended to 14 days with no end in sight as we wait on some mysterious delay with our lender and the bureaucracy of buying from Fannie Mae.

We have run out of clothes to wear, are sick of eating out and having cold cereal and sandwiches, and desperately need a little personal space.

Jeffrey is working out of this space during the days while I find random activities and shopping expeditions to keep the rest of us out of his way.

We have incurred about $1000 of additional expenses as we have had to unload trucks into storage units and put our trailer into storage and pay more rent. We have had to delay utilities and the delivery of appliances multiple times.

Despite it all, as I stood at the laundromat again this weekend doing some laundry and reflecting on the degree to which I felt like I was living out of may car and barely keeping things together as I tried to support my kids in getting to school and activities without any foundation of a normal home life, I realized it could always be worse.

We could be in this situation, but not have the financial reserves to pay for it.

We could have lost our home and be in this situation as a stop gap before we had no where to live.

We could not have the prospect of a place to go.

We could be all the people whose storage units I passed as emptying our things securely into ours who defaulted on their payments and whose possessions were going to auction.

We could have not had any equity left in our home in DC and been unable to finance all of the costs of this move.

We could not have our health, not be together as a family, not have the church where people keep reaching out to help us if we ever get to move in.

It could always be worse.

And, even more, when we do finally move into our new home, which I worried may feel a bit small as we downsized from Virginia, it is going to feel like a mansion. Just having a routine, and our own space, and a permanent place to be is going to feel like bliss.

I guess sometimes all I really need in life is perspective.