(Written to the tune "My Favorite Things" from "The Sound of Music,
with just a FEW extra verses - HEY! It was a full year!)
Polar Bear Plunge not just once but try three times
Daily long walks with my old dog when she whines
Dark chocolate in boxes and coconut cakes for church
And my favorite red cardinals on my redbud did perch
The Big Apple we bit for our anniversary of twenty
Broadway and skyscrapers, food and frolic in plenty
Julia Roberts was with Regis but my story fell flat
The Hamptons and Jimmers tried cheering me STAT!
Tornado on Good Friday just missed us by THAT MUCH
Our city felt true loss but mass generosity a huge crutch
My video caught tragedy and the newspapers they wrote
Parts of the story to the Weather Channel did float
The Becks swooped on in and a road trip we did make
With mom to Missouri for a car that we did take
Fun fights over Twizzlers and licorice did rule
Boy, that Craig and that Tempa are sure pretty cool!
When my weight’s up
When I can’t sup
When it’s time for Advil
I try and recall just what’s in my cup
And then I regain my good will
The 4th in Colorado was a holiday to remember
Since we can’t fly over to see everyone in December
Galvans and Geisers, Aguirre, Sanchez, and Sweigard
Ann, Reba, and Katie were all fine reward
There were weddings and funerals and 5 brand new babies
I met with my Earth Divas, a fine bunch of ladies
Sarah got her license and Zach lost his braces
John and Ash' huge pup is still licking faces
Roofers with nail guns and Bunco wine at Nancy’s
My 40th birthday month with all sorts of fancies
A haircut and blog did make their big reveal
And South Carolina was fabulously surreal!
Turkey Day with Valdez’, including our Ollie
Biscotti in batches sent everywhere but Raleigh
John got his dream job and Gary a new life
My neighbors are All-good, Lockyear, Kenny and his wife.
For two days Uncle Zopie convinced me to sit down
Oh, the Mission Trip snot caught with nary a frown!
Facebook brought to me a world of old and new
Lost friends in Smyrna and Canadian cousins,too
When the kids yell
When things ain’t swell
When I’m less than fine
I make myself focus and then choose to dwell
On all of my highlights . . . for 2009!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
A Puddle of Interest
The sky spreads out beneath my foot, rippling blue washing out to muddy brown along the edges. It's a revelation to me: my size 9's treading across the heavens, even if only for the briefest of moments. Tree tops emerge from the toes of my shoe, the green leaves an impromptu spray of color across my silver-topped sneaker. There is a world at my feet in an instant and then lost just as suddenly as I walk on through. Splash! Splash! The hem of my pants absorbs the caps of tiny waves. For a moment, I am the unintentional creator of a monsoonal event. And then it passes. The sea is calm. Left behind is the oak leaf my eyes sought initially, a wee boat afloat in the puddle spanning the corner of this street I daily pace.
It has no place left to go. No other shores upon which to dock. And, soon, this weathered vessel will be land bound when the waters upon which it sails dry, revealing the concrete basin which played temporary host to this mini oceanic vista. The winds will come. The winds will take it away, catching like the sails on a true ship, lifting it to the true skies high above the true tree tops. There, no mirror exists of the world below. No giant foot sprouts green hair and crosses the great expanse in a few single steps. There are no inconsequential storms without reverberations. There . . . all is permanent. All is real.
I turn for one last look at the mud puddle and its rustic boat moving slowly across the safe surface. I enjoy the illusion a final time before again moving on. Full steam ahead.
It has no place left to go. No other shores upon which to dock. And, soon, this weathered vessel will be land bound when the waters upon which it sails dry, revealing the concrete basin which played temporary host to this mini oceanic vista. The winds will come. The winds will take it away, catching like the sails on a true ship, lifting it to the true skies high above the true tree tops. There, no mirror exists of the world below. No giant foot sprouts green hair and crosses the great expanse in a few single steps. There are no inconsequential storms without reverberations. There . . . all is permanent. All is real.
I turn for one last look at the mud puddle and its rustic boat moving slowly across the safe surface. I enjoy the illusion a final time before again moving on. Full steam ahead.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A Tiger and His Tail
So what are we gonna do about ol' Tiger Woods? It seems he's been driving long past the fairway and putting far beyond the green. So much so that, ahem, his balls are now in the rough. In fact, it appears his wife may be the Woods' family member to receive the lion's share of the press coverage in the immediate future for her golf club wielding form.
Unless you dwell in a cave, camp on a remote cliff, or reside outside the reach of broadcast technology, the recent story concerning the world-class golfer phenom has probably crossed your path more than a few times in the past week or so. He had a minor traffic accident in the wee hours of the morning on his very own street. Initial stories reported his wife used a golf club - perhaps a 5 iron? - to rescue him; later stories suggested she utilized it to clobber him after discovering he'd been seeing another woman. At last glance, that tally was up to four extra-marital physical relationships as well-built unknowns have emerged to clamor for the public spotlight.
Whatever the real story is, the press and the public are gobbling it up, hand over fist, serving up and consuming new versions, edited versions, and alleged versions with dizzying speed. Until now, this mega golf champion enjoyed ultra-positive coverage in the media, including a polished appearance on the "Oprah Winfrey Show" several years back with Miss Oprah herself leading the adoring fan pack. He could do no wrong. Multi-million dollar endorsement deals sealed his financial success and introduced him into the living rooms of viewers who otherwise had no interest in how many strokes he took to get from hole 1 to hole 18 on any given PGA day. Though he did not lay singular claim to his black heritage - instead choosing to encapsulate his mixed Asian, African American, Caucasian blood with the term 'Cablinasian - he was considered the next black athlete superstar when Michael Jordan stepped down. In all arenas, Tiger Woods managed to appear endearingly wholesome, appealingly virile, and beyond fault.
Now, back to my opening question: what are we gonna do about Mr. Woods?
WE shouldn't do anything about Tiger Woods. I'm fairly certain his WIFE will do something about him, perhaps something TO him. She may even take him someWHERE: to counseling, to court, to the 'cleaners!' As well she should take her tiger by his tail! It is their private relationship business, after all. He's neither a pastor nor a politician. He didn't abuse a minor or rape a golf groupie. If all as it seems to be shaping up, he's simply a famous philanderer. Perhaps a STUPID famous philanderer. Whoa . . . how original!
But US, the big WE, the adoring fans, the admiring public, even the apathetic viewers, who collectively gasped and wallowed in shock at this older-than-dirt transgression between man and woman, women, whatever number, we should only be surprised at ourselves! Who told us Tiger could do no wrong? Who told us to believe his public image? Who told us he existed outside the scope of temptation and marital discord? Just because he can swing a big stick with grace and hit a wee round target into a distant pocket within the earth better than most other human beings on this planet is no reason at all to dismiss his very humanity. As singularly unique as he is in comparison to most of us folks, there yet remain sharp points of commonality that not a one of us can escape. For a wide variety of reasons - and in Tiger's case, fairly expected and predictable reasons given his status and wealth - husbands stray off course and venture into sand traps (wives do, too, but the numbers tend to lean toward our testosterone-laden gents), often sinking knee deep before they realize the position they've put themselves and those around them in for the sake of an urge.
Yes, he's famous and as such provides excellent fodder for the news outlets when his Escalade gently crashes into a tree. Yes, there are those train wreck-watchers who take a sick delight in witnessing the unexpected fall of a hero. But, when do WE draw the line in the sand? When do we decide to exercise our option to choose real news over salacious gossip? When do we lower the curtain of privacy over a hurting family and allow them the chance to deal and heal outside the scope of prying eyes? When do we discourage fame seekers from making laughing-stocks of themselves by refusing to attend their press conferences and leaving their 'rag' stories on the rack? When do we say enough is enough . . . ENOUGH ALREADY . . . and democratically determine ourselves to be a nation of grown-ups with enough problems in our government, health system, infrastructure, and our own backyards to keep us busy for a decade of Sundays?
I'm thinking today is good.
Unless you dwell in a cave, camp on a remote cliff, or reside outside the reach of broadcast technology, the recent story concerning the world-class golfer phenom has probably crossed your path more than a few times in the past week or so. He had a minor traffic accident in the wee hours of the morning on his very own street. Initial stories reported his wife used a golf club - perhaps a 5 iron? - to rescue him; later stories suggested she utilized it to clobber him after discovering he'd been seeing another woman. At last glance, that tally was up to four extra-marital physical relationships as well-built unknowns have emerged to clamor for the public spotlight.
Whatever the real story is, the press and the public are gobbling it up, hand over fist, serving up and consuming new versions, edited versions, and alleged versions with dizzying speed. Until now, this mega golf champion enjoyed ultra-positive coverage in the media, including a polished appearance on the "Oprah Winfrey Show" several years back with Miss Oprah herself leading the adoring fan pack. He could do no wrong. Multi-million dollar endorsement deals sealed his financial success and introduced him into the living rooms of viewers who otherwise had no interest in how many strokes he took to get from hole 1 to hole 18 on any given PGA day. Though he did not lay singular claim to his black heritage - instead choosing to encapsulate his mixed Asian, African American, Caucasian blood with the term 'Cablinasian - he was considered the next black athlete superstar when Michael Jordan stepped down. In all arenas, Tiger Woods managed to appear endearingly wholesome, appealingly virile, and beyond fault.
Now, back to my opening question: what are we gonna do about Mr. Woods?
WE shouldn't do anything about Tiger Woods. I'm fairly certain his WIFE will do something about him, perhaps something TO him. She may even take him someWHERE: to counseling, to court, to the 'cleaners!' As well she should take her tiger by his tail! It is their private relationship business, after all. He's neither a pastor nor a politician. He didn't abuse a minor or rape a golf groupie. If all as it seems to be shaping up, he's simply a famous philanderer. Perhaps a STUPID famous philanderer. Whoa . . . how original!
But US, the big WE, the adoring fans, the admiring public, even the apathetic viewers, who collectively gasped and wallowed in shock at this older-than-dirt transgression between man and woman, women, whatever number, we should only be surprised at ourselves! Who told us Tiger could do no wrong? Who told us to believe his public image? Who told us he existed outside the scope of temptation and marital discord? Just because he can swing a big stick with grace and hit a wee round target into a distant pocket within the earth better than most other human beings on this planet is no reason at all to dismiss his very humanity. As singularly unique as he is in comparison to most of us folks, there yet remain sharp points of commonality that not a one of us can escape. For a wide variety of reasons - and in Tiger's case, fairly expected and predictable reasons given his status and wealth - husbands stray off course and venture into sand traps (wives do, too, but the numbers tend to lean toward our testosterone-laden gents), often sinking knee deep before they realize the position they've put themselves and those around them in for the sake of an urge.
Yes, he's famous and as such provides excellent fodder for the news outlets when his Escalade gently crashes into a tree. Yes, there are those train wreck-watchers who take a sick delight in witnessing the unexpected fall of a hero. But, when do WE draw the line in the sand? When do we decide to exercise our option to choose real news over salacious gossip? When do we lower the curtain of privacy over a hurting family and allow them the chance to deal and heal outside the scope of prying eyes? When do we discourage fame seekers from making laughing-stocks of themselves by refusing to attend their press conferences and leaving their 'rag' stories on the rack? When do we say enough is enough . . . ENOUGH ALREADY . . . and democratically determine ourselves to be a nation of grown-ups with enough problems in our government, health system, infrastructure, and our own backyards to keep us busy for a decade of Sundays?
I'm thinking today is good.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Hoping Late Into The Night
It's another 1AM kind of evening, backsliding every so wearily into morning. It is dark outside but with a full moon offering relief from the deeper darkness that I know resides around the world and around the clock. It is these dark things, dark acts, darker hearts, which often invade my mind and disallow the natural cycle of sleep, night after night.
But maybe I should be more specific. My words make it sound as if I lie awake pondering all manner of crime and plunder, fearing what comes next, anxious over that from which I can not protect my children, drowning out the evil voices and tortured mental images with a healthy dose of 24-hour technology, salty snacks, and a good book or ten.
I don't . . . though I am all too aware of these elements. The awareness has, over the course of my forty years, broken and re-broken my heart to the point where, though it is mended, the repaired shape resembles very little the original vessel appointed me at the hour of my birth. This new vessel, however, is better able to take on and retain a very precious cargo: that of hope. It is the possibility of hope, of human conversion triumphing over the blighted darkness, which stirs me into a state of 'unsleep.'
There was a family conversation around the kitchen island earlier this evening: an active debate concerning the overall character of people who make racist remarks and perpetuate the caustic slurs created by the white man to exert power over the 'lesser' peoples of the lands he chose to invade and conquer for resources and riches, whether or not he actually held 'ownership' of said lands. We hit upon England, France, Spain. Traveled over the controversial terrain of Christopher Columbus. Settled amongst the Indians of North America and the original inhabitants of Texas. Contemplated entire tribes ripped apart on the African continent, made to endure generations of subservience, expected to live out their hard-fought freedom on the continent not of their choosing in a hostile environment.
It's origins stemmed from the revelation of an incident between my son and an acquaintance from school. A sharing of a painful secret followed by an inadvertent revelation to others resulting in a shoving match in the cafeteria. The other boy, shamed by what his fellow students had overheard, reached for his secret weapon, eager to inflict a comparable amount of shame on my son. "You dirty Mexican!" he yelled. Volleying back, my hormonal 14 year-old threatened to beat the crap out of him if he didn't shut up. Teachers got involved. The vice-principal was informed. My son hid the story from us for a day, though he nervously told the higher-ups otherwise, until the ol' iPhone informed me the middle school is a'calling. Fast forward to a 3-day suspension for each kid and a PMS'ing mama who manages to maintain her cool . . . but just barely.
My issue with the adolescent moment is probably not what most of you think. Though I am, for all intents and purposes, the white man in my family -- German, Swedish, possibly English, with a smattering of American Indian of which specific nation I am ignorant -- as my husband is of mixed-Hispanic descent with a splash of French somewhere in the mix, I am fully aware of prejudice and have experienced its toxic effects to an extent. Though a story for another day, my stepfather of many years during the tender years of my own adolescence was a black man who served in the Vietnam War and suffered horribly for it. His marriage to my mother created unwelcome buzz in our extended family and caused a stir in public settings in many a venue. Our nomadic lifestyle placed us in schools and in neighborhoods where we were not always the majority. I don't write any of this to say I could ever fully understand what it is to be a minority and be forced to endure the unfairness of social dislike based solely on skin color and ethnic origin. I only endeavor to explain that my limited exposure created within me strong empathy and an unending desire to press on in the face of this ignorant giant, striking it down limb by limb. I understand that while the whole may be impossible to conquer, taking down its members, one by one, might just topple the infrastructure of racism.
So, the discourse between mother and son focused less on the hateful words and more on the reaction he had to the words. And, also how he will choose to react to such words, feelings, undercurrents in the workplace and the dating scene, etc., etc. in his high school years, college, and beyond. My position is simply that he can't fight as big an opponent as prejudice with his fists every time he comes into contact with it. In fact, I assert that he gives prejudice the upper hand each time he reacts with emotion rather than using a 'think twice, speak once' approach. Though action movies tend to say differently, I believe the reasons for a just knockdown-dragout are actually few and far between. We all see the ongoing effects of sustained war: glorified fighting with countless casualties on both sides. Instead, the right words, or a decided and deliberate lack thereof, might actually persuade the offender to reconsider. Either in the moment or on down the line. Plant a seed, not a fist.
I want my son to believe there are possibilities for change and they can begin with him. My advice was to practice a few choice lines at home for use in such situations to let other kids know it isn't all right to address him as such (because terms like 'beaner' and 'wetback' are evidently tossed about in less tense, more casual settings) without bringing an altercation to the school lunch table. I told everyone, as we licked the last bit of blueberry pie from our bowls, that most people are not all bad, including those harboring the ignorance that is racism. Internally, there are blind spots within all of us to truth and reality. Knocking down walls and aiming a floodlight in those areas does wonders. If we remember that we have power beyond violence, we can be an instrument for truth. Be aware of the bad but reach for the good. Period.
My husband says I've watched "Remember the Titans" with Denzel Washington one too many times. Huh. He's seen the football flick more times than I have, but the interesting point he may have forgotten in the glib delivery of the remark is this: it was all true. A racially divided town, school, and football team really did experience change-of-heart and extraordinary, seemingly impossible friendships did develop. My husband says he has no use for people who use racially-charged words. They are inherently bad and don't deserve a second chance. He says if I was something other than white, I would feel the same way. But, I pointed out that I know plenty of non-white folks who do not believe as he does. And, further, I've had enough scenarios thrown at me over the years -- difficult childhood, running away, brother in prison, the drowning of my niece and nephew at the hands of my post-partum psychotic sister, enduring private disappointments -- to witness myself in action: though not a perfect human being, I practice the very fundamental beliefs I preach. If I was a person of color but retained the same personality and character, I know I would always hope, and seek the truth, and try to exact peaceful influence if at all possible.
It's not all right that a teenage boy who plays on the same baseball team as my son, attends the same classes with him each school day, and has parents at home capable of imparting awareness the same as my son, called him a 'dirty Mexican.' It's not all right that stronger examples of ignorance and hatred exist and happen in our city, our county, our state, within the borders of our country, and around this globe on a 24/7 basis. The long list of crime shows to be found on the television didn't invent the atrocities which are the bread-and-butter of their plot lines. No, we are spinning on an axis of evil which could very well overwhelm us but for the one thing I refuse to surrender despite all I know: the faithful practice of hope. One person at a time. One after-midnight blog at a time.
Starting with me.
(I was fully prepared for bed at 5 minutes to 1AM. Then came the end credits for the very intense "A Time To Kill" with Samuel L. Jackson, Sandra Bullock, and Matthew McConaughey. Though I've seen this film before, and read the book, I found myself with intense visceral reactions at several key points in the show. The gospel song bringing down the house as the key grip, animal trainer, and set design designates scrolled down the screen stirred my writing juices.
Please note: I realize that the 'white man' did not invent prejudice or racism. Even within the same race, people managed to create systems whereby the powerful exercised their seeming superiority over the powerless. However, for our intents, in modern and historical America, with our unresolved issues concerning Black America and the polarizing debate over our illegal population of Mexican residents, the weighted term 'white man' fits the bill.)
But maybe I should be more specific. My words make it sound as if I lie awake pondering all manner of crime and plunder, fearing what comes next, anxious over that from which I can not protect my children, drowning out the evil voices and tortured mental images with a healthy dose of 24-hour technology, salty snacks, and a good book or ten.
I don't . . . though I am all too aware of these elements. The awareness has, over the course of my forty years, broken and re-broken my heart to the point where, though it is mended, the repaired shape resembles very little the original vessel appointed me at the hour of my birth. This new vessel, however, is better able to take on and retain a very precious cargo: that of hope. It is the possibility of hope, of human conversion triumphing over the blighted darkness, which stirs me into a state of 'unsleep.'
There was a family conversation around the kitchen island earlier this evening: an active debate concerning the overall character of people who make racist remarks and perpetuate the caustic slurs created by the white man to exert power over the 'lesser' peoples of the lands he chose to invade and conquer for resources and riches, whether or not he actually held 'ownership' of said lands. We hit upon England, France, Spain. Traveled over the controversial terrain of Christopher Columbus. Settled amongst the Indians of North America and the original inhabitants of Texas. Contemplated entire tribes ripped apart on the African continent, made to endure generations of subservience, expected to live out their hard-fought freedom on the continent not of their choosing in a hostile environment.
It's origins stemmed from the revelation of an incident between my son and an acquaintance from school. A sharing of a painful secret followed by an inadvertent revelation to others resulting in a shoving match in the cafeteria. The other boy, shamed by what his fellow students had overheard, reached for his secret weapon, eager to inflict a comparable amount of shame on my son. "You dirty Mexican!" he yelled. Volleying back, my hormonal 14 year-old threatened to beat the crap out of him if he didn't shut up. Teachers got involved. The vice-principal was informed. My son hid the story from us for a day, though he nervously told the higher-ups otherwise, until the ol' iPhone informed me the middle school is a'calling. Fast forward to a 3-day suspension for each kid and a PMS'ing mama who manages to maintain her cool . . . but just barely.
My issue with the adolescent moment is probably not what most of you think. Though I am, for all intents and purposes, the white man in my family -- German, Swedish, possibly English, with a smattering of American Indian of which specific nation I am ignorant -- as my husband is of mixed-Hispanic descent with a splash of French somewhere in the mix, I am fully aware of prejudice and have experienced its toxic effects to an extent. Though a story for another day, my stepfather of many years during the tender years of my own adolescence was a black man who served in the Vietnam War and suffered horribly for it. His marriage to my mother created unwelcome buzz in our extended family and caused a stir in public settings in many a venue. Our nomadic lifestyle placed us in schools and in neighborhoods where we were not always the majority. I don't write any of this to say I could ever fully understand what it is to be a minority and be forced to endure the unfairness of social dislike based solely on skin color and ethnic origin. I only endeavor to explain that my limited exposure created within me strong empathy and an unending desire to press on in the face of this ignorant giant, striking it down limb by limb. I understand that while the whole may be impossible to conquer, taking down its members, one by one, might just topple the infrastructure of racism.
So, the discourse between mother and son focused less on the hateful words and more on the reaction he had to the words. And, also how he will choose to react to such words, feelings, undercurrents in the workplace and the dating scene, etc., etc. in his high school years, college, and beyond. My position is simply that he can't fight as big an opponent as prejudice with his fists every time he comes into contact with it. In fact, I assert that he gives prejudice the upper hand each time he reacts with emotion rather than using a 'think twice, speak once' approach. Though action movies tend to say differently, I believe the reasons for a just knockdown-dragout are actually few and far between. We all see the ongoing effects of sustained war: glorified fighting with countless casualties on both sides. Instead, the right words, or a decided and deliberate lack thereof, might actually persuade the offender to reconsider. Either in the moment or on down the line. Plant a seed, not a fist.
I want my son to believe there are possibilities for change and they can begin with him. My advice was to practice a few choice lines at home for use in such situations to let other kids know it isn't all right to address him as such (because terms like 'beaner' and 'wetback' are evidently tossed about in less tense, more casual settings) without bringing an altercation to the school lunch table. I told everyone, as we licked the last bit of blueberry pie from our bowls, that most people are not all bad, including those harboring the ignorance that is racism. Internally, there are blind spots within all of us to truth and reality. Knocking down walls and aiming a floodlight in those areas does wonders. If we remember that we have power beyond violence, we can be an instrument for truth. Be aware of the bad but reach for the good. Period.
My husband says I've watched "Remember the Titans" with Denzel Washington one too many times. Huh. He's seen the football flick more times than I have, but the interesting point he may have forgotten in the glib delivery of the remark is this: it was all true. A racially divided town, school, and football team really did experience change-of-heart and extraordinary, seemingly impossible friendships did develop. My husband says he has no use for people who use racially-charged words. They are inherently bad and don't deserve a second chance. He says if I was something other than white, I would feel the same way. But, I pointed out that I know plenty of non-white folks who do not believe as he does. And, further, I've had enough scenarios thrown at me over the years -- difficult childhood, running away, brother in prison, the drowning of my niece and nephew at the hands of my post-partum psychotic sister, enduring private disappointments -- to witness myself in action: though not a perfect human being, I practice the very fundamental beliefs I preach. If I was a person of color but retained the same personality and character, I know I would always hope, and seek the truth, and try to exact peaceful influence if at all possible.
It's not all right that a teenage boy who plays on the same baseball team as my son, attends the same classes with him each school day, and has parents at home capable of imparting awareness the same as my son, called him a 'dirty Mexican.' It's not all right that stronger examples of ignorance and hatred exist and happen in our city, our county, our state, within the borders of our country, and around this globe on a 24/7 basis. The long list of crime shows to be found on the television didn't invent the atrocities which are the bread-and-butter of their plot lines. No, we are spinning on an axis of evil which could very well overwhelm us but for the one thing I refuse to surrender despite all I know: the faithful practice of hope. One person at a time. One after-midnight blog at a time.
Starting with me.
(I was fully prepared for bed at 5 minutes to 1AM. Then came the end credits for the very intense "A Time To Kill" with Samuel L. Jackson, Sandra Bullock, and Matthew McConaughey. Though I've seen this film before, and read the book, I found myself with intense visceral reactions at several key points in the show. The gospel song bringing down the house as the key grip, animal trainer, and set design designates scrolled down the screen stirred my writing juices.
Please note: I realize that the 'white man' did not invent prejudice or racism. Even within the same race, people managed to create systems whereby the powerful exercised their seeming superiority over the powerless. However, for our intents, in modern and historical America, with our unresolved issues concerning Black America and the polarizing debate over our illegal population of Mexican residents, the weighted term 'white man' fits the bill.)
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