So What's the "War College" Anyway?

Three weeks ago, I started a 10-month program at the National War College.  The jokes abound -- "hey, you're a diplomat.  Aren't you supposed to be studying how to not make war?"  So what is War College and why am I here?

What's the War College?

The name -- National War College (NWC) -- comes from the time of its founding right around the end of War World II.  Our Defense Department was then the War Department, and the powers-that-be decided it was important to provide budding young military leaders with a more fulsome understanding of how to formulate security strategy.  They decided to round out their class by inviting a few folks from the State Department to attend.  Indeed, George Kennan was one of the first State Department employees detailed to the War College, and here he wrote several position papers on Containment and signed them X.

The modern War College now is part of a larger National Defense University (that includes the prestigious Eisenhower School focusing on economic policy), housed on Fort McNair, on the banks of the Potomac River in Washington, D.C.  Roosevelt Hall (named for Teddy, not Franklin) was designed by the architect who planned Grand Central Station.   With its rotunda and vaulted ceilings, it is truly awe-inspiring.

Ft McNair (3rd oldest Army base in the U.S.)

So, With Whom Do You Study War?

We don't exactly study war, despite the name.  Yes, we will be issued a copy of Clauswitz's On War and Thucydides, but our focus is on the broader subject of national security strategy.  The idea is that each class will contain some of the next generation of policy leaders in the U.S. and think-tank thinkers, and this course offers them a time to pause in their careers, process what they have witnessed in practice while serving in government, and consider how to avoid some of the pitfalls of their forebearers.  We ask the question "what is strategy, and how do I avoid mucking it up?"  We look at the instruments of national power -- first the military and then the diplomatic instrument.  Finally, we look at the domestic context and its inevitable effects on how policy is made.  We also spend the spring developing a strategy for a particular country and foreign policy challenge there, and then travel to the country to determine whether our simulated approach would succeed or fail.

We are a class of 208.  Over 75% of the class if uniformed military.  We have international fellows as well -- military officers from approximately 20 partner nations.  And the rest are civilians from the Department of State and other federal agencies.  We are only about 10% female (on my first day, I noticed on a class roster I was highlighted in pink with the other women; a nice touch).

All five military branches are represented, and it is interesting observing the cultural differences among them.  The Navy officers are smart, funny, and charming.  If you want to know who the people in uniform want to talk to, it's the Navy SEALs.  At a lunch with enormously talented and well-decorated officers, everyone leans in and asks the SEAL if his work is really like the movies.  We only have a few Coast Guard officers (and our Class President is one of them) -- they bristle a bit if you do not know they are a branch of the U.S. military.  But, you only have to hear about one drug interdiction or one rescue mission during a hurricane to understand they are the real deal.

The Army has the most students, and they are Blackhawk pilots, intel officers, infantrymen, Foreign Area officers, lawyers -- the whole gamut.   If they've made it to the National War College, they are serious and intense; but they were the cool kids in high school who drove fast cars.  The Air Force officers are usually either deeply intellectual or very laid back.  They have the highest percentage of women of all the services, and they pride themselves on their open-mindedness.  The Marines, of course, are impressive.  They are the smallest of the 4 big branches -- but with the biggest service-members.  Marines will tell you that at funerals for other branches, there are 8 pallbearers.  Marines have 6 -- and those 6 men are the broadest-chested, most earnest looking pallbearers you can imagine.  They raise the Marine to the sky first before lowering him down.  Marines' minds are as expansive as their barrel chests -- as our first responders, they have to do everything you'd think of as tactical strategically.  So far, State Department folks have gravitated to the Marines because they have guarded our missions and we have celebrated their birthday in Embassies around the world.

All of the services talk a lot about what they are wearing -- Class As, Class Bs.  Marines have a few more Classes, I think.  They iron their uniforms fastidiously, and will kindly teach a civilian what the various medals and insignia mean (I, for example, didn't know what the Navy SEAL trident insignia was -- now I can spot it).  There is an emphasis on family in the military, and on including spouses as part of the team.  And there is an emphasis on physical fitness -- everyone does PT, everyday.  Most Foreign Service Officers couldn't find the gym, much less look up from their high-side cable to go to it.  But my new friends in the military hit the gym and sign you up for the softball league before you can tell them you're no [insert baseball player here].  I love the emphasis on physical fitness, and think the team sports are a fun way of building team spirit.

NWC Committee 3 Softball Team

Unlike their civilian counterparts, military colleagues often seem to describe the world in more black and white terms.  Perhaps they have to, to serve as they do?  For the most part, their decisions are binary -- engage, don't engage; kill, don't kill; take a hill, leave it for another day.  They have been expertly trained to make these decisions and make them quickly, often with incomplete or imperfect information.  In that way, they are culturally quite different than their State Department colleagues.  We often have the luxury of more time and a wide variety of diplomatic options.  We are more reticent to decide or choose -- often preferring to observe how the situation will play out.  I have watched these cultural differences in every inter-agency meeting I have attended (most notably for me at NATO), and I have noticed how they often make us talk past one another.

But experiences like War College provide us an opportunity to pause when urgency is not a driving force and to learn from one another about how we would approach a problem differently.  We will hear, for example, from those who provide us with information in the policy-making process on how they gather and assess the accuracy of information.  We will read about mistakes in leadership that others have made -- the narcissist who surrounds himself with "yes" men; the policy-makers who are over-confident and fail to request a red-team; the leaders, too focused on the detail and the tactical, who fail to provide their organization with a clearly-defined vision and goals.  Hopefully, from those experiences, we can perform our duties better in the future, with greater humility and with a more nuanced understanding of one another.

If nothing else, I will become very good at softball.

Marching 4th One Day at a Time

Wednesday, March 04, 2015

I have seen two March Forths come and go barely noticing the date.  If I did notice, it was because a friend asked what proactive marching forth I was planning on my special day.  Last year, I think I reposted my outdated March Forth blog post from half a decade ago – a smug, happy year when I could think of nothing I needed to confront.  Oh, those now-inconceivable halcyon days:  http://jendavisnc.blogspot.com/2011/03/march-forth.html

  

Today, I would say there is always something that could use some March-Forthing in our lives.  And this year, after what feels like a long period of stagnant stasis, I have been thinking about many needed “actions in the face of past days of inaction.”

  

I have had a difficult job for the past two-and-half years -- loads of international travel, stress, and time away from my usual ballasts.  I say "stagnant stasis" to describe this period – but underneath the frozen landscape of my personal life, there were roots taking hold.  I recently opined that I grew more in the past two years than I did in the ten before it. That’s true.  I wasn’t fully aware of how I was growing – I’m still not.  But in the face of so many challenges and “growth opportunities” (my loving euphemism for all the crazy I witnessed), I had to grow or get crushed.  And sometimes I got crushed.  Often, it was in those moments of using a spatula to scrape my lifeless form off the bottom of someone’s shoe that I realized – if nothing else – the crushing was an opportunity to learn.  So, what did I learn?  Forgive the expletive, but this March 4^th, I am committing myself to the following:

1.    I will own my own "stuff."

2.    I will be grateful.

3.    I will do more than just avoid soul-crushers.

  

Soul-Crushers

  

Let’s take them in reverse order.  We all know this to be true – there are mean, selfish, careless, aggressive, acerbic people out there (and some of them have a few of these characteristics).  We work with them, maybe we have one in our family, maybe one's a neighbor.  We see them in the larger world too – the dictators, the spewing pundits, the nutty people on social media who hide behind its anonymity to bully or belittle.  The crazies we have to live with and work with are the hardest to handle – we can easily turn off the TV to forget the dictator (in our blessed country) or delete the crazy person from our Facebook feed. 

  

When confronted with these people, I often think of my favorite Gandhi quote:  “When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it -- always.”

  

Pollyanna I know, but it goes with my theory that there are more fundamentally good people in this world than bad.  Some days, it feels like there may be just 3 more good than bad.  Other days, it feels like the world is brimming with mostly-good souls.  I nonetheless remain committed to the ideal that good does indeed win … ultimately.

  

But how, then, to deal with the soul-crushers who scream, belittle, criticize, lash out, transfer, passive-aggressively don’t act, aggressively act?  I’ve seen a lot of soul-crushing in the last few years.  I’ve met a lot of angry people.  I’ve watched them and often wondered how they’ve gotten so far in the world (if they have) with their overflowing vices.  I have indeed – over the course of my life – given some of these people enormous power over my emotional well-being.  I have chosen on various occasions to please them, to fight them, to let them undermine me, to cry when they are abusive, to take their criticism to heart and doubt myself, and to watch passively as they have bullied others.

  

In the past two years, with increasing but nonetheless limited success, I have gotten better at seeing the signs of crazy early.  With some of the more sophisticated soul-crushers (the ones often who’ve been “successful” in their professional lives), it is hard to see the crazy or the narcissism at first.  Soul-crushers can be initially charming, but their motives are selfish.  What is good for me?  What will allow me to “win”?  Me first.  

  

I have noticed a characteristic of mine of wanting to point out to the soul-crusher what he is doing that is harmful to my peace (see Part III below on owning my own [stuff]).  “You have to stop yelling at people,” I’ve said.  “Sarcasm isn’t what we need here.”  “That was unnecessary roughness.”  “I think it’s important that you don’t avoid this problem.”  I’ve often done it in a half-hearted way – the email sent after not enough sleep.  The drive-by snarky remark. It’s rather cowardly – but honestly, would sitting down with these people and engaging them in a heart-to-heart about why they are soul-crushing really be a productive use of time?  Probably not.  But what does the from-a-distance-lobbed-snark-grenade do either?  It lets them know that I know they suck?  Hooray.  Non-victory!

  

I think it best most often to just avoid the soul-crushers – and avoid the self-righteous attempts to let them know that you know.  But sometimes you cannot avoid them.  Sometimes they darken your very doorstep with their nasty.  Sometimes they come right at you.  Sometimes, they come at the people you are charged with protecting (your children, your employees) and you have to do something if you want to be a person of integrity.   Einstein said “The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.” 

So this March 4^th, I commit myself to two important goals that do more than simply avoid soul-crushers: 

1.      First, as I noted, I depend on the fact that good ultimately will triumph over bad because over time – like the stock market’s growth -- it always does.  Karma.  But it will only do so if good souls don’t feel helpless and apathetic.  In a world full of crazy, good souls have to be a force for fairness and light.  We can be magnanimous, grateful, kind, gentle-spoken, open-minded, and full-hearted.  We can encourage where soul-crushers criticize.  We can smile where soul-crushers scowl.  We can think the best of people or be empathetic where soul-crushers are suspicious of motive and think the worst.  We can be mindful of the consequences of our actions on others when soul-crushers often don’t even know the “others” are there.  We can contribute every day to the bank of good will.

2.     More proactively, I commit myself to the idea that every exposure to a soul-crusher requires a careful balancing of factors to determine the right response.  In those moments when I cannot avoid soul-crushers – when it is right to confront them – I commit to doing so, even when doing so makes me fearful of the personal consequences.  Several times in my life, I have watched a real leader protect others.  It happens all too rarely.  But I have seen it and been the recipient of it.  And I want to be the kind of person who does it.  I also want to be the kind of person who protects myself when necessary.  It is self-affirming and may ultimately have positive ramifications for the next potential crushee.  When and why to challenge a soul-crusher is a very personal calculus – different factors will move different good souls.  But it’s fundamentally important that we all summon the courage to do so and say “no more!” when a soul-crusher goes too far.  

  

Gratefulness

  

Ok, back to Pollyanna.  I did it – this year I started a gratefulness journal.  I wince a little at admitting it.  Recently, in my office, someone left a copy of the book “The Happiness Project (Or Why I Want to Start Every Morning Singing)” on a work table.  It became a joke that no one would claim it (it wasn’t mine.  I swear!).  No one wanted to be the cheeseball working on a self-improvement project in that environment.  I feel that timidity of spirit in acknowledging that I need to be more grateful, and I need to write myself a daily email to do it.

Have you ever heard of the “negativity bias”?  It is the notion that, even when of equal intensity, things of a more negative nature (e.g., unpleasant thoughts, emotions, or social interactions; harmful or traumatic events) have a greater effect on one’s psychological state than do neutral or positive things. In other words, something very positive will affect your sense of well-being far less than something equally or less negative.  It is a phenomenon I notice more and more the older I get.  And it is one I am trying to fight.  I am fighting it myself as I try as well to give my children the tool of perspective.

When my son Ben complains about not having the latest gadget or James is “too tired” to do homework, I remind them of what life for most children in the world is like – and tell them, far from feeling sorry for themselves, they should bound out of bed happy with the Gods every day.  This is a hard thing for a child to understand of course.  But I’m going to keep teaching it – and taking my children around the world to see that not every one has even indoor plumbing much less an iPhone.  I think this perspective can not only help them avoid the negativity bias, it can also teach them empathy for other's suffering.  Empathy and grace are missing in the human spirit when it is at its most animalistic and base.  We could all use a little more moccasin-wearing.

I hope at the end of the year, with my 365 emails to myself – that remind me to get over myself because I have heat in the winter, clean water to drink, healthy children, a loving partner who accepts me flaws and all, public libraries – I will have developed a habit of gratefulness that will make me feel more joyful about the everyday miracles of my life.

  

Owning My "Stuff"

  

This concept (it seems too simple at first) was life-altering for me this year.  It comes from Elizabeth Gilbert (but she used a different word), and here it is in all its glorious simplicity:

“It’s very important that you learn how to own your [stuff]. At some point in your life, you really have to get honest about the weirdest and most damaged and most broken parts of your existence, and take responsibility for it all ... lovingly, but unblinkingly.  For many years, I didn’t own my [stuff] because I didn’t KNOW my [stuff]. If you don’t know your [stuff], then that [stuff] will control you and make your life into Crazy Town. Until you own your [stuff], all you do is make excuses for the madness that is always surrounding you, while throwing blame around like confetti.

By this point in my life, though, I know the worst of me. I know the triggers that make me into a temporarily insane person. I know my vulnerabilities and my pride. I know the stuff that makes me want to deceive, and the stuff that makes me vindictive, and the stuff that makes me insecure, and the stuff that makes me just flat-out mean and ugly. And I definitely know all my demons by their first names.

This is what therapy does — helps you to learn your [stuff], inside and out. This is what meditation is for. This is what recovery is for. This is what reconciling the contradictions of your life is for. This is what radical honesty is for. This is what the courage of truthful introspection is for.

Owning your [stuff] begins to happen the moment you finally recognize that the common denominator in all your biggest problems is YOU.  Not them: YOU.  It’s a beautiful, humbling, necessary realization. It’s an education. It’s painful. It’s the beginning of adulthood. It's pretty much the definition of maturity. 

That doesn't mean abusing yourself:  it just means taking accountability. Own your [stuff] with love and perspective and self-compassion ... but definitely own it.  Don’t worry if other people are owning their [stuff] or not. That isn’t your problem. Just own yours.  Keep your side of the street clean and honest, and rest of it is none of your business.”

The first time I read this, I smiled knowingly.  As a person keen to understand what makes me tick, I loved every word.  But I have been most keen to understand me and less keen to “own” me – to take responsibility for my weaknesses and my own behavior.  To act in a manner that takes into account what makes me tick and what makes me overly-sensitive and what makes me ache and -- here’s the kicker -- control the behavior that comes after the ache.  To be responsible for me instead of “throwing blame around like confetti.”  That’s probably my favorite phrase of the whole passage – how many times a day since have I self-mockingly pictured myself in a tutu and crooked tiara scattering blame around like confetti?  The mental image makes me stop in my tracks – and makes me take responsibility for my part in whatever I am blaming someone else for.  And that accountability makes me work to fix my part of it.  To make myself better.  To act in an honorable, honest way.

I also find the idea of not focusing on whether other people are owning their own [stuff] quite freeing.  Remember the me in Part 1 above on Soul-Crushers who likes to lob the grenade email in to tell someone how inappropriate he is or insensitive she has acted.  If my intention is to mentor or teach because that is my role in a particular moment, than talking to someone else about his or her behavior may be appropriate.  But if my intent is merely to show someone that I know that he doesn’t know that he isn’t owning his [stuff] – well, that is none of my business.  

If we all worked a little harder to own our own [stuff] and focused a lot less on what we find problematic about other people’s behavior, the world would be a lovelier place.

One Day at a Time

  

I am not instinctively good at standing up to soul-crushers, feeling grateful, or owning my own [stuff].  And I am good at fanciful declarations that feel like poetry in the writing and like bad prose in the implementation – I can talk big and play small.  So this March 4^th, I am taking all three of these goals one day at a time.  May the Gods blow a gentle wind at my back as I march forth.  

Memorial Day Lessons From My Dad

Saturday, May 28, 2011

My dad died 10 years ago last Thursday.  In some ways, the loss is as fresh and as acute as May 26, 2001.  In other ways, I notice the blurriness of my images of him now and fear that, more and more, he is becoming a set of fuzzy memories, a set of stories.  In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis wrote about how the passage of time causes our mental picture of someone to fade:  "Slowly, quietly, like snow-flakes -- the small flakes that come when it is going to snow all night -- little flakes of me, my impressions, my selections, are settling down on the image of [him].  Ten minutes, ten seconds of the real [him] would correct all this.  And yet, even if those ten seconds were allowed me, one second later the little flakes would begin to fall again."

My dad died on Memorial Day weekend.  Nick and I were in Charleston looking for churches for our wedding.  We were staying in the Kiawah Inn.  My sister called at 2am to tell me dad "had a heartache.  And he didn't make it."  They were words that profoundly changed my life.

Driving back through the night to Raleigh, I remember being overcome by grief that my father would not walk me down the aisle.  So much lost that day, and yet I became fixated on a moment... a ritual.  A self-focused loss for a future special day.  It was a strange thing to mourn.  But the grieving mind knows no logic and is often selfish.  At that moment, I didn't grieve the larger losses.  That I wouldn't watch him grow old, that he wouldn't know my children, that I could not have grown up enough to have "grown up" talks with him, that I couldn't ask him for career advice or what the sunrise over the Carolina mountains looked like this week.

Today, we took our boys to a Memorial Day ceremony in the Ardennes in Belgium.  Ten years after losing my dad, I still remember that it was hard to arrange the military honors for his funeral because those who play Taps or neatly fold flags over caskets or fire 21-gun salutes were attending Memorial Day ceremonies to honor America's fallen.  Every Memorial Day, I cry when I hear Taps.  I sometimes feel embarrassed...like I want to explain I am not being overly patriotic or sentimental.  That I am still mourning.  That I am missing my dad.  But these are thoughts best left unsaid at a moment meant to honor others.

Listening to the Admiral today and watching the jets overhead, I thought my dad would have loved to hear my stories about working at NATO.  He was an Army Colonel, and he believed in service to your country.  When I work with my military friends at NATO, I think about how I used to help my dad polish his boots for summer camp over spread-out newspaper in the living room while watching NFL football.  My military colleagues remind me that soldiers are neat, punctual, polite, and honorable.  They say "sir" and "ma'am" like I was taught to do.  When I watch a soldier with his cover in his hands, I think of how my dad used to slowly turn his in his hands as he talked, creasing the edges with his fingers.  When I watch a promotion ceremony, I picture my dad proudly pinning a new rank on my sister's shoulder and saluting her. 

I was trying to explain to my sons a little bit about what Memorial Day means.  I was using words like "fallen soldiers" and "courage" and "remembering and honoring."  It was too much for them.  My youngest asked me if we would see zombies.  Teaching my boys about the heart of the matter won't happen for many more years.  And perhaps it shouldn't.  They should enjoy being young for now.

But today, I sure did wish my dad was around to help me explain. 

I came home and looked for an article I wrote right after my dad died.  Re-reading it helped  me see that although I might not be able to teach my boys the true meaning of Memorial Day yet, I can continue to live my life, day in and day out, as my father did his, trying to show my boys how to be earnest, to be humble, to put others first, and to be courageous.  Those, too, are the lessons of Memorial Day.  And you can teach those without saying a word. 

The Other Obituary
Raleigh News & Observer, Father's Day Special, June 2001

            The last thing my father said to me was “love you, doll.”  It was just one month ago.  He said it from the front porch of his home in Raleigh as he waved goodnight to me.  We had just had dinner, and I was leaving to go back to work.  I would give anything now to have lingered a little longer at my father’s table that night.  I didn’t know then that it would be my last chance to spend time with him.

            Three weeks ago, my father died of a heart attack.  He was 58 years old.  He ran 5K races with me, and was an active, busy, seemingly healthy man.  He was buried in Montlawn Cemetary with full military honors.  Those who loved him could hardly grieve yet because it seemed so impossible that such a strong man could be gone.

            The obituary appeared in Section B, page 6, of the paper the day after Memorial Day.  It was 28 lines long and told only the essentials of his life– that he left behind a wife, two daughters, a stepson, two grandchildren, a sister.  He was a retired Colonel in the United States Army, a high school football referee, and a N.C. State graduate.

            But as with almost every obituary I’ve ever read, it was wholly inadequate to describe the man who was my dad.  The obituary didn’t tell you about his big, brilliantly blue eyes that often shared his sentimental nature with the world or his boyish grin that could charm the crankiest of curmudgeons.

            It didn’t tell you that my dad never missed one of his children’s graduations, dance recitals, or military promotions, or that he waited nervously in the hospital waiting room when his grandchildren were born.  And it didn’t tell you that he was the loudest (and often the only) supportive voice from the stands at my junior high school basketball games.  Years later, when I played basketball for a year in England, he checked the team webpage after every game and wrote to me about my performance.  He was “there” still. 

            The obituary didn’t tell you about the poems he wrote for the people he loved or about the inscriptions he put in the books he gave.  In Ayn Rand’s "Anthem," a Christmas gift to me in 1995, he wrote: “To a beautiful daughter with a mind for the intellectual and a soul for compassion.  Read Chapter XI and think about it.  Love Dad.”  

            It didn’t tell you that he taught his children multiplication tables, county seats, and how the solar system works (with fruit).  He taught his daughters how to change a tire and use a chainsaw.  But he wouldn’t let us use the chainsaw unless he was standing nearby.

            From the lines of the obituary, you couldn’t see the animation with which he talked about the D-Day landing with our guide on the beaches of Normandy just a year ago.  And you couldn’t see the joy in his eyes as he solved a Rubik's Cube or figured out a word while doing the Sunday crossword puzzle.   

            Indeed, as I write this, I am struck by the inadequacy of my own words to give you a small glimpse of a man who was larger than life.

           If you recognize your own father in my words, take the time today to thank him and to tell him how his constant support and love changed you.  We are given such precious little time on this earth with the ones we love.

            As for me, this Father’s Day, I hope to find comfort in the many happy memories I have of my time with my dad.  On the inside cover of a book written by a native of the state he loved so much, my dad wrote, “As Thomas Wolfe said, ‘You Can’t Go Home Again.’  You can always remember the good times with love and the not so good times with understanding and compassion.  And may you always look homeward, Angel.  Love Dad.”

25 Things About Me

Wednesday, March 09, 2011

1.  Grace is my favorite word and my favorite trait in another person.
2.  Not only does my life have a soundtrack, but I like to sing along loudly. I think music is god’s way of telling us we’re not alone.
3.  My favorite smell is the ocean. I feel most alive on a beach.
4.  My big sister (a talented doctor) helped deliver my oldest son. She was about 3 months pregnant herself and not feeling much like getting her little sister through 18 hours of labor. She has protected me like that many times.
5.  I was the officiant at my best friend's wedding. Being asked to do that was one of my life’s greatest honors.
6.  I am not able to describe how close I feel to my mom. And I did not understand how much she loved me until I was pregnant with my own child. I found the realization startling and humbling.
7.  The judge I clerked for after law school is the wisest man I have ever met. He would stand at my enormous window looking out over the Cape Fear river and wax poetic about whatever he had read, painted, sculpted, invented, or talked to “his bride” (his wife of 50 years) about that day. When I remember those moments, the music in my head is Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” (see # 2).
8.  My oldest son is a lot like I was as a child. He is stubborn, gregarious, mischievous, and the near-death of his parents. Being his mom makes me love my parents even more. Being his mom was my first experience with unconditional love.
9.  My youngest son makes me feel peaceful. He is an old soul. I sing “Sweet Baby James” to him at night when I rock him.
10.  I named the high school I graduated from (well, I was the person on a student government committee who suggested the name that the School Board ultimately chose-- but the first sentence sounds cooler). It was Providence High. Very original. It sat on Providence Road.
11.  I was a daddy’s girl and a tomboy growing up. I used to go with my dad to football games he refereed and hold the yardline chains. He taught me how to shoot free-throws and always came to my basketball games. When I played basketball at Oxford, he would read about my games on the web and give me pointers-- he was "there" across an ocean.
12.  2001 was the worst year of my life. It followed right on the heels of 2000, the best year of my life-- which probably made it feel even worse.
13.  My girlfriends and I have GPWs (girl power weekends) that always make me feel heard, understood and/or loved anyway, and usually a little tipsy.
14.  “Shadow Lands,” about C.S. Lewis and his wife Joy, is my favorite movie. It reminds me that your joy is your sorrow—that they are one in the same. That makes me love more boldly.
15.  I always read Tennyson’s "Ulysses" right before I do something that is good for me but that nonetheless makes me want to throw up fear soup.
16.  I did not expect to fall so deeply in love with Mexico City. I left a big chunk of my heart there (probably in a bar in Polanco near a shot of tequila and a taco al pastor).
17.  I have kept a journal since I was 13. I love sitting in a coffee house and working out how I feel about something on a piece of paper. When I re-read my old journal entries, I am reminded of the last line of "The Great Gatsby": “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
18.  I’m a Tar Heel born, I’m a Tar Heel bred. One of the first things people usually find out about me is that I’m from North Carolina. I am unusually prideful about my home state.
19.  I used to sneak down to see my grandmother (she lived with us when I was young) after bedtime. She would cut an apple for us and read poetry to me from “America’s Best-Loved Poems.” My favorite was “The Female of the Species.”
20.  I gave my high school graduation speech. In it, I read part of Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If” (yeah, I know that makes you wish you had been in the audience). As I was winding up, I quoted: “But which is more, you will be a man my son.” And at that moment, on stage, it struck me as rather unfair that Rudyard had only mentioned men. So I paused and said, “or a woman” and nodded in this indignant, self-congratulatory way. People in the audience chuckled. I’m afraid being raised by my mother and my grandmother made my feminism rather inevitable. See # 19.
21.  I’m a picky eater. It’s one of the things I like least about myself.
22.  If I could have dinner with anyone dead or alive, it would be President Lincoln. It used to be Jefferson. But I think Lincoln had more of #1 above, and I find that the trait most lacking in our leaders today.
23.  I would like to learn how to cook and how to play the guitar. I think you are only “old” once you stop learning new tricks.
24.  I wish I had done a tour with the Peace Corps. I have never met a Peace Corps volunteer I didn’t like and admire. I didn’t do a Peace Corps tour largely because of #21… I would have a hard time eating bugs.
25.  About 10 years ago, Nick, without thinking probably, said one of nicest things anyone has ever said to me. He forwarded me the Word of the Day, which was “Gibraltar,” with a simple note: “You are my Gibraltar.” It was right after my dad died when he was, in fact, my Gibraltar. Since then, we’ve always found different ways of telling each other we are our strong place to lean when life is handing out punches. Just last week, he sent me a note from French class that said: “Vous etes mon rocher.”

March Forth!

March 4, 2010

No it’s not a misspelling.  And yes, it’s dorkie.  I consider today to be March Forth!, not March Fourth.  I like this day.

When I was young, I heard a sermon (yes, in a church) from a beloved minister on “March forth” and how we should use the day to march forth, with purpose, into a life of good deeds and kindness.  Over the years, I have thought a lot about the day, and I’ve turned it into my own Dr. Philesque self-improvement program. 

I'm a self-improvement kind of gal.  I make New Year’s Resolutions.  At the beginning of every year, I promise to do something new that I haven’t done before or done well.  Take a course.   Write more letters.  Drink more water.  Start blogging.  And I like the idea of Lent too – the notion of self-deprivation to remind ourselves to be disciplined -- but I haven't tried it.  Perhaps this year?

But March 4^th is my day to do something I should have done awhile ago—and I’ve used it mostly in my interpersonal relationships.  I think of March 4^th as the day to consider what I have let fester, what I haven’t said, what I need to say better, what I need to resolve.  It is a day of action in the face of past days of inaction.  It is girding my loins.  It is finding the courage.  It is doing the right thing.

I have used March 4^th to do many long overdue things.  I quit smoking on March 4^th.  I broke up with a boyfriend on March 4^th.  I forgave a boyfriend on March 4^th.  I had a really productive disagreement with my mom after one March 4th (we can do that).  I called up an old friend on March 4^th and cleared the air.

Today, I find myself in a bit of a pickle.  I cannot think of anything I want to quit or resolve.  Things are going pretty well, and on this March 4^th, I am thinking about my great fortune.  I have my healthy, happy 3 boys (2 small, 1 big).  A wonderful mom.  Loving friends and family.  Mi amiga, Obdu.  A career I like.  Several weeks in the Carolinas this summer to look forward to.   

I think this March 4^th I will sit somewhere and remind myself that sometimes it is nice to not have anything to resolve.  Sometimes it is nice, as my friend Ana tells me, to live in the moment and feel grateful for it.   Today, I will think of the Gabriel Garcia Marquez quote I just read and loved:  "I have learned that everyone wants to live at the top of the mountain, forgetting that how we climb it is all that matters."  Today, I will not try to fix anything ... today, I will just enjoy the climb.

That Woman Is A Success...

Friday, February 18, 2011

When I was a senior in high school, I gave a speech to the Women's Executive Club in Charlotte about my mom.  I remember I quoted a poem in the speech -- "That Woman is a Success."  I searched for it online and all I found was this – I don’t even remember if this was the poem I used:  http://search4freedom.xanga.com/658180313/that-woman-is-a-success/.  Anodyne stuff to put it mildly.  

But the purpose of my oratory wasn't actually to consider what "success" meant.  I wrote the speech quite simply to defend my working mother.  To say to a room full of women who I wanted to nod in approval, "my mother worked and I am ok.  I survived.  I am not developmentally challenged."  Such was my feminism at the time -- self-righteous and sure.  And I carried that self-righteous feminism with me through law school and into a certain feminism professor’s buzzsaw.  Shortly after law school and that buzzsaw, I had my doubts that feminism meant women should do what men do and that women are just like men are.  I became even more convinced that wasn't true when I had babies and I witnessed something I'd denied for most of my life-- that women and men are fundamentally different in some ways.  And they are most different in how they parent.  Or that, at least, has been my experience.

I used to opine about the three prongs to my "successful" existence.  I think in the 90s and inspired by my legal training, my three prongs had two sub-prongs.  I don't remember the sub-prongs any more, but I do always remember my three passions.  They are just as Betrand Russell said they were for him:  http://users.drew.edu/jlenz/br-prolog.html.  

I have sought love first and with the greatest degree of difficulty in my life.  Having supportive, communicative, loving relationships is surely how I find most of my sense of "success" (and my sense of failure when I screw up).  I did not know unconditional, throw-yourself-in-front-of-a-train love until my son Ben was born, and that brought with it an even deeper sense of commitment and even deeper guilt on dark days when I feel I am not giving my sons my all.  I find "love" the hardest thing to "work" on too, especially in a happy marriage.  We fall into patterns and routines, and usually we don't ask ourselves: "Am I loving this person the best way I can?" "How can I communicate better?"  "How can I allay fears?"  Challenging ourselves in these ways is difficult stuff and for the most part we avoid doing it.

My other two passions are the search for knowledge and the search for ways to alleviate others' pain.  Those play themselves out in many ways, but mostly they play an important role in why I am a diplomat ... because it gives me a sense that I am becoming more knowledgeable and acquiring experiences and that I am helping others.  I strive and fail mightily in these categories too of course.  

In my job, I see my achievement orientation and my competitive spirit.  I don't like it most of the time, but I see it.  I note with interest how I will send home to my parents news of some success at work and purr like a cat being rubbed when they praise me.  I know too that I felt "successful" when I had a very good job in the Department two years ago and that work was something I wanted others to know about me ... much like I want people to know I'm a lawyer.  Why is that important?  Why is other people's recognition of some outward "success" important to me?  I don't know.  My parents were valedictorians and my grandmother wanted me to be President.  It's in my genes I suppose.  Most days I think that I am more moved by the drive to learn and help than by the baser desires to please, achieve, and "win"... but I'd be lying if I said those baser desires weren't there pushing me on like a Tiger mother.  Making me burn my candle at every conceivable end.  Making me sleep with my Blackberry on my chest.

I once asked a woman I admire how you can "have it all."  She had the best answer.  She said "you can't...not at the same time."  Something always has to give.  When you give in one place, you have less capacity to give in another.  It is the sickening zero sum reality of modern, exhausted living.  When you perform some promotion-inspiring feat, you often miss bath-time.  When you stay up making a project and cupcakes for your child's 100th day of school and go with him to celebrate, you miss that conference call your boss wanted you to attend.  If you stay home with your children as your life's work, you think working moms' lives are glamorous.  If you work, you deeply envy a mother's time to watch the daily miracles in her child's life.  

In short, only you can define what your passions are and how you pursue them.  Even if you haven't assigned them in prongs and subprongs, you know what they are.  And only your tummy (that wonderful place where the wisdom of your head and the passion of your heart meet) can tell you in what measure to pursue your various passions.  Know this too -- no matter what you decide, you will always feel that you are not giving something or someone enough of you.

So my definition of success is this:  

·         Knowing what passions will govern your life and pursuing them with energy and focus (not just going through the motions or leading a life of quiet desperation).

·         Pursuing your passions with balance and the knowledge that excess in one requires loss in another, thus causing a never-ending, constantly shifting pursuit to be disciplined enough to give and do what you can when you can.

·         Forgiving yourself for the days and the moments when you fail to find balance, or when you fancy that someone's life is choiceless unlike yours and so much easier, or when you judge another, or worse yourself, for not getting the balance just right.  

If you can walk this path and keep getting better at it, you are a success.