Washington Whispers

This city runs on clockwork.  Everyday I wait for the bus and the same people pass me on their walk to the metro, or to work.  There's the chubby Hispanic girl, whose fly is always open; the awkward looking, most likely Jewish, boy who I feel like I've met before, or maybe just people who look like him; the man with the green golf hat.  I wonder where they're going, what they're thinking about, who was the last person who broke their hearts? We're all human after all, but sometimes in this city I think people think they don't need each other; they think they don't need, or have time for, interaction.  I wish they knew about ubuntu:  I am because you are.

I have a family at work.  I know their strengths and weaknesses in the office, and we hold each other up when we can't stand on our own.  We call each other "day time roommates" and it's true.  I love the atmosphere.  When nobody external is in the office we are laid back but productive.  When people come for meetings, we are able to put our silly friendships aside.  Sometimes, we go out to bars together and introduce each other to our friends as "colleagues," because we think it's funny and grown-up sounding.  I generally enjoy the work that I do in the office, and always enjoy the subject matter of the organization.  Yet it is my coworkers who make going to work so enjoyable.  We are growing together.  They're the biggest blessing I could have been given.

I'm learning that some people who I thought would be in my life for forever won't be.  It's a loss, but maybe it's supposed to work that way.  We're evolving right now, and everyone doesn't evolve together.  It's hard to let go sometimes, but I'm learning that letting go makes space for people to teach you things you couldn't even imagine.  I wish my life was big enough to hold everyone I have ever loved.  Sometimes I like to think it is, but I know it's not.  Jonathan Safran Foer wrote "My life is the story of everyone I have ever known" and it is through that mindset that I can hold on even when I have let go.

My South African roommate, Lendy, had twins a few weeks ago, and named one of the girls Laiah.  I was touched, but also thought it was a little bizarre.  When I called to congratulate her, I heard the babies crying in the background.  It almost moved me to tears.  The Jewish tradition says that naming a child after someone who is already alive is bad luck.  If my memory serves me correctly, it's because it will confuse the angel of death, they say, and the wrong person might be taken at the wrong time.  While I don't necessarily know if this is true, when it is my turn to have children I will honor this tradition.  Therefore, I never even paused to think that there might be a child named after me ever, let alone in my lifetime.  I realized I will be connected to this child for the rest of my life.  Perhaps I will write her a letter for her to have when she's older, of things my namesake might have told me.  It's a responsibility, I've been thinking, to provide a name.

I have a hard time blogging here. When I was abroad I could write about things that were daily occurrences there but astonished outsiders.  I try to find the same things here about my life, things that are normal to me but shocking to you.  I'm coming to terms with the fact that that's probably not going to happen.  My day-to-day isn't so different from yours anymore.  But it's the little things in life that are the most fulfilling and incredible, anyway, so maybe I need to get over my desire to be grandiose and exercise some humility.  After all, the world I see is different from that which you see, even if we're walking through the world together.


 Recent words of wisdom:  Walking home from brunch (Washington's favorite sport), I passed a man selling Street Sense, a newspaper produced by the homeless.  It only costs $1, and I usually buy one, but this time I didn't have any cash.  As I passed I said, "Sorry."  He called after me, "Take that word out of your vocabulary, girl!  You aint gotta be sorry for nothing."

After a month of gray skies and oftentimes gray moods, I noticed the first sign of spring.  The snow has finally melted, and below it, there is green.  If that's not a beautiful sign of what's to come, then I don't know what is.

The view from my bedroom during Washington's "Snowpocalypse"