I’ve heard about the “Seven Wonders of the World” all my life. I am positive that there are more than seven wonders in our universe. It is a safe bet that which of the wonders comprise the Seven is the subject of hot debate among those who have the time and ego to argue over such things as trivial as whittling the millions of Universe’s wonders down to a short list. Let alone Earth’s.

Today, I walked along the edge of the Grand Canyon’s South Rim. Squirrels scurry its surface, near-extinct condors swirl in its mist, stone and mystery echo the worshipers of its generations—mockery of unanswerable questions as tribute to that which beckons the only one worthy of asking. Why?

I am as un-grand as this canyon is grand; insignificant as it is cavernous, fleeting as it is enduring. And—forgive my directness—so are you.

In February, I gazed into the sky at a sliver of the Aurora Oval over Canada, enchanted as the Sun’s surface storms rained down as showers of plasma profundity into the icy chill. A line of celestial laundry hung out to sway quietly in the night and evaporate into the morning light, laundry that exposes human nudity under the majesty of Creation. Why?

Why do these immense things happen? Why does the Earth’s surface weather away one speck of dust at a time just to leave a billion years’ worth of history breathing from its depths? Why do the clouds frolic overhead without regard for cheerful summer leaves as they fall somber at the nonchalant sway of fall’s whim? Why do the years seem to gather up in wrinkles of worry and struggle on the face of humanity, while the same time is a fount of eternal spring on the face of our planet?

Why can’t humanity see its own nudity? Vulnerability? Finitude? Insignificance.

Maybe because humans spend their time and invest their thoughts in manufactured self-importance. It’s the only thing I can come up with when I consider that which endures beyond mood, political party, CEO, trend, idea, history record. There was something before humans recorded it. There will be much beyond our ability to observe and record. So why the sanctimony?

Not even the historic kingdoms constructed of stone and grandeur could avoid destruction. Entombed under dust and time, traces of their existences reach beyond their graves, grasping for life as cryptic clues. The same will not be so of the digitized world, which is a slave to swift, consummate erasure.

It is a wonder that man should conceive of himself great enough to write a list of wonders. Perhaps the greatest wonder of all.




On Monday last week, my house phone rang around 4pm. It was Johnny, who is a brother to me in my soul. He didn’t send a text to find out if I would pick up the phone. He didn’t schedule an appointment to visit. He just called, while standing on the sidewalk in front of the Plaza Hotel in New York, wearing a tuxedo.

“Ritchie Miller died,” he said. Shock flashed through my chest. I tried to speak over the knot in my throat. “No. It’s not true,” I said. “Ritchie can’t be gone.”

I met Ritchie at Deloitte; we were fast friends. We shared devout respect and admiration for Dolly Parton, Julia Sugarbaker, and Rose from The Golden Girls. Our roots were both nourished by Home Interiors ladies in the 1980s (we talked about writing a book about it!), and I was as committed to helping him become the first male member of the Junior League as he was to pioneering the organization’s membership.

In 2009, we produced an It Gets Better message at Deloitte, and I personally invited Ritchie to tell his story for the video. He was very nervous about the interview, and I promised him that if he didn’t want me to include his footage, I would remove it; no questions asked. In the end, Ritchie did tell his story to me in front of the camera, and he said it was a liberating, life-changing experience. I will always remember his courage, and the hug he wrapped me up in when the film stopped rolling. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6jTiwWPkr7A (Ritchie speaks at 5:45)

One year after my grandma died, Ritchie’s “Paw Paw” died. He was absolutely heartbroken, and rushed back home to the Deep South to celebrate Paw Paw’s life. The minute I found out, I called Ritchie (in the same way Johnny called me this week), and I got his voice mail. I told Ritchie that I knew how heavy his heart was because I had been in his shiny shoes. I told him I loved him and that I’d visit soon, so we could swap grandparent stories. He and I shared a closeness with our grandparents that is rare in this era, so part of our bond was Grandma Donna and Paw Paw. Ritchie has reflected to me a number of times over the past six years that he cherished my message and kept it all these years and listened to it periodically. Ritchie and me, and Grandma Donna and Paw Paw…

When I stayed at his home, we talked all night long like school girls. We swapped business and career advice, encouraged each other through difficulties, communed through our love of vegetables, and had plans for fun projects that would have lasted long into the future. We did a Deloitte IMPACT Day project together one year: we stuffed condoms in gift bags for the D.C. Pride Parade. Very colorful condoms.

BB-RitchieRitchie and I had dinner on 23 January this year at the Drafting Table in D.C. It was a cold, rainy night, and there were only about a half-dozen people in the restaurant. He had a burger (gave up being a vegan!), and I had mac & cheese. We talked and laughed and cried together, and my heart was full. I remember vividly, stepping out onto the sidewalk at 14th and Q Street after dinner. He hugged me tight, told me he loved me and that he cherished our friendship. “I love you, too, Ritchie. Thank you for always making time for me.” He turned east, and I went west into the rainy night.

Damn. I miss him.

I haven’t been on FB for more than about 5 minutes a week for the past several months. Last week, I posted a new profile picture, and I just got online to check in quickly. And you know what? Ritchie liked my new photo.

Say what needs said. Now. And if you don’t know where to start, be like Ritchie. Start with “I love you.”



Dropping off handwritten letters at the post office, each written with care and sealed with melted wax—the old-fashioned way. This is one of my favorite things to do.

Mine is the heart of “the girl back home.” The one that waits loyally, intently for her sailor to return from faraway foreign shores. Whose top closet shelf holds a plain shoebox, tied shut by a frayed string, filled with letters that traversed the seas and mountains to deliver the stories, dreams, hopes, fears, and longings of her beloved. And the “I love you, I miss you” that seals moonlight.

I’m the girl back home that grew into an old woman with a plain shoebox on her top closet shelf. Each signed simply “Yours”, the letters she held close for a lifetime never revealed the name of the man for whom she waited. Loyally.