"And I will raise you up, and I will raise you up..."
The emotion I felt at church this morning singing this refrain caught me off-guard. Though I suppose it really shouldn't have. Tyler's away this weekend at car racing school (my equivalent of a yoga retreat), meaning at home with just me and Elliot it's time to paaaarty!
After saying good night to our friend's new puppy (Elliot calls her "Baby Murph"), I put Elliot to bed. Then I snuck out of the room, made myself a hot cup of tea, and devoured the rest of David Litt's memoir, "Thanks Obama: My Hopey, Changey White House Years." I usually only have time to read a few paragraphs each night while we're all settling into bed, so last night was a luxurious treat.
I so enjoyed the book on so many levels - first, just relieving the hope-filled years (after binge-reading the rest of the book, I then binge-watched not one but three White House Correspondents Dinners). I remembered Tyler and I splurging for a weekend at a five-star hotel in Hyderabad back in 2008 and just watching Obama's speeches... and then canvassing with Catherine in Philly later that fall.
But beyond politics, the book brought me back to my hope-filled late 20's. When anything seemed not only possible, but we each had the ability to make it so. David Litt's arena was speech-writing in the White House, mine was social entrepreneurship in India. Almost polar-opposites by way of external circumstances, but the internal arc of passion - cynicism - hope-filled-realism was so similar, I had to put the book down towards the end and take a few deep breaths because it hit so close to home. Litt was moved by Obama's quote: "Those who love this country can change it." I was moved by the one: "To whom much is given, much is expected." Led by our hearts, our professions followed. As Litt says: "I didn't enter government out of high-minded principle. I did it because, for a brief period coinciding with my graduation, there was no more exciting place to be. My heart blazed a trail to the bureaucracy. I followed obediently behind."
Over the years go, he slowly starts to get disillusioned. Sees that his hero is just human. Becomes annoyed at the cheery-eyed star-gazy interns.
But would do it all again.
Tyler and I used to talk about this as well. How that first year in India was infatuation. But how after that, our relationship to India and our work grew more nuanced. Frustrated, yes. But also in love. And in this, Litt has something to say as well: "What I know now is that this kind of love (e.g. He's flawless! He gets me! Only he can make the world as perfect as he is!), while wonderful, is for kids. Real love - for a president, for a person, for a country - is more textured than that. Real love is about fighting for something long after its flaws are laid bare... Love is not a feeling. It transcends feelings. Love is what allows us to be disillusioned and to somehow still believe."
So that's how I found myself watching Obama's Charleston address this morning, where in the end, he breaks out into song, with the whole arena joining him for Amazing Grace. And then going to Church myself and bringing Elliot.
The child in me is yearning for a hero, a leader -- someone to instill the kind of hope I had in my 20's - not just in America but in the world.
But the adult in me knows better. Litt put this in better words than I ever could: "Here, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is the single most valuable lesson I learned in public service: There are no grown-ups, at least not in the way I imagined as a kid. Once you reach a certain age, the world has no more parents."
So even though life would be easier if I had that leader to follow, I also know this to be true: "We are the leaders we've been waiting for."
As my 39th birthday draws near this week, what I want to give myself most of all is the permission to become the leader I know is inside, who has been inside all along. Without waiting for that charismatic, visionary leader to sweep me off of my feet onto my next passion and life purpose. None of us are perfect, but we can strive to be more perfect. By knowing that anything is still possible.
The emotion I felt at church this morning singing this refrain caught me off-guard. Though I suppose it really shouldn't have. Tyler's away this weekend at car racing school (my equivalent of a yoga retreat), meaning at home with just me and Elliot it's time to paaaarty!
After saying good night to our friend's new puppy (Elliot calls her "Baby Murph"), I put Elliot to bed. Then I snuck out of the room, made myself a hot cup of tea, and devoured the rest of David Litt's memoir, "Thanks Obama: My Hopey, Changey White House Years." I usually only have time to read a few paragraphs each night while we're all settling into bed, so last night was a luxurious treat.
I so enjoyed the book on so many levels - first, just relieving the hope-filled years (after binge-reading the rest of the book, I then binge-watched not one but three White House Correspondents Dinners). I remembered Tyler and I splurging for a weekend at a five-star hotel in Hyderabad back in 2008 and just watching Obama's speeches... and then canvassing with Catherine in Philly later that fall.
But beyond politics, the book brought me back to my hope-filled late 20's. When anything seemed not only possible, but we each had the ability to make it so. David Litt's arena was speech-writing in the White House, mine was social entrepreneurship in India. Almost polar-opposites by way of external circumstances, but the internal arc of passion - cynicism - hope-filled-realism was so similar, I had to put the book down towards the end and take a few deep breaths because it hit so close to home. Litt was moved by Obama's quote: "Those who love this country can change it." I was moved by the one: "To whom much is given, much is expected." Led by our hearts, our professions followed. As Litt says: "I didn't enter government out of high-minded principle. I did it because, for a brief period coinciding with my graduation, there was no more exciting place to be. My heart blazed a trail to the bureaucracy. I followed obediently behind."
Over the years go, he slowly starts to get disillusioned. Sees that his hero is just human. Becomes annoyed at the cheery-eyed star-gazy interns.
But would do it all again.
Tyler and I used to talk about this as well. How that first year in India was infatuation. But how after that, our relationship to India and our work grew more nuanced. Frustrated, yes. But also in love. And in this, Litt has something to say as well: "What I know now is that this kind of love (e.g. He's flawless! He gets me! Only he can make the world as perfect as he is!), while wonderful, is for kids. Real love - for a president, for a person, for a country - is more textured than that. Real love is about fighting for something long after its flaws are laid bare... Love is not a feeling. It transcends feelings. Love is what allows us to be disillusioned and to somehow still believe."
So that's how I found myself watching Obama's Charleston address this morning, where in the end, he breaks out into song, with the whole arena joining him for Amazing Grace. And then going to Church myself and bringing Elliot.
The child in me is yearning for a hero, a leader -- someone to instill the kind of hope I had in my 20's - not just in America but in the world.
But the adult in me knows better. Litt put this in better words than I ever could: "Here, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is the single most valuable lesson I learned in public service: There are no grown-ups, at least not in the way I imagined as a kid. Once you reach a certain age, the world has no more parents."
So even though life would be easier if I had that leader to follow, I also know this to be true: "We are the leaders we've been waiting for."
As my 39th birthday draws near this week, what I want to give myself most of all is the permission to become the leader I know is inside, who has been inside all along. Without waiting for that charismatic, visionary leader to sweep me off of my feet onto my next passion and life purpose. None of us are perfect, but we can strive to be more perfect. By knowing that anything is still possible.
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