Thoughts on the Inauguration, Part 3: On Mr. Bush

As much as I did not agree with many of the policies of Mr. Bush, I feel that I have to say that I did not feel great antipathy for the guy. He is, as so many of his supporters pointed out, a "good man," described often down-to-earth, or folksy. For lots of people, Mr. Bush passed the litmus test of "Would he be fun to have a beer with?"

The problem was that for such an office as the President of the US, we need to elect someone who was not "one of us," not a drinking buddy who knows about as much geography and world affairs as the average guy. Bush has the average mentality; I believe he's as self-serving as most people we run across each day, his smugness is common among the middle class. Had you been contemporaries, he would have been the class clown or the jock in your high school. I'm certain you can easily name at least 15 people you've met in your lifetime who have exactly the same personal qualities as Mr. Bush. But what we need, for every President, for every election to higher office, is a Great Man.

Mr. Bush supported poor policies and failed so badly a lot of the time because he was too average. He was too easily swayed by the people around him, the agendas he followed weren't motivated entirely by the greatest good, but were self-serving. This is not to say he was evil or mean. Unlike many people, I do think he has a good heart, and he really did want to do the right thing. But he literally just couldn't see the whole picture. Bush isn't, and never pretended to be, a thinking man. He was an average guy, and he wasn't up to the job. I wouldn't be, either. Can you honestly say you personally know anyone who would come close to having all the qualities needed to be a good President?

The point of this is not to be harsh to Mr. Bush. Holding down arguably the most difficult job in the world, he was faced with a perfect storm of difficulties. I do think he struggled mightily at times to do his best. It just wasn't enough. He was in over his head.

I started to sing a gentler tune about Bush just before the election of 2004. Ada heard me say that I would definitely not be voting for Bush. She said, "You sound angry. Is he a bad guy?" I realized then that I was angry. But I was angry at his some of his policies, and his seeming nonchalance. He was the same as countless guys I've met over the years--smirky and knee-jerk, but underneath probably well-meaning. I didn't hate him, any more than I hated any of those other smirky guys.

Once I admitted that my problem with Bush was more about what he lacked than who he was, it was clear to me that he wasn't really a "bad guy." Certainly, I didn't want Ada to grow up making snap judgements like that. So I decided then and there that I had to let go of my anger at him. I told her what became my line for every time I was dismayed about the decisions of his administration: "President Bush is not a bad guy, honey. He had his turn at being President, and he did his best. But now it should be time for him to be at home in Texas with his family. He's a good daddy, and a good husband, and now he's going to let someone else take a turn at being President." Yesterday, that's exactly what happened. I wish him well.

President Obama is having his turn now. Unlike Bush, he does have all of those elusive qualities that make a "Great Man," and I believe he will wear the mantle of the Presidency well. I confess to having some misgivings about putting so much pressure on him--he is human, and we may discover that like us, he, too, has feet of clay. The problems our country faces are huge, and (as he has pointed out) there are no quick fixes. Will expectations of Obama exceed his capabilities? Perhaps. Regardless, I am hopeful that Obama's mettle will carry the day. His character shows in his bearing, in his rhetoric, and I think he will also do his best. And that will be more than good enough.

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Praise Song for the Day

Because I could not wait for the official transcript, with proper breaks, etc. as written by Elizabeth Alexander, I am posting this lovely inaugural poem as it was transcribed to Congressional Quarterly this morning. I'll update with the newer version once Ms. Alexander makes it available. The next version will be even better--the breaks say so much... but this is great for now.

I, for one, think this hit all the right notes. What do you think? Here it is:

Praise Song for the Day

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, 

catching each others’ eyes or not, 

about to speak or speaking. 

All about us is noise. 

All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, 

each one of our ancestors on our tongues. 

Someone is stitching up a hem, 

darning a hole in a uniform, 

patching a tire, 

repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere 

with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum

with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer consider the changing sky; 

A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words, 

Words spiny or smooth, 

whispered or declaimed; 

Words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone

and then others who said, 

“I need to see what’s on the other side; I know there’s something better down the road.”

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, 

that many have died for this day. 

Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, 

who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, 

picked the cotton and the lettuce, 

built brick by brick 

the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. 

Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, 

love beyond marital, filial, national. 

Love that casts a widening pool of light. 

Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

Elizabeth Alexander, delivered on January 20, 2009
at the inauguration of President Barack Obama 

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Inauguration poetry

Inauguration day is almost upon us, and what an exciting ceremony it is bound to be, all of it. In particular, I've been reading with interest about Elizabeth Alexander, the poet chosen to write the inaugural poem for President Obama. 

She is an exciting choice for an inaugural poet. She's an embodiment of connections between multiple disciplines. Not only is she a poet, but also a playwright. She's a professor of African American Studies at Yale. She's written on education, poetry, identity, art. She's taught in many venues, from both high school and college. She knows how to connect the dots. That Mr. Obama chose her shows that he values poetry, that he knows how to connect the dots, too. He "does nuance."

Politics aside, I am thrilled that Obama is including a poet at his inauguration. Ms. Alexander will be only the fourth poet to participate in an inaugural ceremony, a fact that leaves me disappointed, but not surprised.


I'm going to stop here and say that this is the third draft of this post, the others all ending up in a vitriolic snit lamenting that that Americans don't generally read or enjoy poetry. That we have had only four inaugurations with a poet to mark the occasion is a sad thing. But someplace in the second version of this post, I decided that I'm not going to dwell on that (at least not today).

Today I'm going to celebrate that poetry is going to be present tomorrow at the ceremony. Of course, the day is about so very much more; but the presence of a poet says a great deal about the changes that are bound to come.


As way leads to way so often, I recently stumbled across a poem that speaks to the excitement ushered in with the inauguration of another President, in another time not so long ago.

I give you Linda Pastan's "Remembering Frost at Kennedy's Inauguration," from her book, Queen of a Rainy Country

Remembering Frost at Kennedy's Inauguration

Even the flags seemed frozen

to their poles, and the men

stamping their well-shod feet

resembled an army of overcoats.

But we were young and fueled 

by hope, our ardor burned away

the cold. We were the president's,

and briefly the president would be ours.

The old poet stumbled

over his own indelible words,

his breath a wreath around his face:

a kind of prophecy.

--Linda Pastan

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I've been up in the night this past month--insomnia, mine and Esme's, alternately.

Esme sometimes whispers to me in the dark, "Mommy, I'm scared. Protect me."  I rock her and tell her in reassuring tones that the day and the night are exactly the same, and the morning light will reveal that.

But I will tell you the whole truth, one I can't express to her yet--I do think the night is a different from the daytime.  I'd go so far as to say it's like different country sometimes.  Not scary, but mysterious, secret.    Being awake when the rest of your world sleeps around you is to feel like a fugitive from your regular life.    After a long night like that, the next day surprises me with its normal rhythms.  Doesn't it know my secret, nighttime life?   Doesn't it see how different *I* am for having been awake so long?

Sleep-deprived, I wade through the day's routines, stopping from time to time to marvel at the difference the daylight makes.   Sometimes I even feel as though the lack of sleep sharpens my feeling for the day, for its ordinariness. 

A wonderful poem that evokes some of this is Debra Spencer's "Day Bath," from her collection Pomegranate.  The last line in particular captures the feeling that resonates with me after a long night....

Day Bath 

for my son

Last night I walked him back and forth,

his small head heavy against my chest,

round eyes watching me in the dark,

his body a sandbag in my arms.

I longed for sleep but couldn't bear his crying

so bore him back and forth until the sun rose

and he slept.  Now the doors are open,

noon sunlight coming in,

and I can see fuchias opening.

Now we bathe.  I hold him, the soap 

makes our skins glide past each otehr.

I lay him wet on my thighs, his head on my knees,

his feet dancing against my chest,

and I rinse him, pouring water 

from my cupped hand.

No matter how I feel, he's the same,

eyes expectant, mouth ready,

with his fat legs and arms,

his belly, his small solid back.

Last night I wanted nothing more 

than to get him out of my arms.

Today he fits neatly

along the hollow my thighs make,

and with his fragrant skin against mine

I feel brash, like a sunflower.

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Hearts in the snow

On my way downstairs yesterday morning, I caught a glimpse of something unusual in the driveway.



I have love and hearts on my mind lately, and not just because of the upcoming Valentine's Day. I love how our minds manifest things--perception is everything. Yesterday the world offered me hearts entwined, and I accepted them!

On this day, I give you a poem of connection--like these hearts, like my love and I, like the world and all of us...

You Are Me

You are me and I am you. 

It is obvious that we are inter-are. 

You cultivate the flower in 

yourself so that I will be beautiful. 

I transform the garbage in myself so 

that you do not have to suffer. 

I support you you support me. 

I am here to bring you peace 

you are here to bring me joy.

- Thich Naht Hahn

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When will Blogger include a smello-blogger application? A review of Magical Moon

I have always had a thing for fragrances, which isn't surprising given my sentimental tendencies and the connection between scent and memory.  For years, my mom and I have nurtured this obsession for scent, and I've amassed a burgeoning collection of bottles.   

As much as I love perfume, there's no denying the thrifty, hypochondriac in me, who makes her own laundry soap and examines labels of cosmetics for parabens.   It's a contradiction I readily admit, and the scent-loving Kirie sometimes wages war with the Kirie who fears the nasties that are inevitable ingredients of perfume.  

So--moderation.  For the past 10 years or so, I wear fragrance only a few times a month.   I was surprised to find that in this moderation I have found deeper enjoyment of the scents I wear and love.  The layers of top, middle, and base notes sing to me in a way they never did when I would wear the same scent for months at a time.   Now, putting on a perfume is like putting on a special piece of jewelry.  I admire it on myself all day, though each stage of its metamorphosis.   I especially enjoy noticing how the scent affects my mood, how it can start as one distinct thing in the morning, and by evening be a completely different scent.   

I have many favorites, which I keep on glass shelves in our guest room.   When my mom comes to visit, we enjoy opening the various bottles and trying the perfumes, sometimes attempting to name the components.  It's a silly pastime, but fun.  It's sort of like wine tasting, and occasionally equally numbing.  

Last year, through a great interview on NPR's On Point, I found a great book on perfume reviews.  Perfumes: The Guide, by Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez, is a fantastic compendium of scents, historical and new.   The reviews are perfect combinations of science, poetry, snark, and adulation.   Even if you don't like perfume, this book is great fun to read.    

After discovering it, I went on a little quest to create a birthday collection for my mom, the way you might assemble an assortment of chocolates or wine.  I got her the book, and made notes on the reviews of scents we like.  I also sought out new scents that sounded appealing based on the reviews of Turin and Sanchez.   It was a great project, and in the process, I found a lot of new perfumes that I just love.  Oh, collection, how you grow.  Fortunately, some of these are still just sample sizes.

One of the excellent new fragrances I found is called Magical Moon, and I wanted to share it with you.  Now, of course, I'm no Luca Turin when it comes to decoding the alchemy of a scent, but I'm like any pedestrian aficionado--I know what I like when I smell it.

Magical Moon is made by Japanese fashion designer Hanae Mori, who had a great hit in perfume in the mid 90s with her eponymous fragrance Hanae Mori.   That first fragrance was sweetness before perfume was sweet--think vanilla-flowers-and-fruit together in a breath, and that's it.  I wore it for a long time, though as I wear it though a day, now I sometimes find the sweetness mutate to something slightly disturbing, like the breath of a sick person.   Obviously, I'm not crazy for it anymore.  But at the right moment and on the right person--it's lovely.

Back to Magical Moon.  For a full description of the workings of the scent, you can read the review posted here by Mimi at the Scented Salamander. Here is my take on it, though.

I tried the scent in the store in the form of eau de parfum, which is what I usually buy (parfum itself being out of my range most of the time).   From the second I smelled the mist of it, I had to have it.   Unlike its sweeter cousin, it doesn't inspire thoughts of caramel. Rather, it's spicy, with sandalwood and other woody scents--maybe cypress? Midway through my day, as it dries out on my wrist, it smells like a much lighter version of Poison, but with an added "greenness" to it. By the end of the day, the smell remains at once clean and musky, which is something I don't find many perfumes do.

One thing that intrigued me especially about this perfume was the hype that surrounded it. I bought my bottle from Nordstrom's, from a woman called Darlene.  She was at the fragrance counter only for a few days, and only representing Magical Moon.  As such, she had an entire history to share with me about the fragrance, from its origin to its packaging.   She gave me the hard sell, and I bought.  But only because of the scent itself, I swear!

Some of the more bizarre selling points: 

• The fragrance was blended in a vat lined with blue moonstones.
  
• It was bottled under a full moon.
  
• The paint on the bottle is made from chipped blue moonstones.
  

She also pointed out that the blue bottle itself is getting a lot of hype and rave reviews.  Bottles themselves don't do a lot for me, and while the blue glass is nice, and the globe-like stopper is pretty, I'm not "over the moon" for it (sorry, bad pun).   The hype is obvious, though.   If you like the scent, the additional marketing will simply seal the deal.   quod erat demonstrandum

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Open Heart Letter 1: To Kim

Yesterday I wrote about my new project, the Open Heart Letters. I have been inspired to do this project, in large part, by the loss of my dear friend Kim, a woman with whom I had this in common--she wore her heart on her sleeve, too. She died in December--young, ravaged by disease, and leaving an amazing family.

Any wise person would insist that our society needs to learn how to accept death as a part of life. I think of Kim, and her grace and honesty as her own death approached, and I understand this now in a way that I did not before. While I am in great health now, I know also that I am here on loan, and by the same grace she was. What Kim taught me, in the way she lived before she was sick, and the way she remained herself afterwards, was to embrace and to be and to love. To cherish those many, many connections that make us feel life all the more deeply.  And writing these letters is a way for me to express that in some way.

I think it's only appropriate that my first open heart letter is to Kim. I was fortunate that I could actually send her a similar letter before she died--selfishly, I needed her to know how much I cared. I share this letter with you now, with love and gratitude for having known her:



Kim,
It seems to me that it’s the little things that make a friendship. Let me tell you about some of my memories of you and us. From the smallest to the most prominent, I have lots of important memories about our friendship:

From the moment I met you, I knew you were a kindred spirit. One of the first times we spent together was just after D. started teaching. It a late spring evening and you and your family came to see us. You were still living over an hour away, and I remember that by the end of the night I was wishing very much that you lived closer—(I eventually got my wish!!)
That night was especially beautiful—the dusk was mid-summer long, and the trees were throwing plum-colored shadows all over the yard and the pool. We lit some lanterns with candles and hung them around our back porch, and we all sat out on our deck—you had your feet in our pool.
Later, after dinner, we were in the screen porch, and I vividly remember little B. listening to us tell stories about ourselves as we got to know each other better. Her eyes drooped, and soon she was asleep on your lap. And you were so lovely—the candlelight lit up your face, and you glowed. I remember many times we spent at our pool as the years went on, but that first night is strongest in my memory.

A few years later, we were thrilled to learn you were moving to our town, and we were so happy! After that, we spent more time together, including one visit on Thanksgiving. Our screen porch was a closed-in room by then, and you were our first Thanksgiving guests to eat with us there. I felt so pleased that you had been able to join us. The kids were so excited that night they had a hard time eating!

Speaking of eating—I must tell you again how I much I love your cooking!! You have a real talent in the kitchen, and I will admit that at least one of my favorite things to cook is a down-right ripoff of something you served us at your home: Moroccan-style chicken with figs, olives, cumin, etc. Oh my. That was one of the best meals. Thank you for sharing that recipe!

I have another ridiculous confession: I think of you every time I fold clothes. Really. Do you remember all of those lovely clothes of B’s you gave me for Ada? We have been loving those clothes for years now. Ada has been “on the small side” forever, and so she was able to wear some of those outfits for two years (or three! Amazing!). Now Esme is starting to wear them, too. It was so generous of you to give those to us. But here is the funny thing: When you packed them so carefully, you folded them in a way that was new to me: arms across each other, then fold, and fold again. Each shirt looked like a neat little hug. Inspired! Here I had been folding wrong for years--lumping my clothes into folds that wouldn’t stay, and they would sort of slump and shrug themselves out of the closet shelves into heaps. So I copied your way, and now the clothes stay put. So silly. But every single time I fold my clothes I think of you. I’ve been wanting to tell you that ridiculous thing for years, and now there it is.

I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you how much we have loved the many gifts you’ve given us over the years. Almost every afternoon, Ada and Esme still wear the fairy wings you gave Ada many years ago. For Ada’s Christening, you gave her a beautiful book about the twelve gifts of birth—it’s one of my favorites. And all of the cards and notes you’ve sent me—it has meant so much to me. I don’t know if it’s always the case that one’s handwriting corresponds with the sound of one’s voice, but with you, it is undeniable. Your voice is sweet and distinctive, and your handwriting matches it perfectly. I swear I hear you talking when I read it!

When we had to move away, I was sad to leave all of our friends behind, and you were such a source of comfort to me. First, D helped us move a U-Haul truck of stuff up north. (Do you remember that crazy time? Our guys spent 8 hours driving to our rental house, 2 hours trying to get a key from the rental agent, and then 1 hour unloading the entire contents of the truck into the house itself. It was a wonder they made the plane to come home!) What a blessing his help was. And yours—A. was so little at the time, and B., and I was so grateful that you and D. could sacrifice that time to help us. Then when we moved, I was really lonely. Sometimes when you move, people fall out of your life—you probably know how this can happen. It’s hard to keep relationships going, and it’s a testament to you, Kim, that so many people stay in touch with you—you have lived so many places, and collected wonderful friendships everywhere along the way!
Anyway, when I moved, only a few people still called or wrote, and you were one of them. The conversations I’ve had with you over the years have been so honest and understanding—I’ve always been able to open my heart to you without fear of judgment, and it’s a true treasure. After I moved, I was so cheered by our phone conversations or your notes; they would stay in my mind for days. Thank you so much for being there for me.

I know I’ve said it so many times, but I wish I were there for you now. I would love to cook for you and D and the kids. I would take the kids to the park. I would hug you, and listen to you, and make you silly little things. I would try to pretend that this would all go away, and I would cry with you when it was clear it would not.

You are so strong, as is D. You are walking a path now that we will all walk one day, and you have taught me so very much about Grace and strength. I know you’ve had the gamut of emotions over the past year and a half, and I’m guessing that riding that emotional rollercoaster might sometimes rival the physical pain.
Your honesty and wry humor are a potent and uncommon combination, and I know you attract wonderful people to your circle—D. being the primary example, of course!—but also all of your friends who I’ve learned about since your illness.
I hope you can feel the strength and love and well-wishes we all try to send to you every day. The waves of love from here are strong and constant, and will continue to be no matter what. You really do always have my heart, my dear friend. I love you.


Kim left us on December 9, 2008. I think of her every day, with love and admiration.

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