It’s going to be a bright, joyous, wonderful week here on the east coast. We will be getting our first real taste of spring. Warm air from the Gulf will flow over us as it makes its way north, to the pleasure of billions of birds, and dogs, and people, and plants and creatures of all kinds. The forsythia and cherry blossoms in our neighborhood will begin to stretch, a week or two or three before they finally burst open. Already, the various purple wildflowers are rising from the patches of dirt and crab grass around the sidewalks. People will pour out of their homes. It will be glorious!
Over at the Capital, our new Attorney General will get confirmed. He is a throwback, if there ever was one, and a reminder of the majesty and honor that the law and public service can be. I can't wait. Our representatives in the House will cast the decisive votes on legislation to help our fellow citizens who are struggling in this year of the pandemic; and to top up the accounts, too, of many who aren't. I appreciate what they are doing, but I can’t help but feel a tug, wishing for some greater degree of care and togetherness in the process. But that’s not our time. And those around me tell me that my nostalgia for different times long gone by is as fantastical as the coaching of Ted Lasso. Maybe. Maybe not.
My plan for the week: Count to ten. Take it in. And think of this as life before we know who we're gonna be. No, really. I’m going to do what I can to enjoy the week, enjoy the moment. It’s certainly going to require looking away from so much else the world is throwing our way. Meghan and Harry (why pick a fight with your elderly grandparents when you’re living your best life in LA and they're locked down, grumbling, dying, six thousand miles away in dreary London). A pandemic not yet over (the New York Times reported that 1,500 people died of the virus in the U.S. alone yesterday). Billy Eilish (do we really need to know). The New York Governor (oooooh). Steve Ratner (if you live every day as though it were your last -- or if you regularly predict we’ll have inflation -- some day you will certainly be right). Lizzo's Tik Tok. Hong Kong crackdown. The future of Neera Tanden. COVID variants. So much! Look away.
As the weather warms, I plan to go down to our municipal golf course, pay $8.50 for 68 golf balls, and head to the mats on the second deck of the driving range. It's a great inner city retreat; roses, foxes, cherry trees, and bikers and golfers and families of all shapes and varieties just out to enjoy the day. And the thing about trying to hit a golf ball is that it focuses the mind, and all the cares just drift away, at least for the moment. I’ll stare out to the Potomac River in the distance and imagine the eighth hole at Pebble Beach. My drive will get to the top of the hill, and then I'll smack a five-iron over the Pacific. The ball will hit gracefully on the putting surface after a sublime flight, first accelerating towards the sky, and then slowly, elegantly enjoying the return. I'll grin, just so.
But I will also be sad. For just a few months ago, Terry Green, a gem of a man who had been muni golf royalty -- and had warmly welcomed me to his kingdom -- died after a very short, mercifully short, illness. Terry was the Vernon Jordan of our land. He spoke with a bass baritone that carried so much power and strength that his description of a just completed round of golf came across as a Sunday spiritual. His dark skin, his ever-present smile, his boundless enthusiasm for life, were beautiful and gracious. He couldn't help but make your day. His spirit was intoxicating.
When Terry died, we lost a great man. No, he was not a law firm partner or civil rights icon, like Jordan. He had been a caddy at Congressional Country Club for decades. But like Jordan, he was a wise and trusted friend to many, and in the way he carried himself and gave his soul and joy away so generously, he inspired us to rid ourselves of whatever despair we carried with us that day and to be the best people we could be. I enjoyed his company very much, and regret only not spending more time with him.
A few years ago, Terry invited me to caddy alongside him at Congressional for the Pro-Am at Tiger Woods' annual golf tournament. It was an absolute and total joy to spend that day around him, to see him do his job, and to see him spread his spirit. First on the driving range. Then with Fluff -- who was caddying for Jim Furyk at the time -- on the practice green. "Why do you let your guy carry a 1-iron?" Then across the magnificent expanse of Congressional. It was sunny and joyous and a day I won't soon forget.
And it was vintage Terry, for he had a clarity of purpose — joy and wonder. When I would drive up to our muni and find him sitting on his bench, holding court, it was always a moment of grace. The conversation would be animated and full of laughter. For he was a man who accepted joy everywhere he found it, which was, for him, everywhere and with everyone. Our time with him, and the gifts from him, were unearned, unplanned, unexpected. It was all of grace. And it is something I miss very much.
So yes, it will be a bright, joyous, wonderful week here on the east coast. But one tinged with sadness too. For everything that lives is holy. And while we miss him, the sacred gift of Terry is still deeply in our souls. So we will feel his presence and try to internalize how mere dying is nothing more than a silence and a pause. His voice still echoes. His smile still reflects back at us. His joy still resounds.
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