Turned on the faucet and the water ran cold. thinking, no — hoping — that the kitchen was just slow, checked the tub spigot, the real test — luke warm, at best and getting colder. anger can be a chill scream that gathers, pushing up from inside, yet still able to choose among actions. once, she chose to simply drop the wine glass of chardonnay. used gravity like a martial arts master. shards of glass lay like ice chips in pools of cool wine on that beautifully finished wood floor, in the heat of July. 

My comrade is modeling his boxing style after Bruce Lee. balanced anger, dodging blows, moves into his opponent’s unguarded moment. wait! look at this, the habit considered gone, has returned. in one long, soul-wrenching howl, the hound one floor below reveals his identity. you can stomp him into silence only until the next thing sets him off. from here, any impulse to comfort is impossible. silence can range from peace to trauma. then that song plays. a strobe light on chaos. 

For this evening, a large pot of boiling water is enough, but roller coaster memory loops back around a pre-dawn moment before cooking fires are lit, morning ablutions in a searing temple spring — movement intensified heat. god, that hurt for a reason. if you use this container, though, and add just enough of what we’re left with, you’ll get a warm, so-very-nearly luxurious drenching. but do it now. how ludicrous to have even considered waiting for this to pass.

Vodpod videos no longer available. 

[–Draft under construction, to be expanded and edited–]

I’m gloating today. Do you know why? Because I love what I do these days.

By the way, do you like this Black-Eyed Peas song?

Check out these lines:

“….if you only have love for your own race,
Then you only leave space to discriminate,
And to discriminate only generates hate,
And when you hate, then you’r ebound to get irate…
Let yourself gravitate to the love, y’all…”

But let me tell you about my days, then we’ll get to Where Is The Love. Actually, what I love about my days right now –is– the love.

Funny about that.

I have spent much of this week interviewing ex-offenders who are applying to participate in our re-entry program—I love this process, everything about it. Everything. And my colleagues are the most compassionate, caring, passionate group of people with whom I have ever worked. What’s not to L-O-V-E about all of this?

Especially in these times which are not brimming with love.

Thus, the song.

Wars abound, a major indicator of love deficits.

Democrats don’t love Republicans, neither do the Reps the Dems.

And no one likes the President nor his people.

The media doesn’t seem to like anyone, probably not even themselves.

Case-in-point, The NYTimes’ own Maureen Dowd.

Women don’t love the glass ceiling,

As with Frost’s poem, Mending Wall:

“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
that want’s it down.”

Who wants the ceiling down?

In this case, 18 million humans.

Sarah Palin doesn’t love Senator Obama,

Nor his community service experience,

Nor some library books, energy alternatives and, unfortunately, all polar bears.

She does like rifles.

We don’t know if she likes moose or not but she does allegedly fire weapons at them.

She also probably doesn’t like the word “alleged

of course muchluv,

ms. spin-c
 

View from the R8 SEPTA Regional Rail, somewhere in North Philly

Like a fever, I cannot tell you how long the recent heat wave lasted during this summer of slow discovery. No, not slow, subtle. Not extreme, like changing a gender preference or even a clothing style.

More like adjusting your usual beverage — slightly. Discovering the joy of cinnamon-flecked foam in a cappuccino, when you have always ordered lattes. Or of drinking red wine with OJ and lime seltzer over ice instead of warm and straight up.

Starting to walk–past dusk–when the day’s heat and traffic has dissipated most. Joy in ironing, wearing crisp shirt sleeves and pant creases. In carrying no more than needed. Glowing accomplishment the day the rug is clear of returned papers, dog-eared articles, opened and unopened mail. Knowing the landscape is changing. That a process is happening.

Steady watching.

Take the Regional Rail into Center City. See the immense magnitude of need. People, the streets, the homes. All need. You may flinch, sometimes turn away from the men with chronic, running sores, bloated discolored limbs, bloody, crusted faces. The women, gaunt, wrinkled skin with an attempt at lipstick, carrying too many bags and wearing too many clothes. People. On the streets. For decades.

Wait for trains at Market East, Suburban Station. Talk to friends by phone, knowing where the signal works and does not. Daily, musicians play the train station acoustics, to the waiting—a trio of old black men singing blues, playing electric guitar, bongos, rhythm sticks. They draw a crowd. Yesterday, a man played Chinese classical music on a long thin stringed instrument with a bow. Shyly. More for himself. Another Chinese man stopped to listen from a distance.

Progress reveals, sometimes, by what does not happen.

Feeling fearless in any crowd. Not caring who comes close or what they say. Or want. Smiles, stares, curiosity exchanged.  Anticipation is a useless reflex here. “Hey, you got a light?” “Change for the bus?” “Excuse me, where is Chestnut Street?” “C’mon, just some change for a phonecall!” “Honey, you’re tall, have you been a model?” But we all want the same things, don’t we. Really. If you do not acknowledge someone else’s humanity, where does that leave you?

Trash. Trash everywhere. Every. Where. On streets just cleaned and others maybe never. A storm drain that had caved in, then filled with trash, garbage, leaves. Trash now unidentifiable, now part of the street, shaped by the first 100 cars to run over it—what was it? Corner-of-your-eye glimpses give imagination maximum leeway. An old T-shirt or a dead rat? A bag of fast food or a shoe? The streets sparkle with shards of window glass from thousands of car break-ins. Get close to any public fountain or waterfall pool and see murky, gray-green-algae. Floating…trash. Failed attempts at civic beauty. The idea, good from a distance, up close becomes disturbing.

Views from the train reveal what is hidden from streetside: a broken fence, a dog chained without shelter, piles of bald tires, stagnant pools of water, abandoned, crumbling factories, warehouses growing green leafy branches through hollow-eyed windows. A parking lot of rusty delivery trucks, there so long that each one has been completely ‘repainted’ with graffiti by different artists–all that is wrecked, forgotten, neglected, illegal.

Around the corner from the train station is Reading Terminal Market. In the cool buyers’ benefit of air-conditioning, vendors serve up every kind of goodie–soul food, vegetarian delicacies, tacos, samosas, shawarma, organic fig bars that melt in your mouth, handmade jewelry, towels and aprons from Provence. A cookbook stall. Another for bonsai and their accessories. Beeswax candles with natural scents. Local organic produce, the best in local coffee bars, fresh fruit smoothies, Amish food and vegetable stands, fish laid out in neat rows on ice still looking stunned, more produce. Pianists bring their own sheet music and play their favorites on the upright piano near a central group of tables. Businessmen and women lunch here in the Beer Garden, or have coffee. Tourist families drag tired fussy children into the diner booths, sigh, order burgers, fries and shakes all around, and study their maps.

On Market Street, a block from City Hall, on the back side of a bus stop shelter, a youngish man — long showerless, in a coat and hat — crouches on a sleeping bag, his dog beside him crunching a biscuit. He holds up his cardboard sign, well-folded then flattened, that states his case for passers-by. “Just need a boost to get back on my feet.” He looks straight ahead at knee-level, never up. The humidity holds 96 degrees of heat. Clouds move in quickly, iron gray, overcast at noon. A wind gust whips down the street, flipping the leaves on the row of trees to their paler side. Thunder rumbles and one flash of lightening seems to rip a seam in the darkest clouds. Rain pours down with the suddenness of an overturned bucket of water.

Our man grabs is bags, his sign, his dog and dashes around into the bus shelter. Everyone else inside moves to the opposite end. Lightening strikes again. Closer.

peace,

ms. spin c

 

 Christ (at night on stucco) next door at the Geriatric Center

On my walk this evening, as usual, I passed the information sign board outside the Second Baptist Church of Germantown — which often announces the subject of their upcoming Sunday sermon. Tonight, the sign read, “What do to with Jesus.” The church is behind my apartment building, next to the geriatric facility run by Catholic nuns and which also abuts our building. So I am surrounded by followers of Christ. 

Thus, aside from today’s message striking me as synchronous with certain current events — namely, with the question of what to do with and about the various candidates, and Hillary, and all other crises that are simultaneously ocurring in the world — the question strikes me as just plain odd.

Christ and I have been neighbors, I thought, since I moved here two years ago. As someone who practices buddhist and wiccan spiritual elements, I understand why I, my fellow practitioners, and for that matter those who are practicing Jews, Muslims, Hindus — as well as the Jains and Voodoo practitioners –may be wondering what to do with Jesus, especially if we grew up with Jesus, then left him. However I wonder why the Baptists are now, apparently, also wondering what to do with him…

Honestly, I feel empathy for Christ. I think he has been misunderstood. Somehow, possibly as a result to sheer timing, he was ‘plugged’ into a culture which just happened to have a need to externalize and ‘deify’ a great teacher. However, by taking the ‘spirit magic’ out of humans and putting it all on Jesus, his adherents essentially made him do all the work and, as a result, could then just sit back and self-flagellate, beseech, and generally belittle and victimize the human condition. Personally, and I’m not alone, I don’t think he ever wanted it that way.

There is also a rumor that Jesus spent a significant period of time — the ‘lost years of Christ’, the ones for which they ‘lost’ 7 years of his journals (although there are claims that these journals have been found) — doing spiritual practice in India, the birthplace of buddhism. I like this theory. Naturally, those who would rather beseech and beg someone else — the previously-mentioned external deity — to make their life better, instead of simply doing the work of spiritual practice themselves, would hide the evidence that Christ himself engaged in spiritual practice. This makes complete sense.

I grew up in one of those independent fundamentalist Christian churches where everything in the Bible was considered, well, the gospel truth. Literal possibly to the point of diagnosis, per the DSM IV, of mental illness, symbolism did not enter the mind of our pastor and congregation at the First Church of God (of North America), despite the Bible’s complex, esoteoric symbolic composition. In our church, Lazarus was raised from the dead despite his DOA status, the loaves the the fishes fed the hungry multitudes without the benefit of cloning technology, and the Red Sea parted without recorded evidence of Tsunami activity in the area.

What did we “Church of God” people do with Christ? Easy. We celebrated his birth, studied his life, mourned his suffering and death, and ecstatically celebrated his miraculous arising from the dead. We prayed to him, accepted him as our personal savior, conversed with him individually on a daily basis, and thanked him for his sacrifice (secretly glad that he was the one nailed to the cross, not us). We elevated him above our mere pitiful, mortal selves. Clearly he had gotten the Lord’s attention in a way we could not and therefore, he was our intermediary.

The Baptists, however, have always been a rule unto themselves.

Alternatively, maybe the Baptists are imagining Christ more as a visitor from out of town whom they need to entertain, in the sense of, “Christ is coming for a visit, what shall we do –with him — while he is here in Philly?”  Miniature golf, perhaps? Nah, too far out of town. Or maybe he’d like to take a Philly Duck Tour? Visit the Franklin Institute, appreciate great works at the renown Museum of Art, study the theoretical roots of the U.S. government at the Constitution Center? He would probably even appreciate the macabre and now illegal medical specimens on display at the Mutter Museum or be up for exploring the ruins of the Eastern State Penitentiary. In a sense, Christ could be a potentially challenging guest, for the very reason that he must have a wide range of interests.

Or maybe Christ actually has no interests and he just wants to care about others and help them. So if he visits a happy busy group of people with no currently overwhelming problems, it would be hard to entertain him.

Ah HA! Serious dilemma. Then, understandably the question, “What to do with Jesus?” becomes quite the challenge. Beseechers with no issues to beseech about are certainly paddleless up the creek, with very little Christ-centered entertainment value.

As a spiritual practitioner, however, I think I would have many answers our question du moment, “What to do with Jesus”. Christ and I could meditate together, discuss food choices over meals, talk about spiritual process and practice as we walked in the woods or down city streets. I would ask him about those years in India. His stories must be amazing, endless, full of instruction & insight. I’m certain he would be a wonderful companion, caring, creative, and no doubt funny — in the same ballpark, undoubtedly, as HH Dalai Lama, who has absolutely the best laugh on the planet. 

How ironic, even delightful, that I have now have much more of an idea of “What to do with Jesus” as a post-Christian than I would have as a youngster growing up as his ‘follower’.

We may even go on a Duck Tour.

Peace, Love, Compassion & Courage,

Ms. SpinCycle

A new hot song on Philly HipHop radio:

“This was never the way I planned
Not my intention
I got so brave, drink in hand
Lost my discretion
It’s not what, I’m used to
Just wanna try you on
I’m curious for you
Caught my attention
I kissed a girl and I liked it…”

Here’s the video LINK :

Not that there’s an ounce of musical Hip Hop influence in the song, it’s a ‘concept’ thing (the popularity of, well, you can figure that one out…), I think, & of course, the Lesbians are ‘all over’ this song, one way or another…always hyper-aware of any cultural indications that we exist…

I can’t help feeling a certain delight that this has shown up on pop radio, which seems to have an on-going dis-ease with ‘sexual variation’, indicated by their “homo” and gay jokes (all in good fun..??), while boasting a bisexual woman DJ who is currently married to a woman, and featuring other gay staff from time to time. Confusing. Uneasy.

I also understand that for lesbians who have suffered life-long discrimination, family rejection, job limitations, social isolation, related mental health stress and relationship challenges, a song that implies that ‘experimenting’ sexually with women by women is only a few beers away — and on par with trying a new ice-cream flavor — may be a tad, shall we say, offensive?

However, another aspect of this radio debut that tickles me is that, although on the video it all turns out to be a dream, the sheer exposure to the song will, no doubt, lead to more spontaneous girl-kissing by other girls. Not that I want all women to be lesbians, but things are still no ‘in balance’–too many people are still trying to do the right sexual thing. 

I think the main source of my glee here is that, for those of us who ‘believe’ in the Kinsey scale and therefore that everyone is some ‘shade’ of bisexual, we would love to have sex and gender “match up” simply at will, as the energy flows, without ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ combinations. Unfortunately, this perspective remains just too damn radical for many folks…

Envision a world free of social and moral punishment for certain kinds of love. Time, once again, for us to evolve. The world needs, as the song goes, love sweet love all around, all forms, all the time. We’re at a crucial point, have you noticed?

Dangerous stuff, trying new things. Expressing strong feelings CAN lead to intimate relationships!

~ And intimate relationships, Dear Readers, includes the ~everything more challenging~ that follows mere girl-kissing!! Which may be why the kiss has the ‘danger zone reputation’ that it does. ~

For my Attachment Theory in Couple’s Therapy class this past semester, I wrote a 9-page paper on the subject of Fusion (psychological, not jazz) in Lesbian relationships. Yes, this is where girl-kissing can lead, co-habitation, the development of issues, and…therapy.

Sobering. However, I will spare you from most of this paper (Unless you would like the whole thing. That can be arranged.) and just share a few large snippets.

The problem:

Part of post-60’s lesbian folklore is reference to a dynamic that would be found in any lesbian ‘handbook’ or lesbian social on-line conversation group, and one that has made multiple appearances on the HBO Showtime drama The L Word-the stereotype of the fused lesbian couple. Ask any lesbian and you will find that she has either been a member of such a couple or has known one. The extreme version of the scenario goes like this: in the beginning, having spent only a few nights together, one of the pair shows up at the other’s house the with a U-Haul van filled with her worldly goods. They move in together to begin their quickly merging life. Shortly thereafter, their hair and clothing styles, although unique pre-move-in, begin to resemble each other, until they are driving their circle of lesbian friends crazy. They show up at events looking like identical twins and finish each other’s sentences, blissfully unaware, while sipping out of the same martini glass sporting two tiny straws and a double serving of olive garnishes. I wish I could say that I was imagining this or simply caught up in hyperbole, but alas, I am not. Then, shortly after the happy move-in, a phenomenon known as, “lesbian bed death” happens: the couple ceases to have sex, perhaps one of them has an affair, they ‘break up’ and move on-wash, rinse, repeat-style-to variations on the same unproductive theme.

Certainly this is not what happens in all lesbian relationships, but as with all stereotypes, there is some truth behind the image. Although, fusion can happen in any relationship, I think the fact that this dynamic has become, for lesbians, a signature stereotype is significant-we have a distinctive fusion style related, specifically, to the nature of bonding between women…

Some results of growing up in the land of social assumptions:

Meanwhile, lesbians, upon coming out, realize that we are, as a consequence, not part of this dialogue of bonding and acceptance [among heterosexuals] and, having been raised to be coupled with someone socialized ‘oppositely’, find ourselves in an interesting situation-coupled, in actuality, with someone socialized just like ourselves. This results in some practical conundrums-in dance class (and just about every other social realm) we both learned to follow and not lead, in high school Home Arts class we both learned cooking and not wood shop, our earning power was assumed to be inferior to that of our life partner’s, we were both expected to have and raise children, and neither of us was encouraged to be mechanical, scientific or a Cub Scout. Then again, there is also some undeniable benefits of shared gender socialization-we learned to nurture and cooperate, we have the same wide range of acceptable feelings (with the exception of anger), sexual mechanics are not a mystery, we both assume personal responsibility for home care, we can both have children, and last and least, we can even go to the ladies room together. The truth is, after staring at each other and wondering what to do without a script, lesbians often become very creative about role divisions and building and sharing a life…

…on living in oppression:

Living in an oppressive, rejecting society is exhausting and I have often observed that lesbians choose to limit their ‘worlds’ by where they live and work, rather than face the possibility of oppressive attitudes in wider spheres. For instance, although the town of Northampton, nick-named “Lesbianville, USA” by the show 20/20, is located in the beautiful and healthy Connecticut River Valley in Western MA, the local economic base is weak: unemployment is high, and the many couples who live in the area ‘hole up’ in the small surrounding hill towns, taking jobs as receptionists or yard workers and with other lesbians, just to be in an area that is ‘lesbian-friendly’. Interestingly, few of the local businesses are lesbian-owned. The price for safety and acceptance is often making career and life-limiting choices. This dynamic also contributes to the over-lapping nature of relationships in any local lesbian community…

There are no easy answers for, well, anything and this is also true for making a lesbian relationship work. A major dose of courage followed by an equally major helping of self-awareness is probably a good start. And therapies that DO work.

Although lesbian relationships are challenging on both personal and social levels, there have, historically, always been women willing (or courageous enough) to ‘go there’. Earlier historical periods have dictated external limitations that seem extreme today, however love and attachment have always compelled and never go out of style (no footnote needed). Current external challenges for lesbian couples include; social and family stigmatization, job, legal, and neighborhood discrimination, lack of positive relationship models, and sexual minority invisibility. The internal challenge is overcoming the very negative attitudes we learn in a heterosexual world of which we eventually realize we are not a part! Free from confining roles, lesbians in intimate relationships can have the opportunity to express authentic selves and create relationships and lives that work for them. Perhaps not too long from now, less extreme courage will be required for lesbians to build the families and lives that all people want and deserve.

Certainly, girls kissing girls is not for the faint-of-heart, even today. Yet, should this become a habit or way of life, the good news is that good, intimate relationships are to be found in this arena as well! Remember that childhood jump-roping rhyme? Someday soon, maybe even now in some towns, I hope we hear this instead of fantasy-inducing, too-overly-novel, “I kissed a girl”:

” Brenda and Sally,

sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,

first comes love, then comes marriage,

then comes ________in a baby carriage.”

Wishing you and yours every kind of love you can imagine,

Ms. SpinCycle

Simply the most powerful woman in politics in America.

There is much work ahead, everyone.

 

Peace, courage and creativity!
Ms. SpinCycle

Lancaster Ave.

In Philadelphia, every day is suffering seen,

unseen, on the other side of the color line.

In homes crowded, disrepaired, or no home at all.

Having nothing, children dressed with extra care.

Having nothing, doing ‘no can do’.

Wheeling chairs down the street, braking to chat,

no strangers there. If there’s a capful of bleach to be loaned,

it is.   1.4 people die in Philly shootings every day. Only when they’re cops, are they White,

and sometimes not even then. The same applies to the shooter.

 

West Philly Store

On the way to my brother’s house in South Philly, I drive through a section,

where I have never seen a White person on the streets, rarely even driving.

Working stores are difficult to discern–to White easy-life eyes–from

abandoned buildings.

The White folks act like none of this is going on,

or at least, has nothing to do with them.

Focus on professions, making life better — for them and theirs.

Drive, live and work in air-conditioned comfort,

Take things to the cleaners, dine in that new Center City wine bar,

live in high-security city condos or the safe White Main Line.

Even my White student colleagues live in White neighborhoods,

Though small pockets of sameness in a vast Black sea,

we still manage to find them.

Here, near Mt. Airy, liberals come in all races, creeds and cultures,

But is this bastion of tolerance really tolerant,

all voting for the same candidate?

This is the world I landed in.

and I offer my welcome.

 

Study Corner

I learn the most about race when I walk out my door.

With my neighbors, on the streets, down at the grocery store, the library.

In my neighborhood, “Hi” means much more than “Hello.”

More like, “You and I are on opposite sides of the line. We’re not supposed to

like each other, but it’s OK with me that we’re passing here,

on the same sidewalk, the same street.

Living in proximity.

I don’t understand you, but here in the same neighborhood,

maybe some day we’ll need each other. It could happen.”

 

 
Our Lobby

On Sunday afternoons, mingling odors of marijuana, dryer sheets, and cooked

meats I cannot identify,

linger in the lobby.

Pictured above is our entry way decor.

An arrangement of plastic poinsettias, a Christmas tree (with presents), a Smurf,

and a Garfield stuffie were here until May.

In the lobby, I sometimes run into the woman who lives by the first floor stairs,

who exclaims, “Good morning!” every time, as if witnessing a recurring miracle.

A young couple, both sporting dreads, came through the lobby, one evening,

carrying a pizza box, said a stoned, “Hey.”

Just as I thought they would walk right by.

The Cliveden

My elegant aged guardian angel, in his Island accent, shouts

from his car parked out by the curb, “Hey, where you been?”

Then, I feel redeemed.

Once, he said, “You’re just too much!” and I knew what he meant,

feeling the same about him.

The women in uniforms out on break from the nursing home next door,

ignore my greeting, who knows why.

But that’s the way it goes in Center City, again, who knows why.

(we may know why.)

Three teen guys coming towards me down the street,

hats backward, flashy sneakers, all nod a respectful Hello.

That’s not what I expected, at first.

They restore my sense of wonder.

Intersection

At dusk, if you walk down Cliveden St., around the corner and up Germantown Ave.

and cross near the intersection, where cobblestones and old trolley tracks

keep traffic slow,

down Upsal, green leafy lawns stretch to Green St.,

punctuated only by stop signs.

Turn at any such pause and  narrow one-way

streets of row homes are filled with large groups of smaller children

biking, shooting baskets, shouting as they play.

Jazz, hiphop from porch radios seems to always play the perfect song.

Conversations muffle with the growing darkness.

Soon, color becomes invisible.

Peace, from the City of Brotherly Love,

Ms. SpinCycle
 
Here is a bonus photo — our dumpster that keeps watch day and night, strategically located, as you can see, along the curb, just to the side of our entrance canopy. I have an inexplicable fondness for it, even its ripe odeur as you walk by, in summer…

Our dumpster

As I emerged from the tree-lined path that runs along the Tidal Basin at the Jefferson Memorial in D.C., I saw these Buddhist monks in their saffron robes posing for tourist photos. Aside from the fact that I always feel fortunate when I see nuns and monks, I found this moment especially delightful because I had walked down the Mall from the Capitol to the “Jeff” to try to recapture a peaceful memory I had of sitting on these steps at dusk 6 years ago, when my life was very different. And there, ahead of me, were embodiments of peace.

I had come by train to D.C. for the day, as a post-semester adventure and to attend a presentation on Prison Re-entry issues by the Urban Institute at the Library of Congress. Because it was a perfect, dry 80 degree day and I was still too brain-dead to learn and absorb, I stayed outside much of the time, despite the enormous wealth of history and knowledge surrounding me in the various museums of the Smithsonian Institute and beyond.

Some of Jefferson’s most lofty ideals are engraved on the walls in the rotunda of his memorial — of equality, the ‘personhood’ we all share, and even his belief that as we evolve, the laws may need to change (I’m thinking of the death penalty currently under review…). Yet as I read them, I realized how much I had changed in those 6 years. Jefferson’s words, while still inspiring, were much less so to me now.

My social work training is changing me. If you walk down the street in a neighborhood in North Philly, or burned out sections of Baltimore, or a DC neighborhoods not far from the White House, you will see how much effect these words have not had, so far. You may feel conflicted, sad, angry, frustrated, humbled.

You may begin to wonder what would change things.

I was an arugula-loving, white wine too, intellectual type of politically-correct liberal. I’m not sure how or when that happened — I grew up in Central Pennsylvania with Republican parents. Perhaps it happened at Mount. Holyoke College and/or later in Boston in the 80’s and 90’s. In any case, I think it’s certainly easier to live in that politically correct ivory tower when you don’t have to face or attempt to solve real-world problems, when you live and work with others who are similar to you, educationally & economically. Maybe even, when you are prone to government criticism without really having let yourself first and foremost, yes, love your country.

Love of country is not just for Republicans, you know. That realization took me a while. It’s really not ‘hip’ to be a country-loving liberal, is it?

So when I stepped out of D.C.’s beautiful Union Station, into that gorgeous day and headed down Delaware Avenue, past the first Senate buildings, I was thrilled to be in this wonder-filled city — graciously designed with park expanses, fountains, reflecting pools, welcoming outdoor space, white marble, columns and domes — so much happens here!

Then I saw the Capitol’s dome over the trees, speaking of a place where much happens. I admit, it brought tears to my eyes:

From the far side of the reflecting pool.

House of Representatives on the right (pictured) and Senate on the left.

After hours at the steps up the edifice to where it all happens.

Seen on the street:

Tour buses from all over, groups of kids and adults in matching T-shirts, visitors from every state and country and really hardly any trash (yes, I’m from Philly). Black business dress rules. Honestly, there are also a ridiculous number of runners on the Mall. I was never out of sight of someone burning calories, toning and generally working on their success image there in our Nation’s Capitol. I loved it all!

Food note:

There are many food ops even in Union Station, which is more like an upscale mall than a train station, if you’re short on time. Also, the Smithsonian Museum of the Native American serves authentic native food in their cafe — what a beautiful, peaceful place!

Meeting note:

If your meeting is attended by Senators and Representatives, the call to a vote may break up your meeting at any moment. Fortunately, ours was just finishing when that happened.

Back in Philly, waiting for the last train:

Back late from “D.C., baby” [what I had written on my wall calendar]. Don’t let ’em tell you that it ain’t no thang.

She is happenin’. She’s magnificent.

Peace, liberty, & community,

Ms. SpinC

 

UPDATE May 2009 ~ Wow, a year out, it’s amazing how this old post is now a relic/reminder of how intense we all were during the “Campaign Season”. So much has happened and even the links are gone ;^). This is great confirmation that growth & change are happening as we continue to move ahead.

Peace out, up over and through,

Ms SpinC

—————————————————————-

At the end of the day, the semester and the year, a song sometimes says it best…

To the Media:

Here’s how I feel after watching and reading so much of its relentless wrenching and twisting of MANY facts, especially those regarding Hillary.

… Damaged !!:

To fear and loathing of Hillary:

Clarification that her real enemies are poverty, unemployment, injustice and child abuse and Yes, she is SO… Dangerous:

To Barak Obama:

What he needs to say to his illusions of becoming a U.S. President — although it’s hard to say…

Bye Bye:

peace out,

Ms. SpinC

It’s voting day in Pennsylvania.

As Madonna sings, below, and I say to Hillary,

“What [we] need is a ‘you intervention'”! 

It’s gettin’ urgent, folks.

The Clintons have been criticized by the media for having

some ‘personal mission’ to save the Democratic party and the country from

the unknowns of their opponents.
 
Call me crazy, but I have to agree:

 

Getting ready to take the walk down the street and around to corner to

VOTE FOR HILLARY.

I’ve waited so long for this moment!!! 

Although I do not understand why Michael Moore feels the need

to present what I consider to be an unbalanced assessment of the candidates, I DO understand why,

as a resident of Michigan, he is angry about not having been able to vote…

Ebulliently yours,

Ms. SpinC