More than funukkah
I’m not feeling the Hanukkah thing. Maybe that’s because I’m new at it. Come to think of it, I can’t say I’m really feeling the Christmas thing this year, either. Oh, except for the caroling on Sunday, that was special . . . sort of euphoric, really. I might say it even transcended my notion of “Holiday Spirit”. Besides the caroling, though, I’m having trouble getting my ho-ho-ho on. Are my expectations too high?
What the heck is holiday spirit, anyway? We go through these traditions: hanging lights, sending cards, buying gifts and wrapping them — for what? I think a majority of people do it for their children–for fun, or possibly an annual break in an otherwise mundane routine. Maybe we do it for an opportunity to demonstrate generosity, or for the chance to gather with family, or for a religious experience. Or maybe all of the above. But how do those reasons translate into the intangible “holiday spirit”?
There are those who would say that the holidays are the times when they feel most in touch with God. Others would say they practice the holiday customs to try and find God. Like this one friend I have, she told me once that she was dedicated to practicing weekly Jewish traditions as best as she could in order to eventually be able to feel a sense of the divine. Or at least, that’s how I interpreted what she told me. I have an admiration for her perseverance. The truth is that I, on the other hand, would never continue returning to my religious traditions if it weren’t for the buzz.
Yeah, for me, there is sometimes a buzz: an inexplicable surge of goodness, a palpable wave of joy. It’s been happening my whole life. Often times, I feel it when I’m out in nature – on the hiking trail, looking up at a tree, being present with a single leaf. The sensation was immense when I arrived at the red rocks of Sedona. And I felt it overwhelmingly when I was confirmed at the age of 13. It’s hard to describe or explain but I know it’s associated with my idea of a god.
Granted, I don’t feel it around generalized religious concepts. I find the vocally politicized “Christian” culture in America to be repulsive. In fact, I rarely reveal my involvement in a religious community because it’s hard to find a quick way to tell people, “My church is different. It’s filled with smart, compassionate, generous, loving, welcoming, rather cool and, for the most part, awesome people.” Sounds like a sales pitch, right? So I avoid it. Needless to say, I’m still figuring out how to resolve my self-identification as a church-goer.
Nonetheless, I cannot deny the buzz. Am I asking for too much to want that thing called “Holiday Spirit” to match it? That surge of goodness. If “Holiday Spirit” means anything, shouldn’t it mean a bliss, the bliss associated with being in the presence of something holy?
I’m willing to question it: this feeling. Perhaps it comes from just the right combination of caffeine and sunlight; a biological phenomenon — the body’s response to specific stimuli. And we can’t discount geological forces; after all, the Sedona red rocks are clustered around “ancient vortexes”, right? Or maybe sensations of ecstasy come from subconscious contact with aliens in another galaxy. No doubt there are hundreds if not thousands of explanations that I have not explored. Still, I’m most apt to think these feelings really have something to do with god. The one God – of everyone and all religions.
I’ll be the first to admit that the only reason I believe in this God is because I was taught to from a very early age. Further, my belief is Christian-flavored because that’s my familial context. My parents put up the tree in December and took us to a place on Sundays where people talked about Jesus. They prayed to something that sounded like a blend of Superman, Jimmy Stewart and Santa Claus, what’s not to like? Some Sundays, Dad gave me his keys to our nearly new 1979 Sedan DeVille so I could sneak out before the really boring part and play Limousine Passenger until the service was over. After that, we always went to the club for brunch. That meant all you can eat french toast and all you can drink grape juice. Believing had its rewards.
I have no trouble accepting that I’ve been psychologically programmed to have a belief in a benevolent god. I’m predisposed to experiencing religious faith. At the risk of sounding patronizing, I feel sorry for the people who aren’t. Sure, there are other ways to see this–that faith is a sign of psychosis or inferior intelligence, that faith is a gift from God, that faith is something we’re supposed to try to pass along, that faith is dangerous, etc.
Now that I think about it, I see a benefit to the absence of holiday spirit I’m feeling this year. It’s given me this opportunity to explore the whole point of my so called faith. Believing in God doesn’t start with buying and wrapping gifts nor does it it have anything to do with lighting candles and saying ancient prayers. It’s not about how I label myself or even whether or not I’m feeling “the buzz”. It’s actually much more basic than that.
It’s about what I do each and every time I interact with another human being. Do I express love?
I fail a lot. But that’s for another post.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 12.
Holy Night
Go to almost any shopping mall and you’ll see them–those Glee-graduate carolers dressed in Dickens’ wear offering up near perfect harmonies. They’ve got their lyrics memorized and although they may not have made it on Broadway, they made it into the community chorus (which is far more competitive than you might imagine).
That wasn’t us.
And we weren’t singing at a shopping mall either. I believe they’re self-referentially known as Entertainment Destinations. The biggest and brightest offer the most materialistic slathering iconic Christmas imagery known to Western man. The writer in me is saying, “Use your words Ruth, use your words,” but heck – if you follow this link and look to the lower right for the Cadillac sponsored “Watch The Tree Come To Life” video – and click on that, you’ll get a big mouthful of all the holiday magic money can buy. (There; now I’ve sponsored Cadillac, too.) Nothing says “Christmas” quite like mass retail; no better place to partake of the festivities than the mall.
We weren’t there.
We were a random gathering of people with one guitar and about 50 song books. We divided our time between the local V.A., centers for people recovering from addiction, and a convalescent hospital. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. It wasn’t merely a good time. It was transformative.
I learned that the music that makes me want to carry weapons when I’m peeking over the sale rack at Coach and still consider the prices to be too high, the music that I avoid singing publicly because the last thing I ever want to do is push my faith on anyone, the music that can make any wait in any line of any sort seem like a bad day at the DMV, that music, I learned that in the right context, that music really is miraculous.
I don’t even know why this came as a surprise to me. Years ago, I found that having practiced some basic Buddhist meditative exercises, suddenly some of the old fashioned Christian hymn lyrics starting making a lot more sense. It’s no wonder, really, when you believe that everyone (from all places and points in history) who tries to communicate about an authentic experience of the divine is trying to describe the same thing, someone was bound to have done a good job at it.
I think it just takes hearing the songs with a new ear. And hearing them in the right places.
Like being at the nursing home last night. Singing our way through the hallway, we paused outside of one woman’s room. All I saw of her was her blanket covered feet at the end of the bed. She had a toe tap going, offering silent percussion. It was the first time I’ve ever sang, “tidings of comfort and joy,” and meant it.
Earlier, in the crowded dining hall at the addiction recovery center, the men were so welcoming – warm, really. I made sure to hold my book low and keep eye contact with as many people around me as I could. Almost everyone sang along to every tune. Despite all the laughter, I never got the sense that we were being laughed at. It wasn’t a show as much as a mutual serenade. A-sing-along.
Every pause between carols brought cheerful hollers of song titles. It wasn’t all Rudolphs, Frostys and Jingle Bells, either. Surprisingly, over half of the requests were for the more religious carols. Imagine Hell’s Angels calling out for “Joy to the World”; Public Enemy-looking-guys yelling, “Away in a Manger.”
During, “Oh Holy Night,” when we got to the last half of the fourth line, “. . . the soul felt its worth,” I felt an unexpected surge of emotion rise up over my chest. Pushing it back down took effort.
O holy night, the stars are brightly shining
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
’til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
The soul felt its worth. Could I? Could I ever learn to even identify, let alone feel, my worth? The man, eight feet away, holding his song book just like he might have back in 2nd grade, looking every bit as happy as a seven year old anticipating Santa’s arrival, could he? Could he feel his own worth? The dozens of men around him, resolved to twelve step meetings every day for the indefinite future, could they feel their worth?
I’m not talking about the billions of galaxies in the universe sense of worth, or the trillions of years in eternity kind either. I’m talking about the worth of being someone’s baby boy, or someone’s father. The worth of looking at a stranger across a room and smiling for just one second. I’m talking about a sense of worthiness.
The soul felt its worth. I sang that line and I wanted it. I wanted a sense of worthiness for myself and for each person in that room: our guitar player, and her grand nieces, the Public Enemy-looking-guys and their temporary roommates. I wanted it for the woman with her tapping toe in the convalescent home, and for each and every person in any V.A. across the planet today or tomorrow or next year. I wanted it for the Darwin-dressed sextets singing in the damn awful shopping centers all over the country, and I sure as hell wanted it for the shoppers, too. Because one thing I know for certain is that it can’t be bought.
We sang on, “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,” . . . And that’s when the transformation really happened. My want turned into hope. Not quite a “thrill”, but hope, nonetheless. It was like being inside of the happy climax to a melodramatic movie.
Only this was real life: these men were surviving and healing and singing. I was surviving and healing and singing. Our songs were new and glorious. Divine.
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This post selected by a panel of readers for “Best of Holidialies ‘09“.
Thanks, Chip & Jette!
“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 8.
Now
Thank you, nose.
Thank you, oxygen.
Thank you, lungs.
Thank you, stomach.
Thank you, brain.
Thank you, digestive tract.
Thank you, plumbing, inventors of plumbing, and living plumbers.
Thank you, running water, sanitized and here.
Thank you, neck and eyes.
Thank you, fingers and skin.
Thank you, computer and feet.
Thank you, tongue and coffee.
Thank you, ears.
Thank you, errors and repairs, sickness and healing.
Thank you, airplanes and hugs.
Thank you, smiles.
Thank you, breakfast, strawberries, pickers and growers of strawberries, sunlight, rain, irrigation, trucks, and fuel.
Thank you, morning, minute, second, measurement, clock.
Thank you, now.
Walking Last Night
“Whatever you focus your thoughts on expands” – Wayne Dyer
Out for just a mile last night–doing some really deliberate self-care–and look what I was lucky enough to notice:
Oh, if you could see the gratitude parade of words I just typed & deleted, it was a namaste-shalom-love-fest. Never fear, I had the good sense to edit away my overly sentimental drivel. Instead of fluff, I’m attempting to focus on the tangible.
The fact of the matter is that even if I work to avoid hyperbole on the happy end of the spectrum, and even if I stay real about the pain I experience at times, I cannot deny that I’ve got slivers and moments of great joy. And, yeah, I’m grateful again.
Something new
Out for a walk at dusk last night, I saw this image in the view finder of my iPhone and instantly thought, “I will not let you down.”
I wasn’t the “I” in that statement. When I think thoughts like that, I usually attribute the “I’s” to God. However, I’m really not the kind of person who would say that God talks to me.
In my understanding of the few religions I’m familiar with, it seems as if the mistake is made of anthropomorphizing this thing we call, “God”. But that’s another topic.
The fact is, the plants in that photo reach up . . . . I want to say fourteen, maybe twenty feet high. Like, high. And they’re right down the block. I’ve walked past them countless times, driven past them nearly every day for 15 years. I might have gotten in close and raised my neck to see them once before. Maybe.
But last night, I was present with them. and present with a couple dozen other plants on my short two block walk. It was delightful. Peaceful. Free. Safe.
I had set out for a frozen yogurt. Taking a moratorium from drinking — experimenting with sobriety, I thought the yogurt would be a nice treat. Nope. Snapping pictures of the plants, seeing them, receiving them (in a way), experiencing spontaneous creativity and wonder took away my desire for yogurt.
Removing the habitual behavior of drinking from my routine as opened this unexpected freedom of the present moment. Used to be, I was kind of itching to get to the cafe to read and have $3.95 chicken pot pie with a lemon drop or two. Now – no itching. I’m here. Books to read, stories to write, plants to see.
I was afraid of how I might feel without my self-medication. Wondering what might creep its head out from behind the fog and the guilt. So far, I’ve found this amazingly energetic, creative lady. I like her. She’s a bit up tight at times. Doesn’t fully enjoy children who kick up sand near her picnic blanket. She wants to leave her office while the sun’s still shining and gets bitter when that doesn’t happen. But so far, so good.
Turns out I’m happy.
Perspective
We were vacationing in Wyoming when violence broke out against the Iranian people last week. It’s hard to imagine the courage of the protesters.
I’ve had days when I thought, “Maybe I’ll wander over to the Federal Building and hold a sign for a couple hours. Then again, that new Judd Apatow movie is opening up. I wonder if I have time for both?”
Never have I taken a stand when returning home safe was unlikely.
A year and a half ago, I posted this picture of Tehran. While being in the Grand Teton National Park is fresh in my memory, I’m more amazed than ever by this photo. It’s borrowed from the unapolgetic mexican’s thought-provoking piece about the beauty of Iran. If cityscapes are not your thing, I encourage you to check out the photos at his site.
Peace and safety to our brothers and sisters around the globe who are taking a stand today. Thank you for making our world a better place.
Nice to meet you; rest in peace
I woke up last Tuesday morning dreaming that I was defending myself against a huge Bear-Beast-Thing. Armed with nothing but a wooden chair, I somehow managed to hold it at bay. Even as I kept my distance, its flailing paws reached me – claws grazing the backs of my hands. Its big teeth snapped at the air between the thin chair legs. The struggle did not subside until I woke up afraid and exhausted, alarmed and angry.
That was over 129 hours ago. My mood has risen and fallen an unknown number of times between now and then. Mostly risen.
I can tell you I’ve been sleeping better. More consistently and with sweeter dreams. Yesterday morning, I dreamt that an old high school classmate whose daughter’s birthday party is displayed in all of its Home and Garden glory on FaceBook was singing in a contest at summer camp. She sounded just like Billie Holiday. I sat on a blanket listening to her sweet voice at twilight. That was the dream: enjoying her milky voice through full and melodic songs.
Today, the move to write happened after listening to “O Magnum Mysterium” three straight times with earphones while reading David Foster Wallace’s 2005 commencement speech delivered at Kenyon College.
I’m not finished reading his speech yet. I’ve just gotten up to the part where he says,
“…the world will not discourage you from operating on your default-settings, because the world of men and money and power hums along quite nicely on the fuel of fear and contempt and frustration and craving and the worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation.”
And the Robert Shaw Chamber Singers are all like, “Ahhhhwwwwwww Owwwwwwwww” and I feel as if I don’t write something right now my chest will break back open again, right along the scarline and my sternum will separate on its own and (yes, I know David Foster Wallace hung himself the week before my 39th birthday, months before I would ever read a single sentence he ever constructed) it doesn’t matter what I write, I just need to do it now.
So I have come here to tell you about the bear and the singing, and all the moods in between–the moods I’m so tired of, the moods that graze the skin on the backs of my hands again and again, day after day.
And now I have. A little bit.
Do I finish reading David’s speech before I close this post? Sure.
” …of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom.”
“It is about simple awareness — awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, that we have to keep reminding ourselves, over and over: ‘This is water, this is water’.
It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive, day in and day out.”
It is. It is, David. Thank you for trying as long as you did.
Beautiful
On a completely different topic than the video above, no I haven’t given up blogging. I will be writing again sooner than later. I miss it. Hi Mom. Thanks for stopping by. Love you!
Perspective
Due to circumstances I wish had not come up, I spent a few days visiting with someone I love very much last week at Children’s National Hospital in Washington, D.C.. Thank God, this dear person will be coming home from the hospital soon.
I’ve often taken pride in writing with utter specificity, but that option is off limits when it comes to protecting the privacy of the people in my life. Certain family members (especially Andy, sometimes my brother or parents) deal with more than their fair share of exposure here. But the young ones, their lives are not mine to speak about publicly. So while my recent and unexpected trip east was profound in many ways, I’m keeping my impressions to a minimum.
I want you to know about the little girl down the hall from the room I was visiting. I don’t know her name. But I remember how clearly she spoke, even while crying, as she commanded her attending nurse, “Leave me alone!” I hope never to forget the moments of her suffering that I happened upon briefly over the last couple days. I saw her face – she’s a beautiful, very young, articulate person just past her toddler years, and she’s going through such a hard time. I so very much wish there was something I could do to help. It’s difficult to go back to my day job as an entertainment accountant after watching this sweet preschooler deal with such pain and fear.
I don’t have the nursing gene; I’m bored by biology and chemistry, but over the last couple of days, I can’t stop coming back to the thought that I wish I was back at the hospital. In those three days while I was there, I didn’t have the courage to stop in to chat with the little boy at the end of the hall who seemed never to have any visitors. In fact, I didn’t speak to anyone at the hospital other than the people I came to see and the cafeteria cashiers. I felt shy and out of place. And yet, I want to go back.
So I’ll leave you with this. If you’ve got an amazon.com account, you are only a few clicks away from having toys sent to the hospital. I want to do more than sending gifts, but maybe it’s a good beginning.
Puppy!
Malia has great taste in dogs. Can I have a rescued goldendoodle, too?
I’m happy to report that my letter to the ASPCA has been answered already! I should have known people would be on this mission.
Hi Ruth,
We couldn’t agree more! Several animal welfare groups have been running campaigns over the last few months to drum up support/signatures to persuade Obama to make his new dog a rescue. The most notable of these is probably the campaign run by Best Friends Network. Check it out here:
http://www.obamafamilydog.com/The ASPCA issued a press release to the media this week urging the Obamas to make adoption their first option. You can view it on our website at this link:
http://www.aspca.org/press_110508Also, our President, Ed Sayres, was quoted in this piece in USA Today:
http://www.usatoday.com/life/lifestyle/2008-11-05-obama-dog_N.htmThanks for writing and for caring about animals.
And guess what?? Look! “The Obama Family will Adopt.” So energizing to see good work get done! I guess I should have been reading my LA Times more closely; they announced the news back on 10/10/08. Just yesterday, The Chicago Tribune ran a story with this,
” . . . Michelle Obama told reporters in October that the family would select a rescue dog from a shelter. . . . At the PAWS Chicago Adoption Center, officials said they would be able to find a designer puppy to meet both Malia’s needs and her mother’s prerequisites.”
What’s next? Let’s get on it! Can we do anything to help this situation?
UPDATE: The Humane Society invites us to sign their card to the Obamas here.
Puppy?
Tonight, I sent my first e-mail to our new leader. If you’d like to join me, click here.
Dear President Elect Obama,
Words cannot express my joy over your election. Thank you for your service to our country. I’m looking forward to your leadership.
Regarding the new puppy — I’m writing to ask you to please adopt a pet from an animal shelter. This would set an amazing example which could feasibly save the lives of hundreds of worthy pets waiting to be rescued.
Thank you for your time.
Ready to do my part in this great democracy,
Ruth [LastName]
Los Angeles, CA
UPDATE: This morning I wrote to The Humane Society, the ASPCA, The Animal Rescue Site and ARME (Animal Rescue Media Education) asking all of them to encourage their members to write to President-Elect Obama on this issue. I’m feeling a little bit like a grass root today. Go Democracy! What shall we nag the government about tomorrow?
Yes. New World.
We telephoned our parents as the results rolled in. “Wow.” Then CNN called it. We wept with the strangers who were now our table mates. Our parents called us 5 minutes later. “This is really happening.” Our best friends called us. “I love you.” And called again 5 minutes later. “I really love you.” And then, when Obama was the President Elect for 7 more minutes, “Have I told you that I love you?” The valet parkers lost our car; all smiles, all smiles. Yes! Yes! This is really happening. Allah Hu Akbar! Hallelujah!
But it became even more clear for me when Andy reached his pal on the line. No hello, just, “So hey, world changed.”
World. . . changed.
President Elect Obama’s speech tonight was one of the best I’ve ever heard. Three words stood out to me, “. . . spirit of service . . .” Yes.
It reminded me of hearing a McCain supporter on the radio last night talking about how he wanted to keep ALL of his money ALL for himself. Which prompted the interviewer to say something to the effect that: We’ve got two wars going on — whatever happened to the idea of civilians having to make sacrifices? If there’s an enemy to fight, shouldn’t we all be cutting corners, making sacrifices for the greater good? But I digress.
Tonight, the world is a better place. For all of us.
Except for the fact that Andy paid .99 for Kool & the Gang’s “Celebration” just for this moment. Well, the lyrics do feel appropriate.
I prefer this one (also brought to me by my darling A):
We can’t stop because we love this life.
Voting
Today I’m reading California State Measure Proposition 2 for the very first time. Of course I knew “Yes on 2″, but I hasn’t actually read it. The summary states, “Requires that certain farm animals be allowed, for the majority of every day, to fully extend their limbs or wings, lie down, stand up and turn around. Limited exceptions apply.”
This bears repeating:
”Requires that certain farm animals be allowed, for the majority of every day, to fully extend their limbs or wings, lie down, stand up and turn around.”
Imagine not being able to make any of those motions for even just a portion of your day, not to mention, your entire life.
I’m sad for all the years when I bought eggs without ever thinking about what the chickens were going through. If this measure doesn’t pass, I’m taking to the streets.
This day is here
I got out of bed at 3:07am wondering if the polls were open back east yet. It’s raining here. Still predawn. I watched a few Obama Peace Train videos on Youtube. Wept a little. Realized that I still haven’t filled out my absentee ballot. My tradition is to drop it off in person on election day. I cried harder at the idea of filling out my ballot. I considered lighting a candle and doing it now, but decided to wait a few hours for Andy’s company and coffee. I’d photograph it for the blog, but something about that feels like it would be illegal. Must not tamper. Will try to get some more sleep before my work day starts. I don’t know how.
ONE DAY TO THE U.S. ELECTION
Project Inspiration Honoree of the Day: Shannon Keith
Shannon Keith has spent her life advocating for animals, and she’s only getting started. As an attorney, documentary filmmaker, non-profit founder, and an activist, the focus of her energy goes towards helping non-human sentient beings.
I hold hope that during our lifetime, attitudes towards who we eat and how we treat those creatures are going to shift radically. Let’s google Shannon in the year 2030 and see what her role has been.
TWO DAYS TO THE U.S. ELECTION
Project Inspiration Honoree of the Day: Sy Safransky
After two writing teachers and a dear friend recommended that I start reading The Sun Magazine on a regular basis, I eventually checked the box that says “bill me later” and dropped the subscription card into the mail. The magazine started showing up and I delighted in its fulfilled promise: Personal. Political. Provacative. Ad-free. Page after page of great writing.
Then the bill arrived and was put to the bottom of the stack. It was just such a busy time that I neglected to pay immediately. Reminder bills came and I considered letting the subscription lapse all together. Not because it’s not, honestly, my ideal magazine. But because our apartment is packed — we don’t have room for new things that take up space, and I’m working on quieting down my brain, simplifying, right?
One night on the way home from work, I heard The Sun’s founding editor, Sy Safransky give a radio interview. He told this story. Go read it now. Do it. I can tell if my links aren’t clicked. Sure, I could recapitulate it here, but why, when a much better version of the tale as Sy tells it is available on line?
So I heard that amazing story, and I mailed my check the next day.
I carry an issue of The Sun in my courier bag nearly every day. As often as I read it, I feel good about the world. There is a magazine we can read without having to look at 98 pound women trying to sell us shit we don’t need. There is a magazine we can read that is written for the people, by the people, about the people without corporate intervention.
Sy’s on my list of inspiring people not only because he had the courage to leave his day-job so many years ago and follow his passion. Not only because he had the courage in 1990 to stop selling ads. He’s on my list because of the large compassion he showed on that day last summer – you know what I’m talking about because you read about it here.
I’d like to leave you with an uplifting sentiment Sy wrote for the current issue of The Sun, but I don’t want to break any copyright rules. So I’m going to ask you to click again . . . when you go to this page, please look halfway down to the paragraph that starts, “NO MATTER WHO’S ELECTED president . . . ” read until you get to the word needle.
Yes, a poet made my list.
Scorecard Ready
Look what I made! What you see below is the scorecard I will be clinging to on Tuesday night. It’s based on the most current state-by-state polling data that was available yesterday. This chart helps me resolve a couple scenarios:
1. Ohio, Penn and Florida are all polling blue. Even if ALL THREE of those states mysteriously go to McCain, we’re still left with 270. Obama wins.
2. If Obama doesn’t take Colorado, New Mexico, OR Nevada (all polling blue) AND the RNC steals two of the three states noted above in #1, Obama still wins.
What happened to “Visualization Ruth“? What happened to “Project Inspiration Ruth“? She’s coming back, she just had to make her scorecard.
[EDITED 11/3/08: I revised the scorecard today - Virginia is closer than I would like . . . need to keep our eyes on it.]
THREE DAYS TO THE U.S. ELECTION
“If you really want to support the troops, listen to what they have to say.”
Project Inspiration Honoree of the Day: Paul Rieckhoff
Paul Rieckhoff is a veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom and the Executive Director and Founder of IAVA (Iraq & Afghanistan Veterans of America), the country’s first and largest Iraq Veterans group. He is nationally-recognized authority on the Iraq war and is also the author of the critically acclaimed book, Chasing Ghosts.
Rieckhoff created IAVA in June 2004 along with a couple of other Veterans, a handful of volunteers, and massive amounts of credit-card debt. The group attracted thousands Iraq War Veterans and more than 60,000 grassroots supporters across America, including family members of the troops presently in combat.
IAVA not only shed light on the challenges facing our Troops, but in late 2004 directly contributed to solving some of the most urgent problems. From investigating HUMVEE armor shortages to lobbying for expanded access to health care for Reservists and Guardsmen, IAVA pushed for real solutions to real problems.
Before you vote on Tuesday, sure to check out IAVA’s 2008 Congressional Report Card. It’s an evaluation based on the key veterans’ legislation that came to a vote during the 110th Congress that grades every Senator and Representative on their level of support for our troops.
I’m not surprised that McCain got a D (only 4 Senators have that distinction). Barack scored a B. Hillary Clinton, Harry Reid, Barbara Boxer, Henry Waxman and Diane Feinstein all scored an A’s. It bears pointing out that IAVA makes no political contributions or endorsements.
But this post is about Paul. The thing I find so inspiring about him is his articulate intelligence combined with his drive to serve others. Listen to him speak in the clip above. This man isn’t just smart, he’s a gift to the planet. Thanks, Paul.
