Charity

Saturday was “Stamp Out Hunger Day” sponsored by the U.S. Postal Service. I got a notice in the mail a few weeks ago, which I posted on my refrigerator to remind myself to pick up some non-perishable food the next time I went to the supermarket. It was surprisingly cheap and easy. I went to the canned foods aisle, and picked five cans of food – each one on sale for $1. I tried to choose food that had some nutritional content: soups, beans, vegetables and fruit. Though I am in the process of a career change and therefore am not bringing in big bucks right now, I felt that spending $5 to provide enough food for a family far less fortunate was well within my budget.

When May 9th came around, I left my bag of food out by the mailbox as instructed by the U.S.P.S. I was quite surprised to find that mine was the only bag of food there below the mailboxes that serve all 36 townhouses on my street. In the early afternoon, I took a walk to the local library to return some books. The walk took me through a neighborhood that had not had mail delivery yet. Less than 5% of the houses I walked past had left food out for pickup.

My neighborhood is a typical middle class place full of modest 2 and 3 bedroom homes. Some in the neighborhood have had difficulties lately, with a few homes being foreclosed upon and a few sitting on the rental market longer than usual. But for the most part, things around here look much the same as they did before the economy took a nosedive last year. People still have many (many, many, many) cars per household. People seem to be leaving for work in the mornings. All of the kids walking to the middle school down the street are in fashionable clothes in good repair. I find it hard to believe that I am the only person who can afford to give $5 worth of food to people far less fortunate.

It is even more interesting to notice which of the big houses on the way to the library had food donations out front. I can tell you who wasn’t leaving donations. None of the houses with expensive European cars or newly remodeled exteriors did. The few donations were out in front of houses with old windows and roofs, and homeowners out front mowing their own lawns.
I may be using incomplete information. Some of these people who didn’t make a food donation may give giant gifts to charities privately. But still, it seems like more people could afford to give a few bucks worth of food. So why is it that some people feel like they can’t afford it, and other people (often with the same or less money) feel as if they can’t?

A few years ago when I worked at a giant health insurance corporation, they had an annual drive to encourage charitable giving. The company would give 50% matching funds and automatically deduct our donations from our paychecks and send them directly to the charities we had chosen. My boss was such a believer in this program that he signed all of his employees up as volunteers to explain and promote it to the rest of the department. Many of our coworkers were customer service reps making fairly low wages. Quite a few had young children at home. Some gave generously to charity. Others felt that they couldn’t afford it. Yet, many of those same people always had the latest cell phone and went out to lunch every day.

I just tried to impress on people that however tight they felt money was, they were so fortunate to have jobs, a home and food for every meal, not to mention health insurance. Some people have none of those things. Some people are facing incurable diseases or live in countries where their governments do little to help them rebuild their lives after natural disasters. Much of the time, I might as well have been talking to the wall!

So what is it that causes some people to feel that they have enough abundance that they are able to share, while others do not? It doesn’t seem related to income, age, gender or even religious background. Is it something we are born with or something we are taught? I wish I knew!

I would just like to encourage you to do something every once in a while to help out others if you don’t already. In these times when many are struggling, it seems much harder to be able to afford to give, but the gift is needed more than ever. You would be surprised how many cans of food, toothbrushes, and diapers can be purchased for under $10 at a dollar store. It is a small amount to most of us, but can make a big difference for those in need. Whenever I donate, I feel so good, it’s as if I am the one who got the gift. It is a reminder to be grateful for everything that I have.

Inauguration Memories

This day, Inauguration Day 2009, has generated a great deal of excitement. For the last month an a half, I have heard rumblings amongst my friends and in the media, about all the people who wanted to be a part of this day. As I watch the ceremonies and festivities on TV and hear the reports from my friends in attendance, my own inaugural memories are flooding back.

In 1993, I was a college student at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. The 1992 election was exciting for me for so many reasons. It was the first time I was able to vote in a presidential election. Georgetown is a school that attracts students who are politically minded and often have political aspirations. To illustrate that point, currently there are four Georgetown alums in the U.S. Senate and 15 in the House of Representatives, plus a Supreme Court Justice. Georgetown really came to life during the 1992 Presidential primaries with alums Bill Clinton and Pat Buchanan vying for the Democratic and Republican nominations respectively.

Of course, we all know how the story goes. Bill Clinton went on to be elected the 42nd President of the United States. And let me tell you, he did not forget his alma mater when it came time for the inauguration. Georgetown students, regardless of political affiliation, were offered the opportunity to work for the inaugural committee. I jumped at the chance, even though it meant coming back to frigid Washington from balmy Southern California a week early from winter break.

My not-so-glamorous inaugural duties consisted of directing VIP's to the appropriate shuttle buses that would whisk them off to various inaugural events. My pay was $8 an hour, and I was issued a bright orange, fleece-lined J-Crew jacket, a hat with ear flaps and puffy gloves, all embroidered with a beautiful inauguration crest and the word "TRANSPORATION" beneath it.

My duties the first few days were pretty easy. Each of us was assigned to a different hotel. I was lucky enough to draw the Embassy Suites Hotel, which was built around a tall, sunny, lovely atrium. Since the older sister of one of my best friends worked as a concierge there, I had both ambiance and friendship to get me through the boring hours.

Another stroke of luck was that the Alabama contingent were staying there. The Alabama political wives were friendly and funny. Even though they didn't really need my help finding the shuttle bus parked right outside the door, they came and talked to me anyway. They seemed to be proud of the fact that they had been invited to the inauguration and wanted everyone to see that they were official VIP's. Plus, they finally had an excuse to wear their fur coats, and wanted to show them off. I was uncharacteristically diplomatic in admiring them.

At one particularly amusing moment, I was approached by a production assistant from a television news show. He spoke to me in a serious, hushed voice, supposedly to consult with me about getting their crew through to the events without a crowd forming around a famous person. He just couldn't help dropping the name Paula Zahn. In fact, I suspect that is the real reason he wanted to talk to me. My job title should have been "VIP Validator" instead of "Inauguration Transportation."

One of the most exciting pre-inaugural events for me was when Clinton did his address to the foreign service right on the Georgetown campus. All of us who lived in the apartments and dorms near the site of the address were told that we would have to be up and out of our rooms at 6:30 AM (a ridiculous hour in the minds of most college students) or stay put with the blinds shut until it was over. So we got ourselves up and out early and spent a couple of hours waiting outside on the main quad of the campus in 20-something degree weather in hopes of getting a glimpse of the President-elect. We watched the secret service men with giant rifles dressed in black, keeping watch from the roofs of our dorms.

And we were amply rewarded for our efforts. After the official event, Bill Clinton came out to the quad with Hillary, plus Al and Tipper Gore to address the students gathered there. We scrambled to get close and take pictures, so grateful that we had made the effort to get up early, fantasizing about taunting our friends who had slept in and were now stuck in their rooms.

Bill and Hillary Clinton and Al and Tipper Gore with Georgetown President Leo O'Donovan, SJ
on the steps of the White-Gravenor building on the Georgetown campus in January 1993

In Inauguration Day itself, my shift at the Embassy Suites ended in plenty of time to meet up with my friends and head down to the Capitol. With most of the streets downtown closed, we took the Metro subway to get there. Three trains came by loaded with passengers before we finally were able to stuff ourselves onto one, pushed up against all of the other passengers. We found ourselves an OK spot on grass of the National Mall not too far from the Capitol, but not particularly close either. Looking at the record crowds at this year's event, I think that at least a million people today were further away, so I guess we were pretty lucky.

Then came the waiting. It was so cold. According to the National Weather Service's website, the weather that day was "sunny and pleasant" but that is not how I remember it. I remember being so cold that we were putting little pieces of cardboard under our feet to prevent the bitter cold ground from numbing our toes, right through the soles of our shoes. I guess the weather feels much colder when you are not moving. Finally the event started. I don't remember a whole lot. I do remember being VERY surprised at the prayer by Billy Graham that started the event. I also remember the beautiful voice of Maya Angelou reading her poem. I remember the oath of office, but not much else.

That night was the best part of all. I got to go to an inaugural ball. Well, I got to stand outside of the ball in my bright orange jacket telling attendees which buses were going to which hotels. And believe it or not, I had a blast. Of all the official balls, I was stationed at the Western States Ball at the Kennedy Center. I am not sure if that was a coincidence, or if the organizers deliberately placed us at the balls where our hometown politicians would be. I had ample opportunity to meet people, especially as they were leaving the ball and waiting for the bus to arrive or depart. I met a superior court judge who happened to live down the street from my parents. I met the mayor of Livermore, California, who was so excited that I knew where Livermore was that she gave me her card.

The security was very tight before the president got there, with metal detectors screening each guest as they entered. Since the president had about 10 balls to attend, he just made a short stop at each one. But once he came and went, the security literally disappeared, and I had a chance to sneak a peak into the room. The room was long and narrow with red carpet and a wall of tall windows. I think I caught a glimpse of Al Gore. As I stealthily slid back out of the room, I encountered an old friend. There was my high school classmate, all dressed up in a gown. She was there with her mother, a former congresswoman, later a Los Angeles County Supervisor. Despite my embarrassment at being caught in the act, it was fun to see her, and capped off an exciting day.

Regardless of political affiliation, it is exciting to attend a moment in our country's history. I have been a bit jealous of my friends in D.C. this week, as they attend concerts at the Lincoln Memorial and welcome house guests that they have never met before. Though they have been assuring me that it is bitterly cold this year and the city is uncomfortably crowded, I still feel a pang at not being at the heart of the action in my old stomping grounds again this week. But at least I have gotten to be a real part of it before. Ah yes, fond memories of good times.

Autumn in Southern California

Oh yes – it’s October in Southern California. Yesterday I was laid up with the flu. Since my electronic weather station is visible from my bed, I watched it as the outdoor temperature gradually crept up to 91 degrees, the humidity dropped to 14% and the Santa Ana winds blew the smell of smoke in through my windows. My dry skin cracked and itched. And then I got an email from my sister containing this picture she took from her house:

As a child, I was no stranger to brush fires. In fact, they were my biggest fear. I remember my father driving me up the hill to watch fires burning nearby. When we came home, he calmly hosed down the roof (most of the roofs in the neighborhood were made of wood shingles in those days) while I nervously packed my emergency evacuation bag. Of course at that age, most of the contents of the emergency bag were stuffed animals and Garfield comic books. The worst part was in the days following the fire, when my dad took me for a drive around the burned areas. I never even noticed if there were burnt out shells if homes, because I was too distraught by the deer and rabbits who had lost their lives in the firestorm. To all you parents out there - don't take your children on fire damage tours!

Our neighborhood always fared fine in the fires, which seemed to recur every few years. Friends who lived in even more fire-prone neighborhoods regularly showed up with their horses and dogs, seeking safe shelter while telling hair-raising stories of flames in their backyard.

But lately it seems that every year is a major fire year. In 2003, the 100,000+ acre Simi fire burned to about 4 miles from my house. I thought that after that, there couldn’t possibly be enough brush left over to burn for many years. But each year, there is another one fire close enough that the plumes of smoke drift over my home, turning the sun’s rays an eerie orange color. Here is a photo I took from my house a few years ago:

One year, a fire burned to within 15 feet of an apartment I used to live in. You can see in the photo below the charred hillside right alongside the apartment building. Another year, my parents brought juice to the exhausted firefighters sleeping on cots at the end of their street.

A couple of days ago, my mother and I headed to a Dodger game leaving my father to decide if he was going to obey an evacuation order by bringing his horses to the stables at a local community college. This is not the first time that we have gone to Dodger Stadium leaving my Dad facing a decision like this. I am starting to associate the Dodgers playing in the playoffs with brush fires! We felt vaguely guilty, as if we were kids playing hooky from school, until we rationalized that we would just be in my Dad’s way if we stayed behind. And there is no shame in having some fun!

As we drove home from the game after dark, we once again could see bright red flames moving down distant hillsides. It is an awe inspiring and terrifying sight, especially because I am always aware that the flames are moving towards the house of a friend or family member. Is it insensitive that I should care more when my friends are in harm’s way than when strangers are?

The only bright spot in all of this worry is that I get an opportunity to see heroes in action. There is a big park around the corner from my house. It is used as firefighting headquarters for just about every major fire within 40 miles. It is awe inspiring to watch the fire trucks pull in from all over the state from Humboldt County to San Diego to aid in the group efforts. The level of efficient organization is obvious even from the road. Volunteers man tables providing hot meals to the famished firefighters. Portable toilets line up at the edge of the field. Tents and RVs serve as command centers. Passing motorists honk and wave thank yous to the hard working young men and women risking their lives to save our homes. So I would like to dedicate this blog entry to all the brave fire fighters working in dangerous conditions this week.

The Little Rose Bush that Could

I have lived in my house for almost six years now. Since it is a townhouse, I am technically not in charge of the plants outside my home. They are in the "common area" and therefore the responsibility of the homeowners association, who has hired a series of gardening companies to do the task.

Just outside my front door are two rather anemic plants. One is a gardenia and the other a rose bush. They planted a bit too close to the house, so the angle of the sun rarely gets past the eaves of the roof to reach the plants. It usually takes them all summer just to produce a bloom or two, at which point the gardeners inevitably whack off all the flowers as part of their periodic "pruning."

Not being very knowledgeable about gardening, and definitely wanting to avoid run-ins with the HOA, I have watched helplessly as these plants, especially the rose bush, remained tiny and flowerless year after year.

Well, this summer, the rose bush has suddenly sprouted. Amazingly, this bush put out a branch much thicker and stronger than the rest. The branch grew straight upward, quickly surpassing the other branches, which hover around 2 feet tall. And then it just kept growing, and growing and growing and growing....

Eventually the branch hit the eaves of the roof, and still kept going, curving over slightly so it could grow along the roof line. And then the fateful day that I had been dreading came pruning day. The current gardening company is not quite as opposed to greenery as the others we have had in the last few years. Nevertheless, the branch did get a trim, bringing it back down to about 4 feet high.

At that point, I thought it was over. An unlikely spurt nipped in the bud. But the plant had other plans. About an inch below the spot where it had been trimmed, a side branch began sprouting. Withing days, the side branch turned upward and just continued on the path straight towards the roof that it was on before pruning day. And now, it has reached the eaves yet again, and is bending and snaking around, still growing several inches a day.

I must admit that I am fascinated with this rose bush! It is almost as if it has just decided, "I am tired of being stunted by lack of sunlight, overzealous gardeners, and every other factor beyond my control. I am just going to find a way to thrive on my own, and nothing will stop me." What an inspiration for me, and anyone else who ever felt that they were living below their potential. We can just follow the rose bush's example and find a way to thrive no matter what!

Above is a photo of my cat,
Bugsy, staring amazed
at the rose bush.

Olympics Mania

Guess what I am doing right now (other than writing this entry). I am watching the Olympics, of course! I turned down several invitations this weekend. Going to a dance, the bead show, a free concert in the park...nothing could tempt me away from the couch. Even a new episode of Monk, my favorite TV show, was recorded to watch later - after the Olympics.

So, why do I go so crazy for the Olympics? I mean, I am not a huge sports fan. I love the Dodgers. I get really excited about NCAA basketball, especially my Georgetown Hoyas. I watch the Super Bowl. But I don't really watch track meets, volleyball games or diving championships regularly. I roll my eyes when I visit my parents' house and find them glued to the Tour de France or Wimbledon on TV.

I did, however, spend much of my time during my formative years at swim meets. No, not competing, or watching either. I was just being an annoying toddler, distracting my mother while she tried to cheer on my sister Heidi, who was a truly exceptional swimmer.

But I think the addiction really started in 1984 - when the Olympics came to Los Angeles. The only event that I actually attended was dressage (for all of you non-equestrian types, that means horse dancing), since that is my father's passion. But my mother made sure that my sister Karen and I had a real Olympic experience. We visited the Olympic villages at UCLA and USC and saw the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum (which also hosted the 1932 Olympics). We saw the torch relay. We traded Olympic pins, and bought silly sunglasses shaped like the Olympic rings. And most importantly, we watched the televised gymnastics competitions.

With all of the American gymnastic success in 1984, it was quite an exciting time for an impressionable 10-year-old. I am sureI was already taller than Mary Lou Retton, the gold medal winning U.S. star. But I was entranced. I couldn't decide who I had a bigger crush on - Peter Vidmar or Bart Conner, both of whom won individual gold's in addition to the men's team gold. I was fascinated with the names of the Russian and Romanian athletes - especiall Ecaterina Szabo.

After the Olympics were over, my best friend, Shani, and I watched all of the made-for-television movies about Nadia Comenici, and I blushed when Shani told me I looked like Nadia's teammate, Teodora, when I wore my long, straight hair in a ponytail. We came up with our own competitions, which mostly consisted of doing somersaults on our beds, or flips onto rafts in the swimming pools in our backyards. We invented exotic names for ourselves and countries to compete for and gave each other scores. It is a minor miracle that we didn't seriously injure ourselves doing the "balance beam" on the tile separator between the hot tub and pool at Shani's house. Looking back now, I wonder where our parents were, and if the overly supervised, video game watching kids of today get the chance be as creative and free as we were during the long, hot San Fernando Valley summers.

I still love watching gymnastics, but now I am fascinated with another aspect of the Olympics. I am tirelessly curious about the random faces in the crowd. This year it first struck me during the spectacular opening ceremonies. Reportedly, there were over 15,000 Chinese performers. At one point, after a technically amazing demonstration, the performers took boxes off of themselves to reveal that it was humans putting on the show, not machines. In the sea of performers, who were apparently chosen for their identical appearances, there was one man who caught my eye. He was grinning in delight.

I can't help but wonder about this man. What is his life like? How did he get this job? What job will he go back to after all of the Olympic excitement is over? Does his life in China have anything in common with mine? One of my friends was a performer in the opening ceremonies of the 1984 Olympics. She was a child actress who could be seen in TV commercials. Of 1.3 billion Chinese people, how many dare to dream of such a life?

Other faces in the crowd intrigue me just as much. Today, while watching the women's marathon, I noticed an Algerian athlete. Unlike the others in their skin-tight spandex hardly covering more than my bikini does, she wore a normal length pair of shorts and a t-shirt thatt covered her whole stomach. As a woman from a Muslim country, how is she treated back home? Is she seen as heroic or scandalous? What about the Kenyan runners? Do they come from a remote village like the ones I see in National Georgraphic magazine or a big city with cars and cell phones and video games? What is it like for them to travel the world and compete?

My heart soars for the Jamaican track star who shattered the world record to become the fastest man in the world. I am inspired by Dara Torres (she went to my high school!) who, at age 41, doesn't allow a that to determine her ability level, beating swimmers who weren't even born yet the first time she competed in the Olympics. My heart bleeds for the injured athletes who were laid up on their first steps and may never realize their Olympic dreams.

I love my country and am proud of all the U.S. Olympic accomplishments. But there is something about the Olympics that reminds me that we are more connected by our humanity than we are separated by our nationalities.

And the best part - there is still another week to go. If you were thinking about inviting me to do anything between now and August 24th, consider yourself warned!

Diane Patton, a shining star...

What can I say about Diane? She is a shining star. Giant smile, infectious laugh. All about fun and all about love. Unconventional and non-judgmental. Everyone who came into contact with her is her friend. I never once heard anything negative come out of her mouth or a single criticism of another person. I am so lucky that I met Diane. That is her wearing red, standing next to me in the picture below from last New Year's Eve.

On June 25^th, Diane left this world. She had breast cancer the entire four years I knew her. Most people she knew casually never would have guessed. Diane believed that the best way to counteract the cancer was not through radiation or drugs. She believed in living and eating healthily. She believed in the power of natural healing. She drank wheat grass juice and practiced Reiki. She danced and laughed and spent time with the people she loved. I was so sure that it would work. I can’t quite wrap my mind around the fact that someone who was so vividly alive is no longer living.

Today we celebrated her life. So many people – family, neighbors, parents of children she taught, fellow Reiki practitioner, swing dancers – she touched all of our lives. What a treat to hear her sisters and brothers tell stories about Diane from their childhood years. How special to finally meet the grown sons she was so proud of. How amazing to sit on the pier and watch the seagulls fly over, see a lone fisherman in a canoe, feel the ocean breeze and hear the children playing in the waves. Reminders that life is all around us.

This truly was a celebration – everyone wearing bright colors. We told funny stories about Diane. We danced and laughed and smiled and loved each other. I learned so much from Diane about appreciating things, enjoying what is going on right now, loving unconditionally. Diane, you modeled every wonderful quality that I aspire to have. I promise you that every day I will appreciate something about my life. And I will see something wonderful in everyone I meet.

This lovely poem was handed out to us at the celebration today:

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on the snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush.
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

Manzanar

It has been over two weeks since I visited Manzanar, but the experience is still very much with me. If you don’t know what Manzanar is, I can give you a brief history. It is one of ten internment camps where over 110,000 Japanese Americans from the West Coast of the United States were sent to live during World War II. Although I am not of Japanese ancestry, the whole time I was visiting there, I felt a vivid sensation of being connected to this part of history.

Manzanar is in the Owens Valley, a sparsely populated high desert area that we drive through when traveling to Mammoth Lakes or Reno from Southern California. The scenery is spectacular with the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range (capped by 14,505 foot Mt. Whitney) to the West and the White Mountains to the East. The weather is hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but windy year-round.

I visited with a friend on the way back from spring skiing at Mammoth Lakes. There is not much left at the site, which was mostly disassembled after the war. But in 2004, the National Park Service opened a visitor center in one of the few remaining buildings. On the beautiful, temperate sunny late-April day we visited, at first it was difficult to switch gears from doing sporting activities in the outdoors to going into a dark visitor center.

When I started reading the displays and histories presented in the visitor center, my first reaction was, “This is so depressing. Get me out of here!” I felt almost nauseous imaging what it must have been like. Law abiding, hard-working families were given two-week’s notice before incarceration. Many abandoned jobs, homes and pets, which weren’t allowed into the interment camps. They could only bring what they could carry with them. Many were forced to live in horse stalls at the Santa Anita racetrack before the interment camps were ready for them. Once at Manzanar, all residents had to share barracks with other families and feel the wind and dirt coming in through the inadequate wall. For most, their careers and homes and all else that they had worked for were not waiting for them after they were finally allowed to live in freedom on the West Coast years later, and they had to start over. Many chose to relocate to Wisconsin and other Eastern states where they knew nobody, just to regain their freedom.

I am puzzled by the decision to place Japanese Americans into these camps, while we fought overseas to free people from concentration camps. German-Americans and Italian-Americans were not sent to camps, although we were also at war with Germany and Italy. Many government officials, including J. Edgar Hoover, who headed the FBI at the time, saw no reason to question the loyalty of Japanese Americans, yet still this ill conceived plan was approved by the president. Perhaps it was because the German and Italian Americans can’t readily be distinguished visually from other Americans of European descent, while the Japanese looked different. I guess looking for a rational explanation to irrational racism is futile.

But the closer I looked at the lives of the Manzanar residents, the more inspired I became but the small stories of individual lives. A local woman became a schoolteacher at Manzanar and brought her own daughter to school there just so she could help out people who she believed were being unjustly persecuted. Young internees formed swing bands and baton twirling classes so they could express themselves as other teenagers do. Craftspeople turned fruit crates into beautiful furniture for their barracks homes. Those raised with a love of nature built stunning Japanese gardens to provide them with a beautiful place they could rest and transcend their current experience. Instead of complaining, most residents did whatever they could to turn the camp into a community. What an inspiring message to focus on those things that are within our power to change, that have the power to bring us happiness and peace.

My initial reaction of, “Why should I spend the day in a depressing place and focus on things that depress me?” completely turned around. I walked away feeling that I could not have spent my day in a more spiritual place. I felt connected with all human beings regardless of what side of the war we fought on, what religion we follow, and what our outer appearance looks like. Although I have always believed in due process and freedom, I know that this experience reminded me in a very tangible way of how important it is that we vigilantly stand up for the rights of each citizen of the world.

At the Manzanar graveyard, brightly colored origami cranes left behind by visitors who came to the annual Manzanar pilgrimage the previous day, were scattered by the wind onto the desolate desert sand. A lizard climbed onto the stones marking the gravesite of a stray dog adopted by Manzanar residents. While staring at the concrete remains of a fountain that used to flow in a long-abandoned Japanese garden, I could suddenly see adults sitting in the shade of the cottonwood trees above. I could hear the laughter of children playing with their batons. I could feel the energy of all who lived in this now-barren place – happy and sad, accepting and angry, young and old, strong and frail – and was at one with all of it.