The Silent "I"

The Diamond Ring

The day after Total Solar Eclipse '06, we spent another restful day at sea.  All over the ship, there was an air of excitement and people were talking about the experience in the restaurants, lounges, and hallways.  I heard many people say that this was their first eclipse experience and it would not be their last.  At the Gala Night dinner immediately following the eclipse, our table mates from Kentucky expressed their enthusiasm and appreciation for what they had witnessed.  It was their daughter's idea to come on the trip, and they were so glad they had been there together.  Since we were still in Libyan waters, we were not allowed to break open a bottle of wine, but we did our best to toast with bottled water.

Prior to the eclipse, Alex had attended a lecture called "Eclipse for Kids" by an astronomer from the Adler Planetarium in Chicago.  Alex got a notepad and pencils from the planetarium people, and was told to draw pictures of what he saw and bring them to the t-shirt making activity the day after the eclipse.  So, we took Alex and his drawing pad up to the top deck and found a group of kids drawing eclipse pictures with fabric pens on t-shirts.  Alex drew a sun and colored it in, and wrote "Eclipse" on it in blue marker, and declared it a masterpiece.  Alex is not a child who enjoys arts and crafts, so getting him to sit still long enough to draw a circle and color it in meant that he was really into it.  Now, If it had been an activity involving a video game where you try to shoot the sun out of the sky, he would have been there all day.

One of the Sky & Telescope trip organizers was collecting photos from passengers to put together a slide show for everyone to view later in the day.  Frank went down and stood in a long line with other hopefuls to submit his best photos of the corona and the diamond ring.  After we got the prints back from the photo shop, we realized that his Mylar-and-band-aid filter actually worked well, and that he had gotten some decent photos after all.  He came back a little discouraged after seeing how many people showed up with their digital cameras, ready to download a masterpiece or two.  He wasn't optimistic about having a picture chosen for the presentation, given all the fancy and professional camera gear that everyone else brought along, but it didn't hurt to try.

Alex and I had started going to the room designated as the "Library" onboard to do his homework while we were on the ship.  The ship's Library consisted of a bookcase with some abandoned paperbacks (mostly in Italian) and some board games that passengers could use.  The tables had chessboards on one side and green felt for card playing on the other side.  Most of the time it was quiet, but on this day, it was full of Italians playing a boisterous game of cards.  I didn't recognize what they were playing, but they were having a great time with whatever it was. 

Alex's homework, meted out by the Best Kindergarten Teacher on the Planet, aka Teacher Janice, consisted of some math worksheets, a writing workbook, some puzzles and pages to color, and a trip journal.  We used some of the photos that we had developed in the ship's photo shop, and glued them in with the purple glue stick she packed for Alex, along with markers, crayons, and pencils.  His job was to label the photos with a word or two and come back and give a Show and Tell presentation.  Given Alex's propensity for public speaking, I think she could plan to take the day off that day.  We also glued in some Egyptian money, a few ticket stubs, and other memorabilia from the trip. 

While we were doing this, some of the Italian card players came by and stood admiring Alex's journal over his shoulder, especially Frank's Diamond Ring photo.  They started talking to us in rapid-fire Italian.   I shrugged and said, "Inglese?"  which is just about the only Italian I know besides "un caffe con latte, per favore" ("Coffee with milk, please.").  When they asked me if I spoke Italian, I said no, since I didn't think they wanted to take my coffee order.  One of the ladies asked,  "Francese?  Parlez vous francais?"  and one of the men inquired, "Espanol?"   I reached into the dark recesses of my memory and mustered up some college French.  "Le père d'Alex est le photographe," I stuttered, which either means "Alex's father is the photographer" or "Alex's father is a photocopier." 

"Molto professionalista!" they exclaimed, which I took to mean that they were impressed and they understood what I was trying to say.  Either that, or they thought Alex's father the copy machine reproduced these pictures beautifully.

Later in the day, we dropped Alex off at Kids Club and went to the Eclipse Redux lecture, that included some really cool mpeg movies of the scene.  One of the movies was made by pointing the camera at a silver hubcap, giving the full 360 degree view of the scene.  What astonished me was that someone had the foresight to pack a hubcap in their luggage and traveled halfway around the globe to capture this scene.  I thought that must have given the TSA something to chuckle about when searching his suitcase.  When they got to the actual eclipse photos, we were thrilled to see that Frank's Diamond Ring made the cut, eliciting several "oohs" and "aahs" from the crowd.  I was very proud of him.  He was thrilled and just beamed.  This was one of the highlights of our time on the ship for me.  After the slide show, people had the opportunity to share their impressions of the day, and some spoke movingly about how warm and friendly the Libyan people had been, and how much this shared experience transformed them. Over all, the eclipse junkies turned out to be a pretty friendly lot, and we were glad to be counted among them.

Later that night, Alex was incredibly antsy at dinner, and wanted to hurry to get to the Baby Disco.  Tammy agreed to take him so we could finish our dinner in peace and talk with John and Stella a little more.  When we arrived at Baby Disco to pick up Alex, were were startled to see him wearing his pajamas, and not the shirt and shorts he had been wearing at dinner.  I asked Mary Beth (who was also wearing pajamas) what was up.  She said that it was pajama night at the Baby Disco.  She said Alex arrived alone, and that when he saw everyone in PJs, he said he wanted to wear PJs and ran out, returning a few minutes later in his pajamas.  I was seriously alarmed that they let him run off by himself, but she said, "I thought since he came by himself you were letting him be more independent."  She apologized profusely for not keeping better track of him.

We sat Alex down for a chat and asked him why he left the Baby Disco without a grown-up.  He said, "Well, you know, Tammy came with me and left me here.  I wanted pajamas, so I went to our room, but the door was locked, so I got a cleaner lady to open it with her key.  I got my PJs on and came right back."  He stared up with big eyes and looked like one of those Precious Moments figurines my mom's friends are so fond of,  complete with a please-don't-be-mad-at-me-mommy look.  Our room was only one floor directly above the disco, so he didn't go far.  I alternated between being horrified that he was wandering the ship alone, and being secretly pleased at his resourcefulness and ability to take care of himself.  I sometimes don't give him enough credit for being able to do things for himself, since I am so used to just doing things for him.  I don't think that letting him wander around a 12-story cruise ship by himself is a good idea at age 5, particularly given the news stories about bridegrooms being mysteriously tossed overboard.  But, little by little, he's proving that he is a resourceful, intelligent and independent person.   I suppose I should just be happy about that, but as a mom, it makes me a little sad to know that his baby days are coming to a rapid and inexorable end.

Where the Wild Camels Are

After the jubilation of Solar Eclipse '06 reaching totality at exactly 12:38 pm, right on schedule, we all watched for a while longer.  The mood in the encampment was lively and upbeat.  Frank was ecstatic, and had that same look on his face that I had seen in Austria in 1999.  I love that look, and it made traveling halfway around the world to the middle of the desert all worth it.  As the moon's shadow moved across the sun, we could see sunrise occuring all around us, a full 360 degrees of dawn.   We ate some boxed lunches provided for us that consisted of a hotdog roll, some Laughing Cow spreadable cheese, and an apple.  Lunch didn't matter so much, since everyone was too excited to be hungry.

Sometime before Fourth Contact, when the sun is completely uncovered by the moon, people started to pack up their gear and head toward the buses.  We cleaned up the site and made our way to the buses parked behind the shelter.  The buses all sort of looked alike, so many people were wandering around a bit dazed confused as to which bus to take.  We found ours and settled into the front seat, and waited patiently for about thirty minutes for the stragglers.  At one point, the ship's crew just told people to pick a bus, any bus.  A few of them stayed to the bitter end to make sure that no one got left behind.  All that was left as we pulled out were some lonesome plastic chairs, tire tracks, five overused port-o-potties, and a garbage heap. 

The last person to board our bus was a man wearing a police uniform.  As we made our way across the desert, he took up the microphone and introduced himself.  He spoke English fairly well, and seemed to enjoy having the opportunity to use his English.  He welcomed us and told us a little about the area, and said he was a police officer and that he was born and raised in Tobruk.  He joked that he never thought he would be a tour guide, since there were usually not many tours to guide in this part of the world.  Several people asked questions, and he enthusiastically answered them.

We noticed that he had a gun in the waistband of his pants, and Alex whispered to me conspiratorily, "Mommy, that man has a GUN!"  with eyes wide.

I assured him that it was just fine, that the man was a police officer, and that he was there to protect us.  "Protect us from who?"  Alex asked.

"Bad guys,"  I replied.

He thought about this for a moment.  "Do you think any bad guys will come on our bus?"  I think he was envisioning some kind of mutant monster attack, like the ones in Power Rangers Mystic Force that look like a cross between a machine gun and a head of lettuce.  I reassured him that I didn't think any bad guys were lurking about, but if they were, this man looked very capable of protecting us.  "If there are any bad guys, I will use my karate on them!" he said, striking a pose when a menacing look on his face.

"That's nice dear," I said. "Now sit down while the bus is moving."

As we drove down the highway toward Tobruk, the police officer answered questions amiably, and enjoyed looking at Frank's Lonely Planet Guide to Libya.  He seemed astonished that there was an entire book written in English about Libya. When Frank told him we were a little worried in the morning about the fog, he replied, "Our God is a merciful God.  We thank God for making that miracle happen!"

As we drove down the highway in a long line of buses, we could see many more people out on the roads.  Some set up lawn chairs on the side of the road and waved as we went by.  I don't know if this is a normal Libyan pasttime, sitting out in the desert waving at traffic, or if it was to see the spectacle of busloads of Americans passing through.  Some guys on the back of a track waved at us excitedly  and did a little dance.  I suppose as foreigners invaders go, a bunch of astronomers would would  be highly preferable to  the German Afrika Corps.

Since the visibility was much better now than it had been in the morning, we could see small villages off in the distance, low, single story-structures with women carrying water back from a well, and people just going about their daily routines.  In some ways, this area looked like time had stood still, and was probably much the same as it had been during World War II, when the last large group of foreigners landed here.  Out in the desert, we could see a herd of camels wandering around, and we asked the police officer if they were owned by the villagers.  He responded that they were wild and just liked to be near the village.  He said sometimes they wander out onto the road and sit down on the cool asphalt at night, which can create a major traffic jam.  Evidently, wild camels are incredibly uncooperative and don't like to be told what to do.  I admired them for their tenacity and their unwillingness to be bought, unlike their domesticated cousins in Egypt.

Darkness at Noon

At last!  The day of Solar Eclipse '06 had arrived!  Those of you have who have been reading this blog for a couple of months now probably thought this day would never come. Neither did I. It seemed to me as though the trip was years in the making, and that we would never get to see the Main Event.  But, never fear...the eclipse met all expectations (and then some), and was a beautiful sight to behold.  It was well worth waiting for, and an unforgettable and exciting experience for all of us.  Now to the excruciating detail...

We woke up early on Eclipse Day to eat a hearty buffet breakfast and to catch the bus at 6:00 am.  The trip organizers had scouted out a spot that was about a 2 hour bus ride from the pier.  We thought we were early-birds, but the line for the buses was snaking its way around the entire 5th floor by the time we got there.  While we were waiting, a group of peppy and friendly Australians in line behind us told us that they had taken the shuttle bus the night before and gone into the town of Tobruk to check it out. 

"The people here," one man said, "Are lovely.  We went to a coffee shop and everyone there came over to greet us and welcome us.  They told us that the town has been waiting for this ship for six months.  They don't get many tourists in this town.  When we tried to pay for our coffee, the owner of the shop refused to take our money and said we were his guests. Every where we went, people came out to greet us and welcome us."  Hearing this alleviated the butterflies in my stomach about entering into this uncharted territory, only recently lifted from the "terrorist state" list.

One of the ship's crew members waved us out of the line and took us down a set of stairs and onto a bus that was primarily for disabled and elderly people.  I guess they figured traveling with a child was a handicap, since Alex was grumpy and kept insisting that Frank carry him.  He was hanging around Frank's neck like an baby chimpanzee or a large human necktie.  Alex is tall for a 5 year old, and is over 4 feet already, and so carrying him is not an easy task.  If I do it, I feel as though my vertebrae are going to compact together, like one of those collapsible drinking cups.  Most of the carrying falls squarely on Frank, and he is usually quite stoic about it.  So, when they pulled us out of the line, our spines were grateful, even though we had to leave our entertaining Australian line buddies and heard grumblings from some passengers further ahead in the line.  In the end, it didn't make much difference which bus you boarded, since none of them were allowed to leave until all the buses were filled.  We were glad to just put Alex down on a seat where he could rest, after his late night out partying at the Baby Disco.

We heard from some of the ship's crew that there were not enough buses available in all of Libya for our group, so some of the buses had been brought by ship from Egypt.  So, basically, they were the same tourist buses we had experienced in Egypt.  We settled in to some seats in the back and Alex fell asleep before we pulled away from the pier. 

Looking out the window, there was not much to see in the town of Tobruk.  A few officials stood at the dock and cheerfully waved at our bus as we pulled out.  There were a couple of cars on the road that were stopped to let our caravan pass, and the people inside were hanging their heads out, looking at us with amazement.  Most of them waved and smiled, and I got the feeling that they were actually happy to see us.   I guess that not much really happens in Tobruk, and I suppose that if 40 busloads of Libyan tourists came rolling through my little hometown in Ohio, I'd be curious to see the show, too.

We saw a number of billboards with Muammar Qaddafi's photo on them, with Arabic writing and the number "36" prominently displayed.  We did not have a guide on this bus to ask about these signs and what they meant.  I don't think this meant that Qaddafi was turning 36 this year, since I remember him from when I was in junior high school and he was the New Totalitarian Dictator on the Block.  In the pictures, Qaddafi looked like an Middle-Eastern movie star, with black wavy hair, strong jaw, and fierce macho expression.  I remember Qaddafi being the subject of a number of "Saturday Night Live" news reports in the 70's, and he looked much the same as he did then.  I sometimes confuse him in my mind with Generalissimo Francisco Franco, who, I believe, is still dead.  Either these were old photos or Qaddafi is about as well preserved as King Tut.

As we rolled past the town of Tobruk and down a long, straight highway into the desert, we noticed something disturbing:  there was a heavy cloud of brownish dust all around us.  We were pretty much assured that there would not be rain (it was, after all, the freaking Sahara Desert with a mean annual rainfall, um, zero), but the organizers were  concerned that a dust storm might kick up and obscure the view of the eclipse.  The people on the bus twittered nervously when they realized that this was not letting up.  Outside of town, the brown cloud turned to gray, and it was apparent that this was good old fashioned fog.  Living in the San Francisco Bay Area, a fog bank in the morning is not an uncommon sight, so I felt pretty confident that this would burn off eventually.  Initally, Frank sloughed it off as well, but after about an hour, he started fidgeting in his seat nervously and asking me, "What do you think?"

"Don't worry," I told him.  "This too shall pass."  I didn't let on that I wasn't sure when it would pass, but I was confident that it would let up at some point.

The rest of the bus seemed to take on a collective air of anxiety about that time.   Visibility was poor and just seemed to get worse the further we drove.  At first, we could see small houses set back about 100 yards from the road.  Then, we could couldn't see the houses at all, just a few mosques that were closer to the road, with spires mysteriously disappearing up into the fog.

Eclipse Junkies

We sailed through the night toward Libya and spent a nice morning at sea en route to Tobruk, Libya for Solar Eclipse '06.  We were exhausted from the race through Cairo the day before, so it was nice to just hang out on deck, play video games, and enjoy the ship's amenities, some clear skies, and the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean.

We heard rumblings onboard the ship that we might not be able to enter Libya, depending on the mood of the government.  The back-up plan was to take the ship out to sea to find the center line of the eclipse, but that would mean all 2,000 people and their gear would be on the top deck during the event.  The guys from Sky & Telescope Magazine who were leading the tour showed a video clip of a previous eclipse tour at one of the lectures.  In it, the lecturer is heard to start screaming at the point of totality, "Oh my God! Oh my God!  There it is!  There it is!"  which sounded like he was in the throes of an orgasm.  It was kind of creepy and I seriously wanted no part of standing on a crowded deck with 1,000 astronomy zealots in the throes of ecstasy.

In 1999, Frank dragged me out into the middle of a field in Austria to view my first (his second) total eclipse.  I sort of bitched and moaned the entire way to the site, thinking that this a big waste of time, since it was going to rain, and we could have been, say, drinking Viennese coffee and eating pastries. Frank graciously ignored my whining and started driving through the Austrian countryside looking for a spot where the clouds had parted and it didn't look like it was going to start pouring at any second.  We parked our rented car along a rural road bordering a field where a lone farmer was plowing.  There were a few other cars parked along the road, a respectful distance from each other, and off on the horizon, we could see a line of telescopes.  We waited and then, suddenly, the sky cleared, and then grew dark, and the earth got quiet and still. We used our solar filters to view the partial eclipse.  Our fancy "solar filters" were actually some welder's glass and some cheap paper sunglasses that were in a magazine we bought about the eclipse.  They did the trick, so we didn't end up with permanently scarred retinas and could see everything just fine.

When the sky grew dark, the birds stopped chirping, the farmer stopped plowing, and everything was calm and still and the twilight all around was breathtaking.  There was something so magical and so mysterious about this that my pulse raced and I got tears in my eyes.  The sun was covered with a black disk, and only the corona showed through, streaming golden light around a black circle in the sky.  You could see it without binoculars or a telescope, and it was utterly fantastic. I didn't feel like whooping and hollering at that moment, just a profound sense of wonder.  The joy on Frank's face is another sight I won't ever forget; it was like a child unwrapping the most wonderful, desired and magical present ever.  After that, I was eager to see another eclipse, and to see it with Frank.

After a week aboard the Sinfonia with a thousand or so hardcore eclipse-heads, I am now utterly convinced that eclipse-watching is similar to heroin addiction.  Years ago, I used to work with recovering drug addicts, and one thing they used to say was that they were always "chasing that first high."  The first high is evidently a chemical rush like nothing that person has ever experienced before; a sense of calm and quiet and euphoria all mixed together.  No matter how much of the stuff they took, nothing ever quite lived up to the first time.  These eclipse junkies were no different, only the drug of choice was staring at the sun while it went dark, and chasing down the perfect photograph.  I could hear them boasting in the elevators to each other, "Yeah, man, I was in Austria in '99, but nothing could ever top Baja '91.  Seriously, it was six minutes long!" 

To which the other person would reply, "But dude, the corona streamers in Hawaii?  No way you could beat that one."  Then the two conversants would enter into a deep reverie, heads bowed, in silent prayer to the Sun God who allowed them to bear witness to such sights.

I overheard these kinds conversations in buffet lines, in the elevator, in the theatre, in the coffee lounge, and pretty much everywhere on the ship.  They wore their eclipse experience on t-shirts, on hats, and in the ginormous camera and telescope gear they lugged halfway around the world for this event.  These people were serious about this eclipse business and would stop at nothing to get the perfect shot of Bailey's Beads or the Diamond Ring, as if they were stored in the vault at Tiffany's and only brought out for viewing once in a blue moon.  I seriously thought these people might want to join the "Friends of Bill W." meetings that were being held in the Irish Pub on board, and form their own 12 step recovery program. 

Ride My Camel

After two restful days at sea, the next port of call on our Journey to Solar Eclipse '06 was Alexandria, Egypt.  At Alexandria, we had various touring options, including pyramid tours, the Cairo Museum, and a trip to the step pyramids of Zoser.  We opted for the pyramids and the Cairo Museum and got up early to catch a bus for a 3 hour bus ride to Cairo.

The pyramids were something I had wanted to see since I was a child, peering into an old copy of the World Book Encyclopedia  from the fifties that my mom bought at a garage sale.  From the grainy black and white photographs, annual viewings of The Ten Commandments, and books about the Pharaohs that I borrowed from the library, I conjured up an image of the pyramids as the epitome of exotic, mysterious locations.   The pyramids and Egypt were about as far away from Germantown, Ohio as I could imagine, so that was the place I wanted to be without a doubt.

To prepare for the trip, for the past six months or so, we had been reading books about mummies, Pharaohs, and Egyptian mythology to Alex, who was as curious and captivated as we were when we were kids.  He became something of a Junior Egyptologist, and often regaled his kindergarten class with tales of Osiris, Isis, and Seth, Anubis the jackal-headed god, and the intricacies of mummification during Show & Tell.  His teacher said, "He could go on about this stuff for half an hour and the kids would hang on his every word.  I might as well go out for coffee."   We visited all the local attractions with Egyptian Exhibits, like the wonderful Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum in San Jose, the DeYoung Museum's Queen Hatsheput exhibit, and traveled to Los Angeles for the LA County Museum showing of the traveling King Tut collection.  To say we were all excited to finally see the pyramids would be quite an understatement.

This was something I had always wanted to see, and that Alex was really looking forward to, so I had to set aside the gnawing fear that niggled at me from watching too much CNN in a post-9/11 America.  The Luxor tourist bus terrorist attack of 1997 loomed large in my mind and I silently worried about security.  Since 9/11, it seems that all the news coming out of the Muslim world sends the message that we should just stay away.   Egypt's economy was badly damaged by the Luxor attack, since tourism is a huge source of revenue for the country.  We were assured that the government went to great lengths to make it as safe as possible for visitors.    Still, half the people I told about the trip prior to leaving said, "Are you nuts?  I wouldn't go near that part of the world."  The other half said, "How exciting!  I've always wanted to see the pyramids"  and those voices alternated like a little angel and the little devil sitting on my shoulder, only I'm not sure which was which.

So, with some trepidation, we boarded the big tour bus and hoped for the best.  I was hoping we were in for a fun day of viewing antiquities and not a hostage situation.  We were told that the tour company had taken every precaution, and the reason for our slow departure was that we had to go by convoy and none of the buses could leave until everyone was on board.  Each bus came equipped with an armed guard, an English-speaking tour guide, and radios.  I banished thoughts form my mind about an article in Newsweek I had read about "the new breed of female terrorists" and one particular woman who spent time in Egypt "shooting at tourist buses for fun."  I tried to banish such thoughts from my mind, and just remember the inimitable words of Doris Day, "Que sera, sera."

A Great Man's Passing: William Sloane Coffin, Jr.

The Reverand Dr. William Sloane Coffin, Jr. passed away recently at the age of 81.  This news saddened me, but I have been thinking about the impact that his life had on mine, and how incredibly grateful I am to have known Bill Coffin many years ago.  My work as a community volunteer, as a civil rights and poverty lawyer, and everything in between were motivated and inspired by him.  In the pantheon of my personal heroes, Wlilliam Sloane Coffin, Jr. sits at the center.  He once said, "Doing good works does not make a person good; good people just always seem to do good works."

In 1979, Coffin was one of three American clergymen who traveled to Iran to spend Christmas with the Americans who had been taken hostage by student militants during the revolution led by Ayatollah Khomeini.  Coffin was shown on the news playing the piano, talking with the hostages, and offering them messages of hope.  At that time, I had no idea who he was, but the news indicated that he was the Senior Minister at Riverside Church, which was right around the corner from my Barnard dorm.  I went the following Sunday, curious to hear a first hand account by the man I'd seen on the news.  One sermon, and I was hooked.

Coffin was a man who was larger than life, with a life story that read like a liberal, but true, version of Forrest Gump.  Wherever things were happening and social change was occuring, Coffin was in the thick of it.  He was a Freedom Rider during the Civil Rights movement, was arrested along with Daniel Berrigan and Dr. Spock for resisting the Vietnam War, led the Nuclear Disarmament movement in the 1980's and was a vociferous opponent of apartheid in South Africa when most of the world turned its back. He spoke out in favor gay rights when people still said the word "homosexual" in hushed tones and pretended it didn't exist.  He urged his congregation not to condemn others "for the way that they love."  He was a man of his time and ahead of his time.  His powerful baritone voice soared above the choir in hymns, and above the crowds in protest.

I attended Riverside for many years, more for the messages of social justice than for the religious content.  My mom was raised as a Buddhist, and my dad as an Pentecostal Christian.  At some point, they must have just agreed to disagree and left my brothers and me to figure it out for ourselves.  They were surprised when I joined the church and decided, as an adult, to be baptised. 

As part of the membership process, I had to write an essay on "What God Means to Me" and meet with Bill Coffin to discuss it.  I was nervous about it, and didn't want to look foolish in front of someone I admired so much.  At age 20, what did I know?  Having Coffin as my spiritual mentor was like having Barry Bonds coaching Little League.

At our meeting, he reassured me that my thoughts and my doubts were valid.  I told him that, to be honest, I didn't really believe in the whole heaven/hell thing.  I thought it was like saying that everything we do here on earth doesn't really count for much, that's it's all just one big entrance exam to some exclusive club.  How could Christ admonish us to accept and welcome all people, as he did, if Heaven was such a particular and exclusive place?  He laughed and said, "To be honest, I'm not so sure about that part either."  He told me that for a person's faith to have real meaning, you had to question and doubt, but listen to your heart to find the answers.

Pete Seeger was playing a concert at the church that night, and stopped in while I was meeting with Coffin,.  He introduced me to Pete and his wife, Toshi.  I was more thrilled than I would have been to meet Mick Jaggar and Keith Richards, to be in the presence of two liberal icons. 

One of the most memorable sermons I remember hearing was his Eulogy for Alex.  His twenty-four year old son, Alexander, died in a car crash in 1983.  Ten days afterwards, he delivered a sermon that was so moving and so powerful that I sat in the pew and cried from beginning to end.   I never met his Alex, but there are parts of that sermon that have resonated with me for over twenty years.  In it, he quotes Hemingway, who said, "The world breaks everyone; then some become strong at the broken places." 

It was seventeen years later, when my own Alexander was born, that I could begin to understand the depths of the pain he must have been in when he delivered that sermon.  Only now do I appreciate what steely resolve would have allowed him, after losing a child he adored, to manage to pick himself up and bring himself to do his job, to come to make us feel better when his own heart must have been shattered into a million pieces.  He explained it to us that he was only standing there before us, held up by the love of this congregation, his family, and friends. 

My favorite benediction that Coffin often gave was this:

O Lord, take our mouths and speak through them;
Take our hands and work through them,
Take our minds and think through them,
And take our hearts and set them on fire.

For years, I tried to live up to this challenge.  During the early eighties, I dedicated most of my free time to volunteering at the church and serving on committees for Prisoners' Rights, Nuclear Disarmament, and World Hunger.  Why?  Because Bill Coffin asked me to.  Every sermon was a personal invitation, a challenge to be more Christ-like, to be more Coffin-like.  Each sermon was a personal invitation to do what was right, to do your individual part in creating a little more justice, a little more caring in a world that desperately needed it.   His sermons always seemed to reach right into my heart and pull a string that I did not know existed and would never have otherwise explored.  If Coffin said, "help the homeless," I signed up for a shift at the church's new makeshift shelter.  If Coffin said, "feed the hungry," I volunteered at the food pantry.  If Coffin said, "The arms race must stop," I marched in a demonstration to stop nuclear proliferation.  When Coffin said, "Nuclear energy is poisoning people," I marched on Three Mile Island.  I decided to go to law school and become a civil rights lawyer and practice in the poorest neighborhood in the Bronx because of these experiences.  My education at Barnard taught me about the life of the mind; my education at Riverside taught me about the life of the heart, the life lived with passion and purpose, compassion and conviction.

The memories of my years at Riverside are punctuated by some amazing events and people that I had the opportunity to see and hear for myself... Olaf Palme, Prime Minister of Sweden speaking out against nuclear disarmament.  Metropolitan Opera star Jessye Norman singing "There is a Balm in Gilead" that I can still hear in my head and feel in my heart. Archibishop Desmond Tutu beseeching the congregation to speak out against apartheid, when I had never even heard that word before.  Marching alongside hippies and coal miners at Three Mile Island.  Kim Dae-Jung, who was then a recently released political prisoner, and later was elected President of Korea, and his stunningly brilliant wife, speaking to a small group of rapt listeners. The indominatable peace activist Cora Weiss, leader of the Riverside Disarmament Program, whom I adored as much as I admired Coffin.  Handing out flyers in front of Union Carbide and meeting businessmen who worked there and had no idea that the company made nuclear weapons.  In 1990, I couldn't get into the church the day Nelson Mandela came; instead, I went with my legal services coworkers to Yankee Stadium where tens of thousands of New Yorkers greeted Mandela like a rockstar. I was privileged to bear witness to history, to be part of something larger than myself, to be a face in the crowd.

Over the years, I was so active in the church that I was nominated to be a deacon.  Coffin encouraged me, because he thought that I would bring a youthful perspective to the group.  During the church election period, he asked me to read a passage of scripture one Sunday.  I was mortified of getting up in front of 5,000 people and speaking.  I was mortified that I would fall off my high-heeled shoes walking in the processional.  I was mortified I would open my mouth and nothing but a squeak would come out. I was mortified that I would let Coffin down. Despite my fears and insecurities, I agreed, because again, I couldn't say no to Bill Coffin. 

In the Minister's robing room prior to the start of the service, he must have sensed my anxiety.  He came over to me, draped his arm around me and said, "Don't worry, dear.  Just say it like you are delivering some wonderful news, something that everyone needs to hear.  You'll be fine." 

The passage was from St. Paul's letter to the Philippians:

Whatever things are true, whatever things are honorable, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report; if there is any virtue, and if there is any praise, think about these things. The things which you learned, received, heard, and saw in me: do these things, and the God of peace will be with you. Not that I speak in respect to lack, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content in it... I know how to be humbled, and I know also how to abound. In everything and in all things I have learned the secret both to be filled and to be hungry, both to abound and to be in need...I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me. Philippians 4:8-9; 12-13.

I read the words again, and let the meaning sink in.  I lost all my fear, delivering my reading with gusto.  I looked out at that vast hall, with the stained glass windows, high-vaulted ceiling, and looked into the faces of people I had come to know and love, and was transformed from a bundle of nerves to a confident bearer of good news.  I came down from the pulpit after my reading, and Coffin looked at me, nodded, and smiled.  I have never received a greater compliment in my life. 

When I left New York to go to law school, Cora Weiss threw a little going away party in the Riverside Disarmament Program office for me.  The staff presented me with a framed poster for the Olaf Palme Memorial Disarmament Lecture.  It was hearing Olaf Palme's impassioned speech about the nuclear arms race that led me to volunteer for the program, stuffing envelopes, running errands, writing copy for brochures and doing whatever they needed doing.  That poster has traveled with me to every place I've called home since then, and hangs in my kitchen today.  It is my way of reminding myself of a time when my idealism turned to action. 

Bill Coffin often said, "The world is not something we inherit from our ancestors, but something borrow from our children."  I hope my own son grows up to know that I tried my best and did my part to make it worthy of him and his generation.  My fear is that I and those of my generation have failed him.   I worry that he will grow up to take the easy route, to do nothing because doing justice and doing good is just too hard. I worry that I am not being a good enough model for a life of compassion and conviction, of passion and purpose, that somehow I left that life behind when I left Riverside.  I worry that he won't have role models like Bill Coffin, to show him that every little bit counts, that you don't do it to secure a place in heaven, you do it because the future and the people you leave behind depend on it.

Years have passed, and I am no longer a 20-something with a passion for possibilities; I'm a 40-something mom with a busy schedule.  I no longer march in demonstrations; I march through the routines of  daily life, shuttling my kid around, going to work, and managing a 100-item household to-do list. I no longer write brochures for peace activists; I write checks.  I no longer go out at night to hear leaders and activists speak on what is right; I watch insipid reality TV.  I passively sign up for e-mail newsletters and read about what other people are doing.  I barely watch the news and am apathetic about voting for uninspiring candidates.  I haven't been to church in ten years.  I never lost my idealism, just my enthusiasm.

All of these events of my life, past and present, whirled like a silent newsreel in my mind's eye when I read that Bill Coffin had died.  There, somewhere on the periphery of each frame and often center-stage, is Coffin, my American Idol, my minister, my mentor.  Since I learned of his death, I have worried and wondered, "What can I do to honor him?  What can I do to show that my life was made vastly richer for knowing him?  That I am who and what I am because of him?" 

Then, in writing this, it dawned on me, as though he spoke to my heart from a heavenly pulpit:

The things which you learned, received, heard, and saw in me: do these things, and the God of peace will be with you.

Once again, I just can't say no to Bill Coffin.

No Mom Left Behind

Two months ago, I went from being a drive-around-all-day, part-time consulting, full-time volunteer, traveling-around-the world-conference-spouse, alleged "stay-at-home" mom to re-entering the working world.  You know, the one where people actually pay you on a regular basis.  I went back to work full-time work cold turkey--no gradual re-entry through a part-time job for me, no sir.  My son entered Kindergarten in the fall, so it seemed like a natural progression for me to start thinking about going back to work.

Four years ago, when I decided to quit my job as a lawyer and stay home, my mom said to me, "You have $100,000 worth of education inside your head...and you want to stay home and change poopy diapers?  Are you kidding?"  Thanks for your support, Mom.  $100,000 worth of education or not, the tipping point for me was going to pick up my 6 month old baby at daycare and seeing him sit up for the first time, only to be told, "oh yeah, he's been doing that for weeks" by the babysitter.  That, plus the time that I was so consumed by thoughts of the argument I'd just had with a faculty member at the university I worked for that I drove right past the babysitter's house and was halfway home before I hysterically realized that I forgot to pick up the baby. 

I admit, the first few months at home, I was bored out of my skull and contemplated going back to work.  Not that my baby wasn't the most precious, most adorable, most well-behaved child on earth (mostly). Not that I didn't love just looking at him and noticing every detail of his growth (usually).  Not that housekeeping and going to the parks to hang out with the Chinese nannies in my neighborhood wasn't a blast (sometimes).  I missed the whole routine of having to be somewhere, of wearing clean clothes, and mostly, adult conversation.  I started going to classes and signing us up for all kinds of activities that he was way too young to understand, but I just needed to be out of the house and doing something.  We happened on a mom-baby class that led us to PreSchool Family, which was full of wonderful moms who were in the same boat as I was. I found my niche and made some great friends there and the next few years flew by.  I also got involved in the Parents' Club of Palo Alto & Menlo Park (PAMP) where I met the esteemed founders of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog.

Going back to work after four years away from the workforce has been an adjustment.  The first two weeks were kind of like the first two weeks after giving birth.  I literally came home one day and retreated to the bedroom with a cold compress on my head murmuring, "what have I done?  what have I done?"  over and over until my husband threatened to call the paramedics.  Then, one night, a miraculous thing happened.  A friend, let's just call her SuperMom, called and said, "I made dinner for you.  When can I bring it over?"  Not, "Can I make dinner for you?"  which I would have declined out of the guilt of being too lame to cook or order take-out for my own family.  SuperMom came by with her magic pan of lasagna, which we ate for 3 days in a row, salad, bread, and a hug.  I nearly wept with joy.

My parents came for a visit during week two, and they did what they did after my son was born--they cooked, they cleaned, they gardened, they entertained my child, they were Super Granny and Super Grampy. They had a great time, while I fretted that I would not remember anything I learned in law school or during my 15 year career as an attorney, and would be fired in a couple of days.  When they left, I wept.  I realized I needed my mommy.

After they left, I started to hit my stride at work and realize that I am still good at my job.  Coming home to a messy house and the inevitable question my husband and son ask me every night, "What are your thoughts about supper?" is another matter altogether.  Work is calm and soothing in comparison to the second shift, where the real chaos begins.  I have faith that we will work out the kinks in time, because we're a family and we always do. 

So for all of you stay-at-home moms who are feeling separation anxiety as your friend goes back to work, just let her know that you are there for her.  Offer--no insist--on bringing her dinner.  You don't have to cook it, just show up with a roasted chicken in a bag from Safeway and she will be eternally grateful.  Working moms, sneak out for coffee with your stay-at-home friends.  E-mail them lame jokes you get from your coworkers. Let them know that they are valued.   I'd like to call this the "No Mom Left Behind" movement.  Having been on both sides, I can attest that no one has it easy.  We all love our families and do the best that we can.  Stay-at-home Moms, rise up and support your sisters in the workforce!  Working moms, rise up and support your sisters on the homefront!  Let's call a cease fire in the Mommy Wars!  We're all too busy and too tired to fight anyway.

This piece first appeared at the Silicon Valley Moms Blog, a blogging collective of moms, one grandmom, and one or two brave dads, who all reside in Silicon Valley, California.