change has come

Today I feel the same relentless surge of emotions that I felt after 9/11. Something equally unimaginable has occurred here in America, only this time it is deep pride and amazed awe that move me to tears. My tears are tears of joy. For the first time in my life I can say I am truly proud to be an American. I want to pledge allegiance to my flag again. I want to sing the Star Spangled Banner at the top of my lungs. Thank you, America, for finally choosing someone based on his promise and not on the color of his skin. Thank you for choosing hope over fear, words over war, and inspiration over desperation. I get tears in my eyes all over again when I see Obama's soft, glittering eyes on the cover of today's Arizona Daily Star.

Last night Michael said that he has not seen this kind fervor for a leader and his ideals since Bobby Kennedy in 1968. I have never had any faith in a political leader in my lifetime. Martin Luther King, Jr., JFK, Bobby Kennedy...they are all pages in a history I took no part in. What heros have there been for my generation? My heros have all been writers who have challenged the myths of our America, who have inspired me to open my eyes, to question my own judgments, and to view others with more compassion and empathy. Now we will actually have a president who will, I believe, do the same. He symbolizes balance and a return to rational discourse. He represents us, a nation of mixed races, cultures, religions, and creeds.

I am inspired to write again. I am inspired to give back to my country again. Mr. Obama, you are the hero of my generation. May you be guided to serve as you have promised. May you fulfill that promise of change. May you and your family be protected from harm. I will be so proud to call you my president in 76 days.

one art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day.
Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, bit it wasn't a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

~ Elizabeth Bishop, 1976 ~

Loss is swirling through my head these days. How many things have I lost in my lifetime? And how much do I really miss those things? I have been fortunate thus far not to lose someone I love dearly, aside from the loss of my first love and my grandmother who died at 84. Those losses were inevitable and perhaps expected.

Right now I face the loss of a home I love dearly. I have always known that I would not live here forever yet I wasn't prepared to leave this home so soon. I keep reminding myself to feel gratitude for having been able to live here at all, for having my health and my family and a job that puts food on the table. There are worse losses than this. There are people who are suffering deeper losses: safety, freedom, shelter, ability to take care of oneself and one's family, nourishment, health. What are my losses in comparison?

I am thankful and I am grieving, too. I am grieving a loss that hasn't happened yet, thus I am not living in the present moment. Waves of fear are tossing me about like a raft on a turbulent sea. I have lost my equanimity. Perhaps my greatest comfort right now is knowing that this, too, shall pass.

autumn leaves

Yesterday, Michael and I drove up to Summerhaven on Mt. Lemmon to see the only bit of fall foliage that we get in Tucson. We hiked the ski lift trail and asked the ski lift operator at the top if we could pay him for a half-trip down the mountain. He shook his head and told us he'd let us ride for free. So we had a quiet 7-minute ride down the mountain and a gorgeous view of the cleft of Redfield Canyon and the Galiuro mountains in the distance.

We missed the major autumn colors by about two weeks. We saw mostly lemon-yellow aspens and a few red oak leaves littering the trail. We were quietly celebrating the completion of the remodeling and upgrades to our house while at the same time mourning the fact that it is going up for sale today. It's appropriate that the house is going up for sale in autumn, the season of change and letting go.

villa luna rica

Villa Luna Rica, June 2007

I started a new blog a few weeks ago. I know that I rarely post to this one as it is, but I wanted something separate and new to chronicle the life of our home, which is rather special. You can read about it here.

my two fathers

Papi & Sam at happy hour

Here are my two fathers, enjoying a ritual happy hour together which entails sitting outside at dusk with a stiff drink in one hand and a Cuban cigar in the other and watching the world quiet down as the sun sinks below the horizon.

These two men have next to nothing in common, aside from my mother (the fiery Colombian woman who ensnared both their hearts for different reasons), their shared role of father to my sister and me, and their daily anticipation of happy hour.

My biological father is Paul, aka Papi or Pito. I inherited from him certain verbal mannerisms, a love of photography and the night sky, the way I walk, and an anxiety about money that tranlates into stinginess. As a child, I dreaded asking him questions because I would either get: A) a bewildering far-fetched answer that was made up on the spot or B) some long-winded explanation which included an unrelated history of something else and only confused me more. He is also something of a McGyver, always able to think of a solution outside the box. He carries with him at all times about a half a pound of keys and tools on his keychain. I think he took the Boy Scout motto "Be Prepared" to heart, because he's pretty much prepared for anything at all times. I remember him pulling a mini can opener out of his pocket once at a school event, when my teacher realized there was no way to open the cans of juice one of the parents had brought. I was proud then of my father's foresight.

My stepfather is Sam. I inherited from him a love of books and good food, my liberal politics, a passion for travel, and a lack of desire to work very hard which translates into an appreciation for loafing. We had many fierce arguments at the dinner table about world events and he frequently prodded me to learn more about the topic at hand before opening my mouth. He made a pittance working for the city government but he made sure that his family never felt the pinch. I marvel now that we went so many places and experienced so many things on his shoestring budget. He would never skimp on good food and one of the pleasures of my childhood was being treated to a fine meal at the restaurant of my choice, whether to celebrate my birthday or a good report card.

There is so much more I can say about these two men who shaped who I am by their example. I suppose the only thing more I can say today is this: Happy Father's Day, Papi and Sam. I love you both.

new every morning

Every day is a fresh beginning,
Listen my soul to the glad refrain.
And, spite of old sorrows
And older sinning,
Troubles forecasted
And possible pain,
Take heart with the day and begin again.

~ Susan Coolidge ~