on "having the courage of [my] convictions" . . .

Of all the advice that my mother has given me over the years, this is the one I most associate with her, the one that I have truly made my own. I remember thinking as a child, adolescent, teen, young adult that what she really meant was that I should have the courage of her convictions. She probably did . . . But, from the time I first stood up for what I deeply believed (I was five), I have drawn strength from my own.

My father always took time from work to vote on election day. He always voted--with the exception of DDE (Daddy couldn't find it in himself to vote for a divorced man)--Democrat . . . straight party ticket, or at least that is what I've always believed. My mother's example shaped me more. She did not become an American citizen until I was in college--and we still agree on almost nothing political in nature--but I was moved, even as a child, with her voting--absentee ballot and always making sure we saw her example--in the French elections. Charles de Gaulle was her hero . . . as John F. Kennedy would be, ever so briefly, mine.

Which brings me, I guess, to the topic of this commentary--election politics. An unseemly topic for a blog devoted to simple pleasures . . . but I've always managed somehow to salvage a moment of simple pleasure in knowing that I have had, in the privacy of that voting booth, the courage of my convictions. Courage to vote according to my beliefs--not those of, usually, the vocal majority. Courage to vote for the welfare of us all, born and unborn--not just for my own.

Which is why I need to write this today, two days before yet another election . . .

I often choose to define myself through quoting what respected others have said. The quotes below reflect my thinking as I choose--no straight party tickets for me, though my choice of quotes will surely lead to predictable labels for my thinking--the candidates I believe best equipped, in terms of their beliefs and values, to shape the best world possible for us all.

The words are theirs. The bold is mine . . .

Ebenezer: But it was only that you were an honest man of business!
Jacob Marley: BUSINESS? Mankind was my business! Their common welfare was my business!

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

I rarely talk politics. I do talk often and passionately about the beliefs on which my voting decisions are grounded. I rarely talk religion. I do talk often and passionately about the values on which my spiritual life is grounded.

I am rarely judgmental--unless in the presence of those who judge others--but I was deeply offended yesterday. I rarely watch mainstream TV but there was a football game I wanted to see so . . . a predictable clash of basic needs. The trade-off for watching two teams with their hearts in the game work their way through four quarters was to endure the negative political ads that filled every break.

I found myself wondering if not being out there touting my candidates of choice is akin to not having the courage of my convictions . . . if I should do and say more than I do in my quiet private voting booth moment in time. So here it is . . .

My ideal candidate is the unassuming visionary, a man (or woman) of the people.

The final piece of the this year's gubernatorial puzzle fell into place for me at a local festival this summer. The candidates cast themselves for the event as beauty queen (sitting high in a convertible, waving at her fans and surrounded by her entourage of propaganda distributors) and man of the people (walking the parade path alone [he had to have an entourage somewhere but they blended in too well to be noticed], shaking hands). Vincent Sheheen held me in the palm of his hand that day. He has my vote.

The final piece of this year's superintendent of education puzzle fell into place long before the primaries. Holleman's is the vision too many have lost in their quest to quantify academic excellence, in their efforts to equate results with standardized test performance. He also understands that putting public education first is essential to the common welfare of our children. (NOTE: I am, with the exception of my last three years of high school, a product of private schools. As a young adult, I chose--not just for financial reasons though that reality cannot be discounted--to enroll my three children in public schools [two attended state universities in other states] and to further my own education at a state university. I chose to devote my professional life to public education. I chose this path because I believe it is everyone's responsibility, mine included, to ensure that all children have access to a quality education. In today's challenging world, it will take all of us--our combined vision and resources--to make that assurance possible.)

There! I've done it! Gone on public record two days before an election to say, in indelible internet ink, how I will vote in the privacy of Tuesday's polling booth. Is this anything like having the courage of [my] convictions?

One last comment on convictions and courage . . .

I have the conviction that ours is government of the people, by the people, and for the people. I have the courage to accept the choice of the people on Tuesday and to do my best to make a difference in whatever world those leaders shape. And I will find some sense of satisfaction--simple pleasures--in continuing to live my life in just this way . . .

of healing . . .

It's been 40 years since I lost my father to cancer . . . six years since my child embarked on a cancer survivor's journey . . . I've bought and displayed the showy purple ribbon, donated to cancer research, worn the t-shirt, decorated a luminary or two. What I could never bring myself to do, until this year, was to join, with others like me, others whose lives have been changed by that "C' word, to remember and to honor those who have fought the good fight for living and dying well . . .

I did not purchase or decorate a luminary this year. But, for the first time (forgive me, Daddy), I chose to celebrate my survivor child by joining a Relay for Life Team. The experience was a healing one in many ways--rediscovering old friends whose lives had also been touched in this way, walking and walking and walking and walking some more, sending prayers up to heaven on purple balloon ribbons . . . But, most of all, in the quiet dark of night, reflecting in the flickering candlelight presence of those gone before us and those still with us . . .

of Yo-Yo Ma and Robert Frost . . .

I wasn't prepared for the emotion. The parallels between our new President and my childhood hero, JFK, were evident, even without media input. While I might only vicariously understand what it means to have an African-American inaugurated President of our great land, I could, those long years ago, appreciate firsthand, as I watched Kennedy's inauguration with my Catholic boarding school classmates, what it meant to have a Catholic inaugurated President of our great land. I am still that true child of the '60's who welcomes change, bites her tongue (but not as often as she should), eschews to-do lists, boundaries, routines . . . And who is moved by the music of language, the language of music.

Robert Frost and I share a birthday, but he was part of me long before I knew that. Today, as I watched Obama's inauguration, my woods were filling up with snow. I live the litany of miles to go before I sleep, of promises to keep. My roads, too, diverged in a yellow wood. Like Frost, I have almost always taken the one less travelled by, choices that have, indeed, made all the difference . . .

My clearest firsthand memory (the others have been multiply revised by time and media replays) of Kennedy's inauguration is of Frost reading his poem. I forget, until reminded by a Google search or other prompt, that the poem he read--that he recited from memory, actually--was not the one he wrote for that occasion. That the sun on the snow that January 20th morning forty-eight years ago was too much for his frail vision .

[Robert Frost Reads Poem at JFK's Inauguration: January 20, 1961
http://www.americaslibrary.gov/cgi-bin/page.cgi/jb/modern/frost_1 ]

It wasn't the poetry who touched me today. It was the music. Just a few short months ago, I discovered (and blogged here about) Yo-Yo Ma's version of Simple Gifts. Yo-Yo Ma was/is my new favorite musician, courtesy of his rendition of Gabriel's Oboe which seriously challenges Galway's version as one of my all-time musical selections . . . As with Frost all those long winters ago, I was, today, witness to a performance that is sure to ring crystal clear in memory long after the sights and rhetoric of the day are overwritten by time and media replays.

'Tis a gift to be simple,
'Tis a gift to be free,
'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
It will be in the valley of love and delight.

nine eleven - where I was . . .

What isn't there, in that long-ago journal (click blog title to view), is why the words ran out . . . A plane went down somewhere near Pittsburgh. My daughter's home is in the Pittsburgh flight path . . . My cell phone was in the car . . .

When I called, my son-in-law answered. My daughter was on a plane that morning . . . thankfully in the Atlanta airport between connections when the world as we know it stopped. The evening before, my son-in-law had watched, from the Newark airport, lightning backdrop the Twin Towers . . .

The crew and passengers of UAF93 have a very special place in my heart . . .

. . .

If you lead your life the right way, the karma will take care of itself. The dreams will come to you. - Randy Pausch

Randy Pausch lost his battle with pancreatic cancer this morning. Tony Snow, my brother's college classmate, lost his battle with colon cancer just a few days ago. Two inspiring men in the prime of their lives and careers. Men who had so much to live for: courageous wives, young children just beginning their journeys to adulthood. Men who taught us so much about how to celebrate our last days of life . . .

Daddy had those same reasons for living . . . Someone somewhere once told me his wish was to live through that one summer. He did.

He was a man of few words, but even had he not been, I don't know that he, or we, would have found the words to say what needs to be said when you know you, or someone you love, have/has so little time left on this earth.

His world was a world before the stages of grief had been named, before talking about dying was a good thing to do. But, deep in memory, there are indelible pieces of that summer:

* watching him hold my daughter, his first grandchild, and knowing that, because he would not want us to remember his wasting frailty, I could hold that picture only in memory, only as long as I drew breath . . .

* listening to his stories, the weekend before his surgery--Grandpa saving him from the fire--stories about love never judging . . .

* holding my breath when he tried, the weekend before his surgery, to pour a life's wisdom about running a business into my so-confused brain (fortunately my mother had the clarity of vision, courage, and determination to build on his legacy) . . .

* knowing that he, on his one best weekend of that summer, watched as man first set foot on the moon . . .

* spending one last night in a chair in his hospital room and being welcomed, through his coma, with a veryslowmotion wink the next morning . . .

Many years later/ago, I dedicated my dissertation in this way:
to my father,
who nourished my dreams,
and my mother,
who gave me courage . . .

I would like to think that those three fine young men, fathers, nourishers of dreams in their children--Randy, Tony, and Jimmy--will find each other somewhere in that next world. What stories they could tell each other!

Bet Daddy will take a break from gigging for flounder to be in the bleachers in my hometown when Good Morning America visits next week!