Senator Kennedy: Rest In Peace

Senator Kennedy: Rest In Peace

When I think of Senator Edward Kennedy, I will remember him as a powerful force for good. He has championed the rights of ordinary Americans for well over forty years. He was a devoted public servant.

I learned of his death this morning, and although we all knew of his illness over the past year, somehow, many of us hoped against hope that he would somehow summon all of his considerable strength and overpower this most fearsome enemy – the cancer that finally carried him off.

But one interesting detail of his story had been buried so deep within my memory that I was actually jolted when it came up this morning: Returning home one night from a party, a young woman who was a passenger in his car was drowned when his car plunged into the river. Ted Kennedy swam to safety.

In 1969, when I heard this news, I was angry, even outraged, at his behavior. I was quick to speculate on his relationship with Mary Jo Kopekne and the alcohol level in his blood at the time of the accident. I wrote him off as a “light-weight”.

But now, 40 years later, all of that has faded into ancient history. His work in the senate on behalf of the American people has been stellar. His impassioned oratory has been inspiring to millions of us. Even his political enemies have had to bestow a grudging respect for the “Lion of the Senate”.

So here is the take-away for me: redemption. No matter what our mistakes, our failings, our shortcomings, even our sins, there is always the possibility of redemption. We can not go back and fix the past, but in the present, we can at least atone and move on. Where there is life, there is always the possibility of redemption of the soul. It may or may not come from a personal God. And whether or not it can come after we’ve left this earth, it is certainly within our grasp while we are here.

Bravo, Ted Kennedy. Thank you for reminding me that there is always hope for Amazing Grace. Rest in peace.

HOPE AND CERTAINTY

HOPE AND CERTAINTY

On my first day as a freshman at Boston University, I received a phone call from my sister. She had called to say that our beloved Uncle Irv, who had lived next door to us all our lives, had suddenly died. He was jogging in the park, and he suddenly collapsed and never regained consciousness. We were all in a state of shock, but later when I reflected on it, I could find some sort of an explanation. Although only in his late forties, our uncle had been a heart patient already. He walked around with nitroglycerin in his pocket. We all told ourselves that there was a “reason”.

Then yesterday I received another call from my sister. Our cousin’s husband had collapsed and died while jogging – “Just like Uncle Irv”! I exclaimed. But I found out later that Doug, only 57, had been in top condition – that in fact he was a marathon runner. It made no sense to me or to anyone else. So this time, the shock of the sudden loss was combined with the shock of having absolutely no idea as to why this had happened.

My husband and I are what some might call health fanatics. We walk in the hills every day. We are vegetarians. We take supplements religiously. I take yoga. We both hope to live to a ripe old age. But when something like this happens, it makes us realize how very little control (if any) we have over our lives. There is some other force at work that doesn’t care one fig whether we walk, run, or sit in front of the TV all day eating bon-bons. And while we can raise our odds for a healthy life, there are too many variables we simply can’t control.

It makes me think, more than ever, how precious and fragile our lives really are. All I can do is treat each day as a gift. We get caught up in so many details, that sometimes it’s hard to remember the “big picture”. But that’s human nature. It’s too hard to stay in touch with our vulnerability. After all, a little denial is a healthy thing.

As for living to be centenarians – We have every reason to hope. Art and I have “good peasant stock” in our favor and strong spirits. But whatever the future may hold for us, I will try to remember to enjoy the here and now. That’s the only thing that is certain.

© 2005, Robin Munson

A MIRACLE

A MIRACLE

Yesterday the citizens of Iraq had their first free election in decades. Watching the footage on television, I was awestruck by the courage of these people. With the reality of suicide bombers in some cases, just around the corner, with the sound of gunfire as a constant background noise, with the tense, tight security and soldiers everywhere, with people being frisked routinely – even in one case I saw, a man in a wheelchair – it is a testimony to the human spirit that so many brave souls – men and women – dared to venture to the polls and make their choices, faced by a ballot with hundreds of names and a myriad of parties to consider. In case you didn’t happen to see it on CNN – There was, literally, dancing and singing in the street. Many voters brought their small children with them so that the children could witness this historic moment. Iraqi expatriates from all corners of the globe showed up at polls in fourteen nations to express their support for and solidarity with their country.

I had to ask myself if I would be so brave under similar circumstances. I honestly don’t know. I have never been deprived of my right to vote. I’ve been voting for some thirty-five years, and even if I didn’t like the ultimate outcome of an election, I knew I had the inalienable right to voice my opinion and to have my opinion counted. (Well, mostly, but that is a discussion for another day). I have never had my life threatened by the simple act of walking to my polling place. We don’t really know what we are capable of doing until we are faced with the situation.

As much as I have been opposed to the invasion of Iraq, and as little as I like many of the opinions and policies of the current administration, I have to admit that – for now, at least – it appears that the sacrifices of people of this country and others may have served a very high purpose. Whatever the true motivations for our military intervention in the first place, I cannot argue with what happened yesterday.

There was some violence, which is tragic. There may be more violence in the future, but hopefully, less and less. Free people tend to prosper, and prosperous people tend to love peace.

But there was a decided victory yesterday. No matter what the outcome of this election, the people of Iraq have come out in droves to defy terrorism and to stand up for their autonomy. That is a miracle.

© 2005, Robin Munson

WE CAN HOPE

WE CAN HOPE

I am saying a prayer for the people of Iraq today. Tomorrow is their election, and the violence has been escalating for a long time.

Last night on the news, a reporter interviewed an elderly Iraqi man who said that he would vote tomorrow “if the weather is good”. The reporter explained that “good weather” could be taken to mean no bombings, no shooting, and no rocket-propelled grenades in the streets.

I was never in favor of our intervention in Iraq. Now that we’re there, we can hardly turn our backs on the Iraqi people, whose country has been turned upside down in the effort to oust Sadam Hussein. More than anything, I wish we could bring our troops home and in so doing, could stop the bloodshed. That doesn’t seem to be possible.

So for today, I think the only thing we can do as a nation is to hope. We can hope that tomorrow will be relatively peaceful. We can hope that the Iraqi people will not be too intimidated to leave their homes and visit the polls. We can hope that the Iraqi troops have been trained sufficiently to handle whatever situations come along, and that our own troops will provide adequate support wherever they are needed.We can hope that the election itself will be orderly and fair, and that it will in fact reflect the will of the people. We can hope that a fair and peaceful election will help to bring about positive changes for the people of Iraq.

Maybe if people all over the world are hoping the same thing, it will be a very powerful prayer sent up to Allah, God, Buddha, Fate, Jesus, or the Universe. Who knows? We can hope.

© 2005, Robin Munson

I SPEAK AMERICAN

I SPEAK AMERICAN

Last night we were out with friends, and somewhere along the way, I found myself telling part of the story of my immigrant grandparents and how they happened to come to this country. I don’t know what was running through our friends’ minds at the time, but I found myself compelled to talk about it, even while I knew it was probably not appropriate light dinner conversation.

It runs like a rich, dark thread through the tapestry of my life, this saga of four brave people from Eastern Europe in the early years of the twentieth century. My father’s parents came to this country from Romania. My mother’s mother was from Hungary. My mother’s father was from Czechoslovakia. They were all young – under twenty-five. They were all Jewish. And at some point, each of them individually made the decision to leave everything they knew and loved behind to take a chance on the “New World”.

I never knew my father’s parents – they died before I was born. The stories about them are all from their life together after they met in Pittsburgh. Those stories are colorful, textured, and delightful thumbnail sketches of the people they portray.

But I did know my mother’s parents. Some of the stories have been passed down to me directly by my grandmother. Some of them come to me from my mother. The history of my grandmother and grandfather before they came to the United States are epic. They depict the horrors that motivated people to make the terrifying leap of faith, boarding a steamer and traveling in steerage across the Atlantic to a country they have never seen where the language, the customs, and even the food is totally foreign to them.

I will give you a sample – the same story I found myself retelling last night. My grandmother grew up in a tiny town in Hungary called Rozhehegye (Rose hedge). It was close to the Danube River, just across from Vienna, Austria. (My grandmother attended secretarial school in Vienna, taking a ferry across the Danube every day. She spoke fluent German, as well as Hungarian, Russian, and Czech).

When Grandma was a little girl, the Russians invaded and occupied Hungary. Among many of the rules they instituted, they decreed that Hungarians should no longer speak Hungarian, but were compelled to speak Russian only (at least in public). Grandma was walking to school alongside her best friend, and naturally, they were chattering away in Hungarian. A couple of Russian soldiers appeared and, having overheard the conversation, shouted, “No Hungarian! Speak Russian!” My grandmother’s friend, being a spunky little girl shouted back, “I am Hungarian! I speak Hungarian!” One of the soldiers simply lifted his rifle and shot the little girl dead – right in front of my Grandma.

There are many other stories about my grandmother and grandfather’s experiences in Europe. But this one, perhaps more than any other, speaks to me personally. It is emblematic of what brought them to their new home. In fact, I would venture to say that it is emblematic of what brought many, many immigrants to this country. That brave little girl’s spirit lived on in my grandmother and probably helped her to make that horrendous crossing to Ellis Island.

My grandparents (all four of them) learned English. I am told that they rarely lapsed into their native languages or even Yiddish except when they were fighting and didn’t want the children to know what they were saying. They worked hard at their new language and became fluent early on. But the important thing was that they spoke English by choice. Not by force. That’s why they loved this country so much. My grandmother would have proudly stated, “I am American. I speak American”.

© 2005, Robin Munson

TAKING DOWN THE TREE

TAKING DOWN THE TREE or

THE TREE IS DEAD – LONG LIVE THE TREE!

Today is January 2nd. At last, the holidays, which began some five to nine weeks ago, are over (depending on whether you started counting on Halloween or Thanksgiving). This is our traditional day for taking down the Christmas tree. It is the death knell of the old year. Time to put the ornaments back down in the basement, put away the holiday dishes and the cute little mugs with Santa’s sleigh on them. Time to take down the beautiful green wreath and carefully put away the big, red, velvet bow that graces the Christmas wreath every year. These are melancholy tasks. The saddest moment of all is when we have to drag our seven-foot evergreen out the front door, down the steps, and cut it up into pieces small enough to be placed in the green dumpster on the street for recycling. It hurts my heart.

I tell myself, of course, that the tree was dead to begin with. When it comes right down to it, we buy ourselves an enormous cut flower arrangement every year which graces our living room for several weeks. By cut flower standards, that’s an eternity. And we are so lucky to have had this one for as long as we did. Every year when we finish decorating the tree I tell Art that it is the most beautiful tree we have ever had, and every year it is true. I think that’s because every year I come to appreciate the tree and its symbolism more and more.

Every year at exactly the same time the world celebrates the birth of a baby. Even Jewish people such as myself find it hard to resist the pull of such a holiday. It’s not just the festivities, the gifts, or the Christmas tree, but it’s the much deeper meaning of the celebration. It is the celebration of the rhythm of life. It is the acknowledgement that even in the dead of winter, there is hope. We can afford to be generous, because life is bountiful and replenishes itself with the dependability of the earth’s orbit. Winter heralds spring. And that’s where the evergreen comes in. We see the fulfillment of spring’s promise summed up in this sturdy little tree, which offers soft green pine needles and a heavenly aroma – just when we need it the most. The tree is sacrificed so that we can be reminded every year.

So we celebrate a baby’s birth just as it looks like everything is dying around us. This year, with the tragedy of the tsunamis, it couldn’t be more poignant.

But this year when we take down our tree, as every year, she will shed her pine needles all over the carpet as she is carried to the street. The smell of Christmas will be with us for months to come. We will vacuum the floors, but the essence of the holidays will linger until next Halloween, at least, when we will begin thinking about Christmas again.

Yesterday my sister and her “significant lover”, Jesse, were married in their home. There was a beautiful Christmas tree prominently displayed in front of the window. The whole house was decked out in flowers in various shades of dark red and burgundy flanked by greens. A fire blazed in the hearth. The atmosphere was relaxed and guests ranged in age from twin girls of eight months to the family matriarch, my mom, who has asked that we refrain from citing her age. As the winter sun sank in the west, the windows were open to the cool breezes off the ocean. As I knew I would, I wept throughout the ceremony. The feeling was one of overwhelming love, not just between Michele and Jesse, but overflowing from them to the families, and from the families back to them, and from Jesse’s family back to our family, and from our family back to Jesse’s, until there was a complete, happy circle of love all around. It was the end of one life and the beginning of another.

I imagine that like us, Michele and Jesse will be taking down their Christmas tree soon. The one they bought when they were single will be recycled, but next year it will be reincarnated in all its splendor as they approach the first Christmas of their brand new married life together. They couldn’t have picked a better day for a wedding.

© 2005, Robin Munson

EARTHLY REINCARNATION

They (yes, the infamous “they”) say that every seven years all the cells in our bodies are replaced. In other words, every seven years we get a new body. Think about that. Every organ, every muscle, our lungs, our heart, our brain – everything is constantly turning over. What appears to be permanent (at least after the age of 15 or so) is actually ever changing. Of course, the cells have “memory”, so if you had a lazy eye seven years ago, it’s a good bet that you’ll still have a lazy eye. Hey, I’m just the messenger.

But this idea intrigues me. I mean, it’s kind of like we are reincarnated within the parameters of our life here on earth.

I look at pictures of myself at various ages, and I do see many different people. The little girl of three or four who wanted to be a movie star may have contained the seeds of the grown woman, but she is an entirely different entity from the young actress of sixteen, the songwriter of twenty-four, the family counselor of thirty-five, the middle-aged woman in her forties and fifties – still trying to decide what she wants to be when she grows up.

I do envy people who make a decision about their lives at a tender age and are able to follow through. There is constancy to their lives. Each decision builds on the previous ones in a neat, orderly fashion. My younger sister was that way. From the time she was about thirteen, she knew she wanted to be a physical therapist. She had a calling, a passion, to help people who were injured and disabled. Every career decision she has made since then has been the next logical step in that progression. Today she has a thriving private practice as a physical therapist, as well as a co-existing career as a yoga practitioner and instructor. Each track of her career feeds the other. Her life has a steady – if fast-paced – rhythm.

My older sister knew from the time she was a very small child that music was her calling. She was a child prodigy before she had any earthly idea what that meant. She studied theory and composition in college. It seems she was jet-propelled into a life of music and has steadfastly refused to even entertain the notion of any other type of career, even when the going was very rough. She is now an established composer and songwriter with legions of admirers, especially within her industry. She has worked exceedingly hard and, as mother says, when you combine hard work with a God-given talent, you have a winning combination.

Then there’s me. The middle child. I admired both of my sisters so much, that I think I tried to emulate them at different stages of my life.

I so wanted to be a musical “phenom” like my older sister that I followed in her footsteps, studying piano and voice. When it dawned on me that I didn’t quite have her abilities, I took a side step into theater. I loved theater, but was not psychologically suited to the life of an actor. So in college I majored in French. No rhyme or reason there, except that I wanted to be like Audrey Hepburn in Charade – an interpreter at the U.N. Yeah, right. If only I had been a native speaker of about five languages, I might have had a shot.

There was a protracted venture into songwriting (age 20 to 32) which was interrupted by a career as a family therapist (age 32 to 40) – the part where I tried to be more like my younger sister – followed by a deeper exploration of songwriting (age 40 to present). But now I also consider myself a writer of prose. Sprinkled in with all of these careers have been many jobs that have sustained me financially while I explored my more far-flung aspirations. I was a legal secretary for about twelve years. That one job carried me through a divorce, two years of graduate school and internship, my entire career as a licensed therapist, the beginning of my current (happy) marriage, and several years of helping Art to establish a small business.

So anyway. My point is this: You may think that things are the way they are. You may think that you are stuck with whatever choices you’ve made, or whatever choices have been made for you. You may think you are too old to learn new tricks. You may think that the “die is cast”. It is not. Remember: Every seven years you are an entirely different person. Be like Madonna, if you want. Go ahead and reinvent yourself.

They say there are only two certainties in life, death and taxes. But there is one more certainty in life: Change. And remember that Change is the essence of Hope.

© 2004, Robin Munson