I-95

Early on this wintry Saturday, I-95 is quiet. Shrouded in fog, lined by spiny, leafless trees, save for the pines. Litter and traffic cones dot the otherwise monochromatic landscape. Here a sleeping excavation machine; there, in a clearing, a shrine to a dead loved one, the cross and wreath tidy, tended. What looks like a hawk wings through the haze. What looks like an owl watches intently, feathers puffed against the chill.

The bus driver pulls into a rest stop. A new driver boards. Wrappers crinkle, a respectfully low din of conversation is a hypnotic white noise.

We resume our journey north. The fog is spectral, enchanting. Was it fog like this that blinded Kobe’s helicopter pilot? What is beautiful can also break, crush, ruin. Just look at the world.

I am heading to New York for refuge in its relentless vibrancy and tolerance, the theater, and a coincidental overlap with my parents’ own week of retreat in the city.

In this bus in this fog in this cold in this path through dead-not-dead, I feel peace for the first time in weeks.

It is welcome.

Sink plants

Ignoring the state of the Republic to bring you a story of sink plants.

Sink plants, you ask? What are they? Do read on.

Several months ago, after brushing his teeth one morning, Ol came in my room and said, “Momma, there are plants growing out of my sink.”

Certain that he was punking me, because Ol is exceptionally good at pulling off pranks of all size and shape, I said, “Sure, Ol. Finish getting ready for school.”

Plants growing out of a sink.

The next morning, however, Ol returned to tell me that seriously, “There ARE plants growing out my sink.”

“Oliver, WHAT? Ugh.” I kinda stomped into his bathroom, and lo!

Ignoring the disgusting state of the sink and drain itself, or actually not because apparently it sustains life, THERE WERE PLANTS GROWING OUT OF HIS SINK. Boys are really just gross in many ways. I mean, WHAT?

I was so flabbergasted that all I could do was laugh uncontrollably and nearly pee. “Oliver, there ARE plants growing in your sink. This is totally disgusting and also hilarious.”

“I told you, Momma. I have been spitting tomato seeds in there…”

While he was at school, I continued to marvel at the hopeful green sprouts. Our housekeepers had recently scrubbed the sink, Ol had been spitting toothpaste down the hatch twice-daily, there are no windows directly facing the vanity, and oh my god, that drain is nasty. But what did those seeds do? They persevered.

I tenderly removed each seedling and decided to plant them. Why not? Were they in fact tomatoes? What kind? Would they keep growing if transplanted?

Ol’s buddy gave him this dinosaur planter for a birthday years ago, and it seemed perfect for the purpose at hand. I used good potting mix and placed the vessel on a sunny sill in our kitchen. When Ol got home and saw his plants, he was delighted.

Months later, and the sink plants are thriving. One was very alpha, so I had to divide and repot them earlier this week. They’re so damn earnest that I felt I should give them the best shot, and so purchased an inexpensive grow light. This has delighted Oliver, all of us really, even more.

It quickly became clear that the plants were, in fact, tomatoes. And Ol recently shared that he feels they are mini Kumatos. We shall see.

#SwarmTheCapitol :: what a day

A non-political and also comedic post is coming tomorrow, but for now, sit with me in the shaky, dispirited place I’ve been since K and I left the Capitol around 2.

K, aka Thursday walking friend, and I signed on for today’s day of action as soon as we heard about it late last week. It was a Herculean organizing effort in just a few days with people from all over coming in to make our voices heard, and she and I wanted to add ours. My longtime resister pal, Julie, signed on too, as did another friend, Marne. K and I met up at 9:30a and headed to an Episcopal church in Northeast DC for the pre-protest training.

There were tons of people of all stripes there, the organizers and musicians were inspiring, tables were laden with shirts, pins, stickers and more, all of which everyone was welcome to, for a donation or not, the spirit of inclusion and purpose was pervasive. We sat on the floor behind an older man with hearing aids, an elderly woman with stickers on her cheeks, and an inspired woman wearing so much flair that the manager of Chotchkie's would have hired and promoted her on the spot. We papered ourselves with stickers. Reverend Barber and the Poor People’s Campaign prepared in the room next to ours.

I completed a form that would allow the organizers to track and support me were I arrested, and K agreed to be my contact and pick the boys up if need be. Marne found and plopped on the floor next to us. She has a tiny baby at home and came out for a few hours to do what we should all be doing. It was really good to see her. The organizers introduced the marshal's and outlined the plan of action: we’d go to the Hart Senate Building atrium for a silent protest and then head to the steps of the Capitol. Julie said she’d meet us at Hart.

Around 11:30, we headed out of the beautiful church. We were many. We chanted, hugged, smiled, power-fisted. We didn’t verbalize it openly, but we all felt a sense of hope and determination: how can people who say they want a fair trial NOT want to hear from witnesses? Witnesses and documentary evidence. Aren’t we told, as citizens when we sit on jury duty, to impartially listen to both sides, taking into account all witnesses and evidence? Of course we are. So why shouldn’t Congress?

Our path took us past the Supreme Court: Justice the Guardian of Liberty. We waited patiently in the security line at Hart. We quietly applauded the number of civil disobedients there. We took stock of the number of police folks, both Capitol and DCPD. We know the rules. We respect them.

we never could figure out why we were smiling. conditioning? enjoyable to do something so meaningful together?

And yet the increasing numbers of enforcement officers felt intentionally threatening. The Silent Swarm, everyone meandering around the atrium like silent dust motes on various currents, is the way you can “protest” in the Senate. And so we did. The police presence grew, Julie waited nearly 20 minutes to get through security, and finally we were told that once we passed the seemingly arbitrary police line, we couldn’t go back. To the Capitol we went.

It was a glorious day here. Blue skies, dramatic clouds. It was cold. A pro-democracy org handed out hats; K and I each took one and were grateful. Marne left, Julie walked with us, we saw another resister friend along the way. We met a woman using a walker who’d taken a 1am flight into DC. Young people with bullhorns, older people with canes. Moms with strollers, people who looked rigid with anger and heartbreak. I felt bits of all of them. I tucked a snack bag of almonds into Julie’s pocket and gave the woman with a walker a small packet of Kleenex.

As we walked up to the Capitol, straight on, I felt I was approaching the reaping in The Hunger Games: determined, worried, enraged citizens maintaining equilibrium and decorum while marching up to a giant white marble edifice guarded by vested, armed officers who seemed pissed before we arrived. We lowered our signs, our voices, our fists. We have the right to assemble and the right to express ourselves. But past a certain line, on federal property that we pay for and to which we send elected officials, our rights become fuzzy, obscured in a vortex of permitting, mood, private and public space, and the people behind the window treatments.

It’s not a good feeling. That feeling didn’t improve as we were pushed off of and back from the stairs and then back, back, back towards the Supreme Court by a thick line of police. It didn’t improve as those who remained on the Capitol stairs were arrested one-by-one and handcuffed with zip ties. It didn’t improve as the final protester, a person in a wheelchair, was pushed away toward the paddy wagon (even though we cheered wildly for their courage). It didn’t improve as we checked in on Twitter to hear of the bullshit arguments against every law-breaking activity perpetrated by trump being made by his shill cavalry of sell-out “lawyers.” Does no one care about oath? Rules? Right?

just before the arrest

that’s me, fist raised

It never improved. Is it democracy when a peaceful protester’s Demand Democracy sign is ripped from his hands as he’s walked away and arrested? As another protester is dragged down the stairs, mouth covered?

This evening, I held my boys tight, helped with homework, played with the cats, served dinner. Keep calling, acting, defending, fighting. She’s worth it.