Always On Time

Important job interview. Leaving my apartment complex with plenty of extra time for the "just in case" scenarios that inevitably pop up.

Yep...popping up. Traffic traffic everywhere, and nowhere to accelerate.

Sigh.

Pull into the Metro station to park and ride. Loop, loop, loop, up, up, up. Squawking tires around corners.

Nothing? That's right, nothing. Not one empty parking space for a non-permit holder.

Loop, loop, loop, down, down, down. Endless sea of cars in the parking lot, and not one spot left for my Toyota.

Crap!

Oh, there's another parking structure. Good. Loop, loop, loop, up, up, up.

What? Still nothing?

Wait -- one spot! MINE!

Running in heels. Elevator too slow, down the steps we go.

Zip, zip, zip...go, go, go!

Swipe that SmarTrip card, run up those stairs, arrive at the platform, there goes the train I need taking off already.

Crap!

Next train arrives. Hop on, sit, wait, pray. Pray hard. Pray for no delays, no mechanical difficulties, no breakdowns, and for the driver of this train to step on the gas.

Ok, we're hauling ass. Big time hauling ass.

Sweet!

Metro station.

Hop off Orange Line, running to Red Line. Oh, pray again.

Pray I can find the right train connection, and that it isn't taking off when I get to the next platform.

And...here I am. There goes the Red Line to Shady Grove.

Crap!

Another Red Line...Shady Grove. Oh, thank you Jesus.

Hop off Red Line, run to escalator.

Why are people standing on the left side when everyone knows if you're actually going to ride the escalator instead of run/walk up it like the rest of us do, you stand on the right side.

Move it!

Never mind. Running up the escalator, shoving through shoulders, saying "excuse me" after the shove.

Top of the stairs. Arrive on Connecticut Avenue. Where is this place exactly?

Because I have two minutes.

Oh, I see it. It really is just across the street from the Metro station, just as she said. Wait, wait, wait for the light to change. Cross the street. Press 01 to be buzzed up.

"Good Morning, Ms. Kuhn. Nice to meet you. Welcome."

Worrying over.

Wondering still, though, if I give myself extra time to arrive early, why does Murphy's Law always kick in and I don't arrive early, I arrive just in the nick of time?

Ding, ding, ding! I get it.

When God says:

Ask and it will be given to you.

Seek and you will find.

Knock and the door will be opened.

He doesn't answer early. He doesn't answer late.

It may not be when I want it, but when I ask, seek, and knock, God is always on time.

My Stairway to Heaven

Easter Sunday, April 4, 2010. Washington National Cathedral.

The majesty of the National Cathedral is apparent from the moment we step foot out of the underground parking structure's darkness into the daylight of a sunny DC afternoon. The form and structure of the cathedral is stately and dignified, and beautiful. It's not ornate, or gaudy, or overdone as other catholic churches I have seen before. And that makes sense because it is a cathedral for the nation, so its purpose is to have no particular sect affiliations. (Although it is technically Episcopal.) Standing next to it, looking up, it's dizzying to the point of vertigo to watch the earth rotate slowly past the towers and spires that reach toward white puffs in blue sky, seeming to almost touch the vast expanse.

We make our way inside and take our seats. We sit on wooden chairs that line up in near military formation across the stone foundation. There are brass plates with names tacked to the backs of the chairs, dedications in memory of lost loved ones or to honor people I don't know but somehow feel a certain reverence for as I read their names. It is very late afternoon, and the light from outside peaks slightly into the stained glass windows. I wish to come back when it is full blazing noon another day to see it passionately break through the dramatic prism of rich colors rather than weakly touch the shards of glass as it does today.

The colossal walls hold up vaulted ceilings that are ribbed with lines protruding like bone or vein as they scrawl across the canvas of the limestone and concrete. It's almost as if this place is more tomb than altar, and invisible cobwebs adorn each corner. There is a sullen grayness overwhelming the immense space that exists inside this church. I sit and wonder why people erect monuments to a God who, if He is God, is too big to be contained within walls anyway. Can God be housed? Certainly this cathedral is large enough to house many people, but God? Unless the purpose of the overwhelming size of the sanctuary is to make you feel inferior, make you worship with your head low and your eyes averted so that you are recognizing how unworthy you are to dare speak to holiness when you are bathed in sin, then the enormous scale of the building seems to me to be a waste of money. And I'm not sure God would want us to have an inferiority complex when approaching Him. I imagine God to want a relationship with His creation, the special part of His creation that He declares to have made in His own image. The crowning achievement of His creation that he redeemed with His own son. I think He would appreciate joy springing from our worshipful hearts rather than sorrow, despair, or passiveness...or worse, fear grounded in guilt rather than awe.

I also can't help but think the God who stretched out the universe would not feel comfortable in the stone structure of a man-made attempt to inspire holiness among His children, when His presence already encompasses the grandeur of nature into which He intimately breathed life.

The organist begins to play, and suddenly the tomb I was encased in is alive. With each tone that bellows out of the organ pipes, the walls reverberate and the floor vibrates beneath my feet. The organ is like a heart that just started beating, and the notes of the music pumps life into the stone, almost as if ribs of the ceiling truly are veins and the organ notes are the lifeblood coursing through them now. I open my eyes, and it's as if the walls are moving, rising and falling as if in respiration. The imaginary cobwebs are stripped away, and the choking silence of rigid devoutness I felt before is shattered like plates of china on marble floors. Just as God kissed dust to give flesh and spirit to man, so this music resurrects the halls of this temple and fills it with a soul.

I know this is an organ recital, and I know each song is printed on the program and there will be no deviation. But if the organist were to take requests, I would boldly grab the man by his suit coat and beg him to play Beethoven's 9th Sympony. If there were ever a song that should be played in a cathedral such as this, if there were ever notes of music that longed to be married to a place of worship, it is truly that song with Henry Van Dyke's words echoing out:

Joyful, Joyful, we adore Thee,
God of glory, Lord of love;
hearts unfold like flowers before Thee,
opening to the sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness,
drive the dark of doubt away.
Giver of immortal gladness,
fill us with the light of day!

I have never felt the presence of God in a sermon being uttered from the lips of a man, but having heard this organ I have glimpsed the stairway my soul will take to heaven when I die. It is not made of brick and mortar, wood and nail, or particles of any mass of anything we can see or touch. It is with notes of music that I hope my soul will be pushed above this earth into the waiting arms of my God.

The Kennedy Center

Due to a lot of TCB this week like job hunting, bill paying, friend cheering-upping (which is actually more like TLC, my favorite!), I will have to wait until this weekend to get out there and experience new sites and sounds. Today I write about an excursion I took with my friend Elizabeth last weekend to the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, DC.

As I mentioned previously in another post, I visited the ruins of Machu Picchu last year. From the heights of the Andes to the depths of the Urumbamba, the landscape is breathtakingly beautiful. The precarious avenues to reach Machu Picchu make the vastness of its heavy stone construction that much more cryptic and mysterious. No one knows the reason why the Incas built that sacred city, or why they suddenly vanished and left it abandoned. To be honest, I don't think anyone really cares outside the archeologists and sociologists of this world. I know the last thing on my mind when I experienced Machu Picchu was the why of it all. I was too caught up in the connection my soul instantly felt to worry about details like who and what and when.

There is a strong rhythm with the earth at Machu Picchu, built on the partnership the Incas had with the stars and sun and moon. Their society depended on celestial anchors to time their agricultural output by the equinox and solstice and movement of the constellations in the night sky. They reflected the beauty of the entire landscape, from dirt to star, in their rituals and sacred monuments. You can feel the human spirit at Machu Picchu, and that's one of my favorite memories.

Think about what inspires you each day, what motivates you, what captivates you. Historical dates? Political arguments? We're all interested in those things, we discuss them, but no matter the outcome of politics, the world doesn't send greeting cards with pictures of laws, bills, or debates on the front.

No, we send the Mona Lisa. We send pictures of babies, sunsets, birthday cakes, flowers, lakes, porchswings...we send what inspires us, what moves us.

I am certain that after the dust of centuries has passed over our cities, we, too, will be remembered not for our victories or defeats in battle or in politics, but for our contribution to the human spirit ~ John F. Kennedy

That's printed on the back of the brochure for the Kennedy Center. Elizabeth and I attended a free performance on the Millenium Stage at the Kennedy Center Saturday, March 27th. Let me describe it as it happened.

Walking into the Kennedy Center, I'm immediately struck by the reverent grandeur of the endless sea of colors flowing from the flags towering above me on the ceiling of the Hall of Nations. I am walking on red carpet, 1960's inspired design is everywhere. Metals are brassy, and walls and steps are dullish white from the hint of yellowing over the years. Skinny and sleek miniature lines are all around as the basis and structure for railings on stairs, echoing the very slim columns that reach like oversized toothpicks from ground to roof surrounding the Kennedy Center building. The look is kitschy at times, its modernity left behind in another era, but a classy era to be sure.

We walk to the end of the hallway hurriedly to catch the daily 6:00 p.m. show on the Millenium Stage. I glance above us and to my right as we are turning to go left, and my breath is momentarily halted as I drink in the magnificently gleaming crystal chandeliers that form a nearly endless line down the hallway. Glinting like diamonds, they are stunning in their splendor. The ushers direct us to the steps along the sides of the chairs that are already filled with patrons, and we are relegated to sit on the very red, very hard, very thin stairs. Our program reads like a high school musical production:

A Performance by Winners of the
4th Annual John and Susie Beatty Music Scholarship Competition for Classical Guitar

Youth Division 1st Place
(contestants 12 and under)
PATRICK HOEPPNER

Junior Division 1st Place
(contestants aged 13-15)
YOUNG JUN LIM

Senior Division 1st Place and Grand Prize Winner
(contestants aged 16-18)
SCOTT ZIMMERMANN

Seeing the ages of the performers, I go back in time to my years in middle school, and partially high school, and I can hear the many out of tune squeaks of the clarinet, sticky fingered strums of the guitar, and off beat bangs of the drum we all endured in band while performing for our parents at the required annual "shows" to demonstrate our very apparent lack of talent. But that junior high scenario is not to be this night. As the first performer, Patrick Hoeppner, takes the stage, looking every bit his 12 and under age bracket, the flesh of my quickly numbing behind on the flat hard surface of the step I sit upon doesn't bother me at all because I am completely blown away by this boy's talent.

Patrick Hoeppner's hands fly over the strings of his instrument, and the works he plays are complicated, tricky, and robust in composition. The melodies reverberate through the auditorium perfectly, meticulously, beautifully. We clap exuberantly for him when he is finished, and enters Young Jun Lim, who is even better. We clap for this young man, as well, when he leaves the stage and enters Scott Zimmerman. Again, we're speechless and cannot keep our hands from clapping his praise when he lays his guitar down.

I basque in the performances as I float down the red carpet toward the Hall of Nations again. We walk through the gift shop in the basement level, and I see black and white photos of Jacqueline Kennedy, First Lady to JFK. She is youthful and stunning and poised. She is grace and dignity personified. I imagine her walking on the arm of JFK into a crowded Opera House performance above us while photographers snap her photo as she smiles pleasantly, dressed modestly in velvet and organza with the trademark triple string of pearls around her elegantly arched neck. I hear her soft voice whispering hello to all of the ladies who so badly want to be like her, and feel the gentle trace of her soft fingers, adorned by sophisticated silky elbow-length gloves, delicately clasping the hands of all the men who so badly want to have a wife like her to proudly escort to events just as this one. Ah yes, I think, men date the Marilyn Monroes of this world, but they marry the Jacqueline Kennedies.

Sigh. I am envious of her. As I walk back up the stairs toward the exit where the shuttle waits to take us back to our Metro stop so we can go home, I dream of a night where I can come back to the Kennedy Center and attend a paid performance, not only for the inspiration and calming effect such performances have on my soul, but for the chance to wear my pearls and feel slightly Kennedyesque, if only for a moment.

As we exit, I read the JFK quote on the back of my brochure again and am reminded of why I love the arts so much. He is right. Our contribution to the human spirit will matter more in many years time than our victories on the battlefield or in political staterooms will. Machu Picchu taught me that, and the Kennedy Center echoes it.

If you get the chance to visit Washington, DC, I urge you to attend a performance at the Kennedy Center. There is one on the Millenium Stage each night at 6:00 p.m. that is free, just as the one I attended. Do it for your soul, do it for the chance to walk where presidents and first ladies and other dignitaries have walked to experience the awakening of their hearts, but do it mostly because it's free. It's a very cheap price for memories like this.

getting OUT and staying OUT

http://www.gosonyc.org/

Founded by Mark Goldsmith, retired executive at cosmetic giants Revlon and Shisheido, Getting Out and Staying Out (GO&SO) is a non-profit that helps men between the ages of 18-24 incarcerated at Rikers Island in New York get out of prison and stay out of prison through coaching by successful community leaders. The recidivism rate for inmates in the GO&SO program is reduced by nearly 85% in comparison to all those incarcerated at Rikers. How does a program like GO&SO accomplish knocking down a proverbial statistic that many Americans would consider a hopeless cause? Through instilling hope in these young men by believing they will achieve their goals, giving them the tools to do so, and mentoring them along the way.

I think the people at GO&SO are onto something. Getting out of prison and staying out of prison are two different matters. It's only by using the right method that I will prevent repeating past transgressions and ending up back in the personal prison of limitations from which I recently freed myself. The right method is believing I can achieve my goals, working to find the means to accomplish what I'm setting out to do, and looking for the right mentors. I had a long talk with my good friend Emily today, and she's right - I can't help but be successful if I follow my heart and stay true to my passions.

What are my passions?

Creativity - I'm writing my own story and forgetting what others already wrote about me.
Compassion - I don't feel good unless I'm encouraging or helping people.
Adventure - I can't live if I'm just existing.
Audacity - I'm finding the courage to dismiss my insecurities and just go.

From this point on, my blog will focus on all of the above. Every time I blog, I will be writing about a new place on the map and the people I meet along the way. Restaurants, tourist traps, monuments, theaters, bars, stores, volunteer organizations, events, parks, shores, etc. What's familiar to those who have lived on the East Coast their entire lives is completely foreign to me. So if you're from here, I'll be getting to know your city blocks and reporting on how I see it. If you're from back home, you can experience each new venture with me.

Time to put some stamps in my East Coast passport. I'm getting OUT and staying OUT.

46e Line 52

James L. Bowman. Dundee, Michigan. Killed 1968. Vietnam conflict.

Visiting Washington DC sites with my friend Elizabeth and her parents, we casually stroll around the Tidal Basin while looking at beautiful cherry blossoms and plan our stops at the different monuments contained within the National Mall and Memorial Parks.

I’m going to be honest and tell you my first impression of the Washington Monument is that it’s fairly lame. Unless you get there early enough to grab a free ticket to go up inside and look out to see the surrounding area for as far as 30 miles, it’s really just a big, white, pointy lego standing upright. The Jefferson Memorial is impressive, stately, just as I imagine the man himself would have been. The Lincoln Memorial is imposing and breathtaking in its simplicity and dignity. I don’t know if the artist intended this, but I like the disparity Daniel French creates in the design of his sculpture between Lincoln’s two hands; the right hand is somewhat relaxed but still gripping, while the left is clenched in a fist. It’s symbolic of the peaceful, intellectual Lincoln who wasn’t afraid to be decisive and resolute during a dramatic turning point in our nation’s history.

But the two sites that stand out to me are the two memorials that represent American eras that cannot be more dissimilar. The Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial is personal, it’s more about the American people and how one president inspired them during some of the toughest times our nation’s ever seen. Spread out and housing the four terms of Roosevelt, the walls behind the different bronze statues are inscribed with the words a president spoke to comfort and heal a nation during the Great Depression and World War II. It’s symbolic of the collective emotions, dreams, and convictions shared by all Americans during that era. And in stark contrast stands the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, more popularly known as “the wall.” And it, too, is extremely emblematic of our nation during a challenging time of upheaval and growth.

Walking the wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, you can’t help but be instantly struck by the reflective surface. This has to be what the artist intended, for you to walk beside the names of those who fought in Vietnam and were either killed, died from injuries suffered, or were never identified, and in reading those names look at yourself. Because that is exactly what Americans did during and after the conflict in Vietnam. Although it was a long, drawn out, aggressive military action, Vietnam is termed a conflict because the United States has not declared war since 1941. Personally, I think conflict is the most appropriate word because it speaks to the change in America during and after Vietnam.

During Roosevelt’s administration, we were a nation of idealists. We were people who fought for what we believed in because there were distinct evils challenging the clearly defined values we had of right and wrong. We knew what we fought for because we had something to fight for. During the Vietnam era, everything changed. We no longer had any fight in us because we weren't as sure of right from wrong. Lies from leaders and failing faith from the commoners...we became a nation of true individuals who started to question established views of liberty, how we should define and defend it. We became conflicted.

Sometimes I wish life were as simple as it was in the 1930’s and 1940’s. I’m not saying life was easy, but it seemed to be a lot more purposeful. We were connected to each other. We were united in vision, in aim. We seemed to be more concerned for the person standing next to us. Now we do our own thing, and there are very few who even notice when you’re standing shoulder to shoulder with them. And yet there are parts about being an individual – outside the hive – that I enjoy.

As I walk the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, I am looking for one name on the wall. The name of the only person I have any kind of connection to who died in Vietnam – James L. Bowman. He graduated with my mom and dad. 46e, Line 52. When I find it, I can’t help it – I cry. I wonder about James L. Bowman. What did he think when he was drafted? What did he think when he put on his uniform and held a gun for the first time in a foreign country? What did he think when he died?

I kneel down and trace the letters with my fingers, and I see myself reflected in the endless list of names. I realize that no matter what the conflict is inside me, no matter where I go or what my future is, I’m going to make my dreams happen because most of the names on this wall didn’t have a choice in their future. I’m grateful they’re part of a nation that’s evolved, but remained true to its purpose, to give me a choice in mine.