Where, how, when and why to start....

I set up this blog years ago and haven't even started. I'm intrigued how some people think that everyone will be interested in everything they have to say and some of us assume no one wants to know what we think. I'm sure there are many shades and varying degrees of everything in between, too.

So, rather than beating myself up for not getting started sooner, I think I'll "just do it".

Today, I watched -

I was recently in D.C. and had a very interesting morning. Interesting for me in that, while I am not a particularly un-feeling individual, I am not an overly-mushy person either. I was in the Metro, figuring out which pass to buy, when I noticed an older white man trying to figure out the machines, maps, passes, etc. He was in his 70's, I'd guess, and very trembly. As we waited for the Metro staffer to get to us, I noticed the man seemed to be on a mission; impatient and impassioned.

The staffer, a middle-aged black woman, turned to offer us her assistance. She was animated and enthusiastic - refreshing! So, why does it matter that he was white and she was black? It matters plenty. I couldn't help but think how not so very long ago this man, in this country, would not have been asking this woman for assistance and now, here they are communicating in an equitable fashion that came at a price.

He wanted to go to the war memorials and Arlington National Cemetery. Now I admit that I am possessed of an active imagination, but this man could so easily have been one of the people who fought along-side those whom he now longed to visit and honor. If so, he had fought for the freedoms we were all standing on this train platform enjoying - black and white. Was there an uncle, father, friend, best man or son in one of those graves and would this be, perhaps, his last visit. Even now, I can't fight the tears it brought to my eyes. I, so very much, wanted to ask him questions - but I didn't. Maybe it was better to just observe.

Then, once I was on the platform, I noticed a family coming out of the elevator; husband and wife, two small children and a teenage son in a wheelchair. The teenager was the first out of the elevator as he made his way to the train, seemingly excited by the journey ahead. His family hurried along behind him, juggling maps, cameras and water bottles.

A brief train ride and one more short elevator trip and we were all standing on the mall in front of the Washington Monument. The very tower that I would ascend the next day with a friend. Would this teenager make the same trip, see the same sights. Would he see more in all the things I would, unintentionally, take for granted?

I was suddenly grateful for elevators and ramps and wheels. I'd never thought of how these simple things could keep a family together. I remember the heated debates, passionate dismay and angry voices that could not see the worth in legislation that was set to create such advantages, and now - I see the worth and wisdom in them. I cried a little - again.

Well, it was quite a morning and I hadn't really even gotten started. Time to tackle the Smithsonian again - I love it. Our Nation's treasure trove.

First stop; the National Gallery/East Building. I noticed an elegant, older lady standing at the information kiosk with a smile I was certain was just for me. I told her I had little time and asked for ideas. She quickly sorted out my "quick tour" for me complete with maps and information. She was clear that I had to see the visiting exhibit by Spanish still life master, Luis Melendez, calling it "superb". She was right. As I stood, marveling at Melendez's eye for detail, deft brush-strokes and inexplicable ability to make painted grapes look completely edible, I couldn't help over-hearing a voice in the lobby of the exhibit. It was oddly familiar; steady and warm; fueled by a quiet and deliberate passion and a thorough and affectionate knowledge of the Melendez exhibit. I completed the tour and rounded the corner to discover "my smiling lady", holding court and sharing with the crowd of museum-goers. It was her voice I heard. The paintings were beautiful. She was a work of art! And yes. I cried, a little - again.

I dashed to the bookstore beneath the museum and grabbed an over-priced journal which said "Creativity takes courage" - Henri Matisse on it's cover. And yes, it seemed to be mocking me for all the times I've lost the courage to create and moreover to share those creations with the world. Nonetheless, I bought it - I needed something, if not some one, to listen to what I'd experienced that morning and while it was "museum gift shop over-priced," the galleries are free - it's the least I could do, right?

I sat by the wall of water in the Cascade Cafe and wrote it all down, re-cried every tear and pondered why it all mattered so much to me. Each time I found myself wishing I had asked many more questions but instead I watched.

I still don't know why these people affected me so and I may never know. All I'm sure of is that I'm glad they did. I'm glad I watched and I'm grateful for what I saw.

My God, what these people have seen; lives lived and hopefully shared by many loving souls.

I found myself wishing I was capable of more extraordinary thoughts, more inspiring words; I'd love to be remembered someday for having said something really important; truly profound. But all I came up with was this -

"It seems that life is always measured in height - "life is short". But, perhaps, it is better measured in width - Stretch out!"