On the northern edge of Buffalo, New York there's an imposing marble building perched atop a grassy hill; a hill that slopes down gently to a small man-made lake ringed with trees. It's a beautiful spot, quiet and drenched in history, and I often find myself there on that specific sort of sunny day that was made for thinking.
The building houses our local historical society, but it was built as a pavilion for the Pan American Exposition of 1901 by an architect who clearly looked to the Parthenon for inspiration. The gardens and lake are part of an extensive city-wide park system designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, and President McKinley was assassinated while attending the exposition only a few yards and a hundred years or so from where I stand.
On the steps leading up to the portico sits a bronze statue of Abraham Lincoln. He is portrayed at rest, legs crossed, a leathery portfolio of legal papers in his lap. His expression is thoughtful, and his gaze looks down over the lake, past the Japanese Garden and the interstate to the city beyond. The statue is life-sized, and, apart from the color, very realistic. I half expect him to turn his head and start talking to me.
There's a sort of "when worlds collide" feeling to the spot, filled as it is with the contradictions and overlaps of history. It's secluded and serene, yet occasionally the low hum of city traffic intrudes upon my reverie. The neoclassical facade, itself homage to a still earlier time, can't quite block the overpasses and guardrails and traffic lights from my view. Nor can the sculpted image of one of our most beloved Presidents make me forget this morning's headlines. I promise, this isn't another "isn't President Bush horrible?" diary. It's more of a reminder, to myself most of all. We're surrounded by history, our own, our family's, our nation's. Countless dozens of generations before us have dealt with the same struggles and catastrophes and triumphs and desires and joys and losses and victories as we have, and countless dozens more will follow in our footsteps. I think it's critical that we study history in order to understand how those who came before us solved their problems, or, if they couldn't, why not? Lincoln struggled with a nation fractured to a degree we can only imagine, and yet somehow it eventually worked out ok. Seeing his face, calm, serious yes, but unlined by worry or fear, gives me hope that we'll figure out a way to do the same.
This spot always helps me recognize the repetitive, cyclical nature of life in general and politics in particular (though it helps that so many of the players are the same as twenty years ago). Sometimes I can almost feel my youthful idealism and burning desire to change the world - instantly! - being slowly replaced by a more practical approach, which, though arguable more effective is certainly less exhilerating. I don't much like the idea of this transformation running to completion. Can't I stop somewhere in the middle, with the best of both worlds? Can't I bring the wisdom of maturity and experience to the energy and exuberance of youth? Probably not. But hopefully I can tap into those overlaps of history, to learn from those who came before me as well as those who follow. Both have so much to teach.