Married Crush

Tags

commitment, love

My first crush got married last week.  This was a school girl crush on the boy across the street.  He was older — by one year.  As kids, we played together with all the other kids in the neighborhood.  By high school, we had drifted into separate peer groups.  And by college, we went our separate ways.  Very typical, I suspect of most first crushes.

We would sometimes briefly see each other when home visiting family.  I went off, got married and then divorced, and jammed graduate school in along the way.  He went to dental school and set up a practice a few towns over from where we were raised.

We reconnected many many years later through facebook — updating each other on our own choices and events, our families, births and deaths, and relationships.  For me, who was now resolutely single, it meant filling him in on the adoption of and life with my daughter. He relayed that he had been living for a number of years with the “love of his life.”  It was one of those wonderful “message” moments when you realize that someone who had been so central to your early years is happy and whole.

I have no idea when I learned that this crush of mine was gay though probably well before we reconnected.  On the one hand, it changed nothing.  He was still the kind and gentle soul I had always known.  On the other hand, it changed everything.  What became clear in our messages was his desire that this relationship have a permanency that for many, comes with marriage.  And as with many of my other friends who aren’t able to get married, a sadness tinged the air.

Within the last year or so, the state in which “the crush” and his partner live, legalized gay marriage.  And they took advantage of the opportunity to finally get hitched.  Based on the pictures posted (on Facebook, of course), it was an event filled with warmth and laughter, family and friends.  It was what most wedding celebrations are except that you got two handsome grooms instead of one.

Viewing the pictures and reading the posts, I was once again struck by how this celebration shouldn’t be viewed as anything other than wonderful.  How is the act of two individuals who clearly love and support each other a problem?  An abomination?  A sin?  I absolutely don’t get it.  And I especially don’t get why this becomes the focus of so much poisonous energy given that there are some real and serious problems to solve.  Hate hunger.  Hate poverty.  Hate abuse.  Hate exploitation.  But don’t hate what these two guys did.

I wish my long ago crush and his husband years of love and light.  And I hope that they inherited that little white Christmas tree that when lit, signaled the official start of the holiday season on our street.   Adding new traditions to old.

Discipline (or the lack there of)

Tags

confidence, purpose, voice

One of my favorite NYT columns is the Sunday feature — “Sunday Routine.” Found in the Metro section, this feature highlights the Sunday schedule of a noteworthy New Yorker. Sometimes I actually know something about the person, most times I do not.

I love reading this, because it is part of my search to find clues that could make my life more productive. In an orderly way. How do writers write? How does the fabulously successful hipster organize his day? How does the interior decorator with 5 charming children get it all done? I am a sucker for personal stories that suggest, with a little work and planning, anyone can do it.

I am productive. In short bursts and usually with a looming deadline. But I’m not routinely or predictably productive. I get stuff done. But leave a lot of stuff by the side of the road.

Exhibit A: this blog. I haven’t posted since July. Not because I lack ideas (I had a million of them — pithy, insightful, amusing) but because I just couldn’t seem to get into the swing of writing all my fabulous insights down. I had time (most weeks). But not the focus. The discipline. The “oh look, its Friday morning, time to write my blog” planning.

Exhibit B: the gym. Last time I went it was two years ago. Had three fabulous weeks. Started to feel better. Started to lose weight. Started to … hey, is that a donut? Sustained discipline. That’s what I need.

I don’t want to be stuck in some routine that makes me feel as though I’m in a rut. A drudge. I want some spontaneity. Some flexibility. But I also feel as though I’m not living up to my full potential because of this inability to sustain stuff. Somehow, I’ve convinced myself that I could be much more productive (and by that I mean “meaningfully productive”) if I only had a plan. But not a strict, precise, every day at 10am I must it a bowl of prunes, plan. Something a bit bendy. With balance. I do, afterall, have a 5 year old that demands attention.

So what do folks do? Is this balance possible? Or is it my own particular perversion of “women want it all, but it really isn’t attainable?” Am I deluding myself in thinking that one’s mid-50s is not too late to get serious about one’s potential?

The lines are open.

She Didn’t Cheat Alone

Tags

rant

There’s been a lot of coverage in the entertainment press on the scandalous cheating episode of Kristen Stewart.  Her betrayal of her boyfriend of 3 years, Robert Patterson, has been dissected in more ways than laboratory frog.  Now, I don’t condone cheating in a relationship.  And I am no fan of Stewart or Patterson (indeed their appeal completely escapes me).  But I have to say that the treatment of her is utterly unfair.

First, she did apologize.  And as public apologies go, this was one of the better ones.  She took ownership.  She directly addressed who she hurt.  Whether this helps salvage her relationship is, frankly, between her and Patterson.

What is most disconcerting is that she has been called all sorts of stereotypically horrible names through twitter, blog and popular media posts.  Reading this stuff, one would think that she is the only one who did anything wrong.

Yet there is another involved.  A married man with two children.  Nineteen years older than Ms. Stewart.  Technically, because he was the film director, her boss.  Why isn’t this being talked about as possible sexual harassment?  And even if no coercion was involved, the power and authority imbalance is huge.  Should this at least be acknowledged?  I’m not absolving Ms. Stewart’s actions, rather I’m trying to suggest a context that may have shaped her choice.

But let’s say that this “relationship” was between equals.  Why is she the recipient of so much bile?  He imploded a marriage, hurting another adult and two children.  Do we just shrug and say, oh well.

I suppose that the take away lesson in all this is that women and girls are ultimately responsible for all aspects of any hook-up.  Get pregnant — its your problem.  Get an STD — well, that was your choice. Get smeared — you deserve it.  And guys — well you can rest assured that after some possible discomfort, the gal will take the fall.

Yup, this is exactly the kind of world I want my daughter to grow up in.  Not.

A Birth Day Thank You

Tags

children, parenting, reflection

Today, my daughter turned 5.  We are doing the usual birthday activities – a party, presents, her favorite food (I’m eating way too much pizza).  As excited as she is about becoming a “big girl,” I am a bit more conflicted.

First, I can’t believe that she is actually a 5 year old.  As most parents probably ask – “when did this happen?”  How is it that the baby went to toddler went to pre-schooler?  We’re getting ready for kindergarten in the Fall.  It seems so cliché to say – “time goes by fast,” but it does.  And with the passage of time comes such monumental developmental leaps.  Certainly one of the privileges of parenthood is to witness this incredible learning.  She has learned to walk, talk, dress herself, draw amazing pictures, cut a banana, catch a ball, write her letters, swing, start to recognize words and so much more.  All of this is awe-inspiring and humbling.  Oh to have that curiosity and eagerness.

This day, however, also comes with knowing that another woman gave birth to my daughter 5 years ago.  She carried her to term, went through labor, and was with her for the first four days of her life.  And then, my daughter was given over to another woman, her foster mother, for the next 10 months.

I cannot imagine what it is like to give up your child even when it might appear to be in the “best interests” of the child, or the birth mother, or both.  I do know that my daughter’s birth mother, abandoned by her husband, already was trying to care for her elder mother and 4 children while earning money as a cleaning woman.  Did she hope that at least one of her children would have the opportunity for a different and maybe better life?  Was she just so worn out at the age of 35 that she honestly couldn’t fathom caring for another?  Maybe the possibility of some money (birthmothers received a payment in Guatemala when relinquishing a child) was too good to pass up in light of her family’s economic situation?

Neither my daughter nor myself will ever know the answers.  The birthmother does not want contact.  All we have is one picture of her with “our” daughter.  Staring blankly at the camera, she looks so weary it breaks your heart.

On this day, I wonder if she thinks about her infant daughter that has become an incredible little girl.  Does she think about how she is doing?  Does she have dreams for her?  Or is life such that such thoughts are too distracting or painful?

Some aspects of this woman must live in on my daughter.  I have no idea how much of her personality is shaped by this unknown.  I do realize, however, that my daughter is not the sole product of my caregiving.  Assuming that her birthmother contributed in some way to the person my daughter is becoming, I want her to know that she gave to me a child who is smart, funny, empathic, clever, confident, and on and on.

My amazing daughter.  And her amazing birthmother.  I cherish them both.

Gotcha

Tags

children, parenting, purpose, reflection

Four years ago, the U.S. Embassy in Guatemala City.  I am standing in a long line that snakes through a packed waiting room holding a 10 month old giggling, drooling, squirming baby girl and a packet of papers.  Around me are other adults, some single and some in couples, similarly occupied with infants, toddlers and young children.  We look anxiously at the door in front of us, as one by one we are called in for an interview with a nameless bureaucrat who will change our lives.  This is the last hurdle we all need to clear before the child that is with us becomes our own.  It’s our Gotcha Day.

Finally, my soon-to-be daughter and I are at the front of the line.  I find myself going numb.  I’m trying to take everything in, but feel engulfed by the magnitude of the moment.  In this highly impersonal venue, I am about to officially become a mom.  Quietly I weep into the baby blanket.  Take a deep breath.  Check the documents once again.  And then I’m called.

Through the door you immediately have to sit down in one of two chairs.  The room is the size of a broom closet.  The embassy staff person rifles through all the documentation, muttering and stamping as he goes.  Occasionally he glances over to us, but mostly focuses on the paper work.  He then says, “sign this and go to window 4.”   That’s it.  He gets up to take my paper work to the worker behind that window.  No congratulations or good luck.  I’m a bit stunned.

We leave the broom closet and I head to window 4.  Along the way, I grab my close friend who, along with her husband, have accompanied me to Guatemala.  Another embassy staff person calls us to the window.  He’s a bit more animated and asks a few questions (none of which I remember).  I give him my final payment, sign a few more documents, and then I hear the magic words – “You are done.  Congratulations.  Your daughter’s visa will be delivered to the hotel in 48 hours.  Best of luck.”

I nearly faint with relief.  We emerge into the brilliant sun, hail a cab and head back to the hotel (really – a Club Med for adopting parents).  I just want to sit by the pool, relax and never let go of this sweet little girl who is now my child.

Anyone who has gone through an adoption process knows how frustrating it can be.  What made this situation so harrowing was Guatemala’s decision to close down adoptions as of April 1^st of that year.  It had been a race against time to complete this and with two weeks to spare, we would be able to go home as a family.  All the hours of worry shed.

Four years later and here we are.  A mommy-daughter duo deeply devoted to one another.  Yes, we have our bad days (even weeks).  But more often than not, I’ve found such joy in this adventure.  More than one person has said that she is the perfect fit for me.  I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.

Not infrequently, people will remark how lucky she is that I adopted her.  And yes, her life will no doubt be better in some significant ways because of the array of options and opportunities now at her disposal. She can dream a future that would probably have been unattainable in Guatemala.

But there also are losses that I can only try to address when the time comes.  Her birth mother relinquished her because she did not have the means to support yet another child.  A single mother with several other children by a different father, this woman had been abandoned by her male partners, had little access to health care, no formal education and worked as a cleaning woman for miniscule pay.  Her brave act to give this child a different life leaves me in awe.  When old enough, my daughter will be able to learn about these hard truths, though will probably not meet her birthmother because of the latter’s request to have the adoption closed.

For the first 10 months of her life, my daughter was cared for by a foster mother who gave her love and security, as well as a connection back to Guatemala.  We remain in touch and someday I hope my daughter can see her again.  This woman gave a remarkable part of herself to a baby destined for someone else.  An incredible act of love.

I think of both of these women today with profound gratitude because in truth, I am the lucky one.  This little ball of energy and laughter, of questions and sing-songs, of strange dance moves and questionable fashion choices, of achievements and tantrums, has immeasurably changed my life.  Her presence provided me with something that no one else has since I was a child.  A real home in every sense of the word.

Happy Gotcha Day, sweet pea!

The Ongoing Goodbye

Tags

children, parenting, voice

Two years ago tomorrow, at around 1pm, my father died.  It was not unexpected — he had been ill for quite some time, though the final stage of his life went quickly.  My family, and my father, were incredibly fortunate to have the remarkable support from hospice and dad was able to die at home.  We were able to give him the death that he wanted.

My daughter, who was two at the time, my mom and I were in the room when he died. We knew this moment was upon us because the room suddenly was quiet — his labored breathing had stopped.  Holding his hand, and checking for his pulse, I felt those last seconds.  Then there was stillness, and for the first time in perhaps years, dad relaxed.

Dad wanted to be cremated and had no desire for big funeral.  So we gave him that as well, and in the spring when the New Hampshire weather was more cooperative, we held a simple graveside ceremony.  Later that summer, my brother and I trekked to a favorite fishing hole of dad’s and scattered some of his ashes.  Mom and my sister mixed some of the ashes into the tennis court where dad spent so much of his time.  Another little bit was deposited at his parents’ grave and the rest buried at another family plot.

I don’t know what happens to a person after death.  My mom gains much comfort from her belief that they will be reunited.  I assume she’s aiming for heaven. My daughter has a more immediate connection to dad.  She believes that “we hold papa in our hearts.”   I like that, though it doesn’t quite capture my continued relationship with dad.  For me, dad is sitting on my shoulder — coaching, guiding, admonishing, questioning.  He is doing what he always did, trying to get me to get on and then stay on a path through which I can reach my full potential.

Upon learning that he had died, a long time friend wrote this observation — “he was a formidable presence in your life.”  She was right.  There was probably no other single person who had such an impact.  This is not to say we had an easy relationship.  We both were stubborn, had tempers and did not suffer fools gladly. He demanded a lot and expected that whatever you did, you would do it well.  I know he was  perplexed with some choices I made – most noticeably in the partner category (frankly, and in hindsight, so am I).

Yet through it all, I never doubted that he was “in my corner.”  Dad was not given to displays of emotion or heaps of praise, yet I nonetheless understood that he was proud of my accomplishments.  And when he did signal that you’d done a good job, it was pure gold.  Perhaps most significant – dad never said that I couldn’t do something or accomplish something because I am female.  To have a constant grounding message that I could aspire to anything, accomplish anything (as long as I worked for it) was an amazing gift.

There may come a time when I don’t think about him, or have conversations with him, but I can’t imagine when.  I miss him intensely, especially now that I am parenting.  He did get to spend some time with my daughter, but had he lived longer, she would have gained so much from him.  Instead, I try to conjure up his insights and words of wisdom, try to channel some of his energy and focus, and wish that I could get a kid to behave with just a glare (a special talent of his).  In the darkness of night, I ask him for ideas or solutions.  Sometimes I vent my frustrations.  I share my desire that he be with me to help me guide this remarkable daughter of mine.  And then I listen.

And so, dad has been gone for two years.  But not entirely.  He still is a powerful influence on me.  He remains a strong presence.  He’ll always be “dad.”  My goodbye to him will never be final.

Garden Porn

Tags

gardening, reflection

I knew that would get your attention.  The extent to which pornography is about invigorating the senses, then reading gardening catalogs (especially when its snowing) does it for those of us who love to play in the dirt and try to grow things come the spring.  I can not claim any amazing gardening talent (unlike my parents and brother).  But I still love to dream.  And looking through Burpees and other seed catalogs stokes the dream.

These publications are exquisite.  Pictures of beautifully ripened fruits and vegetables.  Amazing flowers.  Enticing text.  It’s easy to become addicted to the idea that one (that is me) could become a master gardener.

I could literally blow thousands of dollars feeding this addiction.  The absurdity is that I have a garden the size of a postage stamp.  And while I can coax out of it decent lettuce and pea crops, the green beans, tomatoes, eggplant and peppers often fall victim to the hot, humid summers of Philly.  What begins as a grand experiment in container gardening, vertical gardening, small spaced gardening often ends with bolting vines and bug chewed produce.  And then there are the over-eager attempts with new veggies — cabbage one year and brussel sprouts another took over the garden.

My two smallish flower gardens suffer similar fates.  And frankly, if it weren’t for hostas, I’d probably have little to show for all the effort that goes into these gardens in the spring.  I’m never sure what’s coming up and whether its good or bad.  The soil in most places is hard, poor and root-bound (thanks to a water sucking pine tree).  There’s too much shade.  And the neighborhood kids love to run through, not around, many of the plants.  Still, I will try to cram as much flowering things as possible and hope for the best.

And I do this every year.  Because every year I think maybe I’ll figure it out.  I’ll beat the slugs.  I’ll have a better watering schedule.  I’ll keep the cats from using freshly tilled soil as a giant litter box.

This fantasy starts with the January arrival of the garden catalogs.  Page after page of luscious promise.  And in the dead of winter, when the ice and snow is on the ground, one forgets the frustration of gardening and tries to imagine that moment in time when the produce gets picked and nothing could possibly taste better.  Quite the act of seduction.

Occupy

Tags

community, economics, justice, voice

It has been quite a while since the last entry.  I blame it on the craziness of December — holidays, end of the semester cramming, travel, and well, general laziness.  I have been thinking, however, about what little gem would provide my blog ending to 2011.  What would capture the last 12 months?  What might provide a creative springboard for the new year?

There is one word that stands out for me as capturing the essence of 2011 and offering a guideline for 2012, and that word is occupy.  Most of us probably now associate this word with the Occupy Wall Street (and beyond) movement that burst into our collective consciousness over the past few months.  This movement has been subjected to a number of criticisms (no leadership, unclear message, drumming circles, etc.), most were undeserved and usually way off the mark.  It is worth taking a moment to reflect on what this movement has brought to and demands of us:

• Socio-economic issues are THE issues.  The heart of most problems in this country have to do with class.  Pure and simple.  This movement drove home the basic point, and in the process raised for discussion, that the U.S. is a grossly unequal society (come on — 50% of all Americans at or near poverty).  And is usually in abject denial about this.
• Citizenship is not a spectator sport.  To be a good citizen mean assuming the responsibility of acting — whether is through self-education, calling officials, leafletting and canvassing or protesting in public.
• The elite and their allies have no shame.  The manipulation of people’s fears so that they would work against their own interests was amazing.  The abuse of the media was astounding.  The attack on public school teachers and other workers was disgusting.  The mocking.  The denials.  The pepper spray.   All appalling.  These shameful attitudes and actions need to be called out.  Silence is their friend.
• Community matters.  I was amazed at the mini-villages that sprung up in the Occupy camps.  People wanted social connection and established all sorts of creative ways to make that happen.  Critical within these networks was communication.  People talked, debated, tweeted, and dialogued.

We need to carry these movement gifts forward.  We need to embrace the double meaning of “occupy” –  to take possession or control of and to engage the attention or energies of others (thanks Merriam-Webster).  To honor the incredible work of the Occupy activists (who often placed themselves at all sorts of risks), we need to make the commitment to occupy our legislatures, communities, houses of worship, schools, workplaces, playgrounds, neighborhoods, and civic organizations.  We need to occupy our families.  We need to occupy our own lives.

No, you can’t do it all.  And don’t even try.  But, we can all do something, and probably more than we are already doing.  The responsibility for keeping the Occupy movement alive rests on all our shoulders.  Democracy can not be sustained when the citizenry is uneducated, uncommitted and unequal.  And ultimately, that’s what I saw as the core message of the movement — “fight for our democracy before it is sold and dissembled.”  So let’s occupy democracy.  Let’s take control of it.  Let’s engage the energies of ourselves and others in it’s preservation.  The alternative is simply too frightening to contemplate.

OCCUPY.  And that’s the word of the year.

Stuff It

Tags

confidence, purpose, rant, voice

Warning: This is a rant.  Against Thanksgiving.  If you love this holiday beyond reason, you may not want to read this entry.  

I realize that Thanksgiving is considered one of those truly American, family-centered holidays.  This is, no doubt due to the Pilgrim story with a dash of Norman Rockwell.  And perhaps for some, it still fulfills that purpose.  But for me — well, I can’t stand this holiday or at least what this holiday now seems to stand for.  Here’s why.

First, I’d like to be able to say that my antipathy for Thanksgiving is because of a carefully reasoned political analysis of what whites have done to Native Americans — that the tale of the first Thanksgiving is just a myth to make many of us feel better or just ignore the betrayal and exploitation of indigenous people.  But I’d be lying to claim that as the reason for my intense dislike of the day (though I do agree with this perspective and suggest this site as a place to start: http://www.uaine.org/).

In no particular order – here’s why this holiday bugs the sh*t out of me:

• The food is, for the most part, bland and beige.  Has anyone really had a turkey that actually tastes yummy?  The lengths that folks go to make that impossible goal happen are absurd — brining, seasoning, smoking, basting, etc., and if you still screw up you can call a 24 hour help hotline.  Really — this is a good use of resources?  The only color comes either from that nasty green bean dish with fake onions or cranberries in a can (though I’ll admit, I love the sound of that jellied cylinder coming out of the can).
• A second food point — I’m amazed at the number of food disasters I have witnessed as folks attempt to get a complete meal on the table.  These include a thoroughly burnt turkey (totally black), a boiled in a bag turkey (a soggy mess — though moist), and a turkey that was put in the oven frozen (let’s call that the salmonella bird).  Dishes are never ready all at the same time, so some get set aside and served luke warm to cold (when they should be hot), or you eat in shifts (sure, I’ll start with some brussel sprouts and wait 2 hours for the dinner rolls).  And then, some guest has to bring his or her favorite side dish, which requires an elaborate preparation your kitchen, and doesn’t fit into the overall menu (and tastes like cardboard).
• Yet the food debacles notwithstanding, this holiday seems to stand for gluttony.  Pants and belts undone, people groaning on the couch.  Am I the only one who finds this repulsive?  Do people really need to sample all the pies by creating one big pie with 8 different slices on a dinner plate?
• And the gendered roles come into full display.  Men disappear into the TV room to watch football games and eat pre-dinner noshes.  And as an aside – the football games feature either the Cowboys (which I hate) and/or the Lions (which til this year just sucked).  But no matter, the guys are in their cave getting their feedbags on.  On the other hand, the women are in the kitchen and dining rooms trying to make a ridiculous meal come to life.  There’s tables to set, chafing dishes to dig out of the attic, potatoes to mash into oblivion.  Once the meal is finally on the table, the head male gets to carve the turkey (and often acts as if he personally shot, cleaned and cooked it).  Once the food has been annihilated, clean up beings.  And guess who gets to do that?  Guess who heads back to the cave until the multi-flavor pie plates get created?  This makes me crazy (and I don’t want to hear about those men who are modern enough to help in the kitchen — this is my rant).
• The stress is often off the charts.  Food prep stress.  People getting along stress.  Travel stress.  “This needs to be perfect” uber-stress.  Is it worth it to drive oneself so crazy?
• I also have some bad personal associations with Thanksgiving.  My marriage imploded over Thanksgiving.  The last time I saw my maternal grandfather was over Thanksgiving.  Some of the worst fights I had with my dad was over Thanksgiving.  Why didn’t Arbor Day get wrecked instead?
• Crass commercialism has completely taken over.  Supposedly, this is the start of the Christmas shopping season, though in actuality, that started around Labor Day.  I hate this — I really really hate this.  I hate all the ads.  I hate the crazy Friday when everyone has to go to the malls.  I hate that we can’t slow down and just focus on one holiday at a time.  If I could change one thing, this would be it.  Absolutely no Christmas anything until after Thanksgiving.

Now, in case anyone is worried, I have had some good Thanksgivings, and wouldn’t necessarily turn down an invitation in the future (though these probably won’t be forthcoming any time soon).  But for the most part, it is just too stressful, awkward and unfulfilling.  Yes, I know that there are many folks who love the holiday and all it means (and good for them).  But I’m not one of them.

What I’ve realized over the years, is that it is essential that I stay in touch with what works, and what doesn’t, for me.  For the most part, Thanksgiving doesn’t work.  Being grateful for all that I have is important and I try to do that, at least in some small way, each day.

It is also why the “holiday” that I truly celebrate (complete with family, friends, and lots of food) is “Gotcha Day.”  On March 14th, I mark the day that the adoption of my daughter became official.  It is the day we honor becoming a family, and I have never been more thankful for anything or anyone in my life.

A Monumental Conversation

Tags

justice, reflection, voice

MLK Memorial in Washington DC

Last week while in Washington, DC, I had the opportunity — really the privilege — of going to the newly opened Martin Luther King, Jr. monument.  I know there was some controversy about it, though I can’t remember what.  And after spending time there, on a spectacularly beautiful day, I can’t imagine what the concerns would be.

The photo doesn’t do this incredible work of art justice.  King stands in the foreground of an area that is rimmed by waterfalls and granite walls engraved with some of his inspiring words.  Behind King is the “mountain,” out of which he emerged.  King holds a scroll — representing the power of the written word.  He is looking out over the Tidal Basin. A powerful tribute to all he stood for.

Jefferson Memorial (image from Google)

Across the Tidal Basin is another favorite site — the Thomas Jefferson Memorial.  More classical in style, there is a quietness to this monument.  Jefferson also holds a scroll — fitting for the primary author of the Declaration of Independence.  I like that this memorial is not part of the Mall, but rather off to the side.  It seems to reinforce the idea that Jefferson, while central to the birth of this nation, might have preferred being elsewhere.  Away from the chaos of revolution; at his home tending his garden.

These two inspirational, yet flawed, men face each other across the water.  As if contemplating a conversation.  What would they choose to talk about?  I would imagine King would ask Jefferson how he could be an advocate for liberty while owning slaves.  Perhaps Jefferson would question King as to the wisdom of having religion holding so central a place in the pursuit of justice.  I would think both would express dismay with the current state of our country — the gross inequalities, the shredding of the constitution, the dominance of party politics or corporate greed over thoughtful debate that leads to needed solutions.  I am guessing that both would be heartened by the Occupy movement (I know I am).

Imagine this monumental conversation, that might include statements such as these:

• “All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent.” Thomas Jefferson
• “An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.”  Martin Luther King, Jr.

What would we add, what should we add, to this discussion?