Friday, February 8, 2019

Not being broken

The other day, my husband and I could not remember which level we parked on, and then Terry McAuliffe got on the office building elevator with us. I have encountered the former governor during different political incarnations of his, starting with an internship I had at the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee while a freshman in college. At that time, he was the Chairman of the Democratic National Committee, and would come to meetings and events at our temporary office space near Capitol Hill (a new headquarters was under construction). He would meet with my then-boss Peter Waldheim, and speak alongside the late Congressman Robert Matsui (our DCCC boss at the time) and then-Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi (our big boss at the time). I can feel my Republican family members cringing.

Serendipitously I showed the governor the book I was holding, which was an advanced copy written and gifted to me by Lester Hyman (out soon - title: JFK, The Kennedys and Me - I'll actually be hosting a book signing dinner for him at the Arts Club of Washington on March 22nd). I reminded Terry that the last time we had crossed paths was at a restaurant in Georgetown while Lester and I were lunching. Terry had walked in and we couldn't help notice his jubilant arrival and the conspicuous presence of gubernatorial security guards. It was 2016, the eve of one or more major primary elections between Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton. Both Terry and Lester have known each other a long time, both were friends and backers of Hillary, and I remember this being discussed.

Seeing Terry made me remember interning for the DCCC, and that I was only weeks into recovery from a major surgery which to this day offers a lot of challenges. It was done the summer after graduating high school. The surgeon broke my upper pallet in several places, and then put it back together, securing it with actual screws. Afterwards, my upper and lower jaws were wired together, so that my mouth was fixed shut well into my first semester at American University.

This meant that for my internship, I had to apply, be interviewed, and begin without being able to speak. It also meant for an interesting way of starting college.

Terry no longer has the gubernatorial security, but he was as jovial as ever. Politics is tough. So is life. He might run for president. I like him and liked seeing him, but am currently an early supporter of Marianne Williamson's campaign.

I am now once again in recovery, this time from the unexpected passing of my father towards the end of last year. Today I woke up before dawn to drive to his house to meet the tow truck driver who would take his/my old mustang convertible out of his driveway. When it runs, it runs rickety, and my brother and I decided to donate it to Cars Helping Veterans.

It was the car that we (my father, brother and I) would drive down to Alabama in when we visited family each year, stopping at caverns and other sites along the way. It was the car I learned to drive in. My father would stop it on a hill, push in the parking brake, put the clutch in neutral and tell me to get behind the wheel, shift into first and drive forward without stalling out. It was a process, but I learned to drive. It then became mine for two years until I left for college, and returned it back to him, allowing for a healthy amount of hi jinx in the interim.

A month after receiving my license to drive legally, the Mustang (and teenage me) was in a major accident - which, according to Kelley's Bluebook, totaled the car. But we still had it fixed. My father didn't keep collision insurance coverage so that meant we had to fix it out of pocket. The passenger door never again closed completely, but it was forest green with a tan top and a gold racing stripe and I loved that car. It took 20 minutes of jumpstarting the battery this morning to be able to back it out of the driveway, and its engine belt howled until it was fixed to the tow truck and turned off.

I have found myself reflecting on the concept of brokenness.

My parents divorced when I was six, so the term might be applied - by some - to elements of my and my brother's childhood. My mother remarried a good and kind man and together they brought my sister into being, who I love and learn from. Every break allows for growth. Appreciating that dance seems correct.

Our politics is broken, but we now have an opportunity to begin transforming our nation in ways that are truly revolutionary, which I believe involves a spiritual awakening as much as a new social contract.

We all have traumas. As individuals, families, communities and societies. We can try and share them or explain them but ultimately they are not healed from doing this. They are never healed. They do however expand our consciousness, making room for more awareness, and they therefore pave the way to more love, more compassion, and more joy.

We can heal our Selves not by getting 'over' anything, but by growing through and beyond obstacles...by acknowledging realities - of Self, of politics, of nature - and letting awareness guide our choices.

Having just returned from India, where I did a monthlong yoga teacher training at a rural ashram outside the city of Mysore, and also having recently openly committed myself to a spiritual journey, I have been asked whether I feel transformed. Sure. Of course. I have found myself saying that I am 'still processing' the India experience. But in reality, we are always processing, and constantly transforming. This gives me inspiration and hope, because within this process, we can never be broken.