Category Archives: Inspiration

On Autumnal abundance

Posted on October 11, 2012 | 2 Comments

Autumn is here with its chilly, damp fingers. It comes with a mixture of memories, some good, some bad, and some with rarely a charge at all. It’s raining, and temperatures have dropped, but the reflections I experience are as satisfying and filling as a bowl of hot carrot-ginger soup. Oh, the feelings that autumn colors bring!

I once worked with a frail young woman who feared autumn. She physically trembled as she talked of how the fall reminded her of death. I listened to her speak and watched her for a few moments before I told her my view. Autumn is a reminder of the abundance of life. And yet, I can see her point of view because earthly things come with earthly fears.

Autumn, for me, is a reminder of things that cannot be taken away; kind of like the theme from the Titanic: the things in our hearts always go on.

So what are the things that can’t be taken away? I have some ideas (surprised?).

Spiritual strength. Ah, the goal. Learning to become a spiritual warrior. It’s oh so not the sinkhole of zealotry and dogmatism. Spiritual warriors drive thriving. Where does the mistake take place? How do our honest journeys become paths divested of purity?

At a party, I once pulled a fortune from a jar that contained the word “Coromantee.” I decided to look it up recently because the word on the fortune was combined with the word “warrior.”  I have since learned that the Coromantees from Ghana were warrior tribespeople sold into slavery. They did not go gently.  They were so fierce that it is said an Act was proposed to try to prevent slave traders from shipping them to the West. I’ve  held that word in my heart for many years as my marching orders. Spiritual warriors cannot be enslaved; one will never control a spiritual warrior’s mind.

This morning, I’m also thinking about Victor Frankel’s Man’s Search for Meaning. Once one becomes a spiritual warrior, there is no one — and this is an absolute, NO one — who can take that strength away.

The first taste of sweet potato pie. Whether or not you believe it, this is one of those luscious memories that can never be taken away. And although I’ve tried to replicate that pie in so many vegan ways, I have not found anything to replace that first taste. Sunday after church, after the roast beef, after the collard greens, after the rice, is pie. Not bean. Not pumpkin. Smooth, rich sweet potato.

Education. Complain as bitterly as we might about the loans, the two or three jobs, the exhaustion that comes with writing papers at 3 AM; there is nothing that beats the joy, pride, and security of knowing that no one can take away what we’ve earned and learned. Ever.

Love and our relationship to the Divine. Embrace or deny it, we are wedded to the Great Mystery. Nope. Can’t be taken away.

One’s relationship to one’s ancestors. Conscious or unconscious, acknowledged or not, we owe a debt to those who came before us.

Autumn is a time when we remember abundance. And I could probably fill pages with other examples of abundance — none of which are monetary. I know. It’s boring to talk about leaves in shades of red and gold, of orange and yellow fruit and vegetables; of dark evenings at five o’clock. But it’s exactly this magic in nature that brings an awareness of abundance. As the rains soften the leaves so that they willingly drop from the trees, and as I watch the leaves fall, I am willing and happy to concede that abundance lies in things that cannot be taken away.

What about your autumnal abundance?

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Essays, Inspiration, Life Stories, Reflection, Spirituality, Values and Spirituality, World View

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On kindness and coastal healing

Posted on September 26, 2012 | 4 Comments

So now it’s done. I’ve had the surgeries on both hands, and I’m tired. I go back and forth with the focus and energy it takes to heal. I’ve ranted and raved like Job: “What’s the lesson here? You say there’s a reason for all things. Can I have a clue?”

When I moved back to the East and to the Philadelphia area specifically, I felt I was doing the right thing. After all, New York is the publishing capital of the world, and my mother was ill. In 2001, all the right reasons seemed to be in place. I spent two years in an ashram in upstate New York surrounded by love.  But when I moved to the Philadelphia area in 2003, love was replaced by another four letter word — the worst of all four letter words — hate. I hated it here.

All of the reasons and memories of why I had fled the East Coast and anything remotely connected to it (including the southeast) came flooding back. I only saw the busyness and inflexibility of the culture. I did not feel the warmth in human spirit that seemed to flourish in the rains of the Northwest and the sun of California. Oh. And did I mention the cold and snow? I do not like cold and snow and could not imagine ever finding friends here.

I pegged everyone (especially you former manager from Hades), as a scavenger for money, sex, and devious ways to perpetuate racism, sexism, class prejudice and all the other prejudices one could think of.  I called a monk (priest) and cried. This place was a new low.

It takes time to heal. The severity of my carpal tunnel and the energy to deal with insurance and other issues threatens to take my full attention.  One of the most frustrating experiences has been the delay in posting to my blog as often as I would like. And I had other expectations: I’d be slicing carrots a couple of days after surgery, driving to Trader Joe’s, boiling pots of water for tea or veggies, and back at rehearsal. (I’m coming guys.) But the body has its own ideas.

It also takes time to heal old wounds, and I have plenty of emotional baggage when it comes to the eastern seaboard. But all these considerations have been offset in recent days by the old four letter word — love.

Love brought me home from surgery and stayed for four days cooking meals, washing dishes and sharing hours of conversation. Love referred me to resources that I need.

Love came by to chop the carrots, make the tea, drive me to appointments, and keep my apartment clean. Love stood next to me as I vomited pain medication and recovered from anesthesia. Love went shopping for me, and called me (with different voices) about 10 times a day. Love pulled me out of the apartment to go watch a school football game and sit in the sun rather than stay inside and feel sorry for myself. Love warmed my heart and healed a place that was becoming as chilly as the Pennsylvania winters.

Love, in the form of so many folks, surprised me and talked me through my fear. I didn’t have to do it alone, and that was one of the biggest fears I had when I moved to this place.

Great souls; great hearts. Grace has a way of reminding me that the kindness of others can melt a frozen heart, even here, where I thought no hearts remained. Perhaps that’s the lesson after all.

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Posted in Creative nonfiction, Essays, Humanity, Inspiration, Life Stories, Reflection, Values and Spirituality

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Words on Struggle

Posted on April 18, 2012 | Leave a comment

I just got bored with all her nagging and complaints.  Her job was too hard, her children were screwing up, she was underpaid (oh yeah, 70k…that’s a lotta tofu), and blah, blah, blah.  Whatever.

She didn’t know from struggle.

The word is weighted with political histories tied to tyranny, genocide, refugee camps, and life-exhausting battles.  The word also brings back memories of my mother’s childhood home and of her growing up with her parents in the backwoods of South Carolina with no running water and no indoor toilet.  The electricity on the small farm was their nod to 20th century comfort.

I remember watching one of the first “reality” shows several years ago.  You may remember some of them.  They would take a family and place them in a reconstructed historic situation such as pioneer living on a midwestern prairie.  Far away from their modern-day conveniences, they would have to align themselves physically, emotionally, and mentally with tasks like drawing water from a well, using an outhouse, or brushing their teeth with baking soda.  I remember that in one of these segments, a teenage girl complained about the taste of baking soda and how she missed her toothpaste.  She didn’t know from struggle.

It’s not that I lack compassion for the difficulty of daily living, but it’s been hard for me (even as I look for work) to equate the daily grind with real down and dirty struggle.

I have tried many times to replace the word “struggle” as it relates to day-to-day experiences:  family relationships, friendships, soul-killing jobs, or high gasoline prices.  I like terms like “overcoming obstacles,” or “eliminating barriers.”  These words blunt the prickly sword of “struggle.”  But like the tale of Sisyphus rolling that dang boulder up the hill only to have the thing roll down again, Struggle will not be redefined.  Here She comes at you with the addictions,  national political battles, and teenage killings.  And it’s all a part of the day-to-day.

My father used to tell me over and over again, ”Don’t judge another until you’ve walked in his shoes.”  Yes.

If we breathe, struggle is required.  Without struggle, we cannot grow.  Struggle adds value to life.  And while I am truly, truly loathe to admit it, every obstacle is a struggle for someone—even if it’s only about the taste of baking soda.

The folks in other parts of the world who struggle with violent oppression or have lived in refugee camps for a quarter of a century are indeed struggling, some with little hope for change.  The rest of us are struggling with our “stuff,” the things that threaten to suffocate that authentic “voice” within us, the intuition that guides us to a high-quality life for ourselves and all those around us.

All struggles, in the heart, are equal.  I guess, I began this post too harshly.   I suppose–in the heart–recovering from addiction is as much a part of the tightrope as being in a job that one hates.  The difference, however, is that, unlike folks in a refugee camp, most of us can see a way to the other side.  We roll the boulder to the top and watch it roll down the other side of the hill.  Every challenge brings us closer to being the person we know we can be.

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Inspiration, Life Stories, Reflection, Values and Spirituality, World View

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Words On Art, Pizza, and a Joyful Life

Posted on April 6, 2012 | 2 Comments

People like to use the term “fire in the belly” to define that insatiable passion in pursuit of a dream.  I like to think of the term in its relationship to the pursuit of pure joy.

Artists are messengers of pure joy.  They inspire folks to view the world in radically different ways.  They encourage us to be curious and to take risks.   They encourage us to be joyful.  As in…”make a joyful noise unto the Lord..”  Not threatening.  Not fearful.  Joyful.

Even when an artist’s work is something I’m not particularly fond of, I find that I am turned away from that experience only to be propelled toward a more joyful one. For this reason alone, if I had a million or a billion or a trillion dollars, I would give it to artists.

I recently heard a story about how Erma Bombeck said she would greet God if she met him face to face after death.  The story goes (and I am paraphrasing here) that she imagined God asking her what she had brought back for Him.  She said she would tell Him she had nothing to give; that she had used every gift He had given her, and there was nothing in her pockets to return.

I could only sit in amazed silence.  To live like that, one must live joyfully.

The other day, my sister-in-law, nieces, a couple of other girls, and my cousins were over for a pizza making party.  The children are all talented girls, five to eleven years old and sassy with creativity.  Their interests are diverse.  One loves music, one loves to ice skate, and one–I’m betting on it–will be a famous television chef.

The girls immersed themselves in the project immediately, and my small kitchen crackled with joy as each girl rolled out her dough in her own way and used toppings to suit her imagination.  Every pie was a work of art.  I was inspired by their boldness and generosity.   They even made “take outs” for their siblings who were not there to cook with us.

There were no rules, just a lazy afternoon,  ingredients, and joy in the process.  I had done the prep work the day before.  I had made yeasted dough from scratch and filled bowls and containers with toppings that I thought they would enjoy.  To be honest, I had a pretty joyful experience prepping.  I home roasted and sliced red bell peppers, sliced and sautéed mushrooms, chopped roma tomatoes, and sliced black olives.  I diced pepperoni slices into quarter chunks and made a fruit salad.  As I washed and chopped  strawberries,  pears, and oranges, then sliced bananas and added  blueberries and raspberries, I was in the zone.  I could have purchased any number of the ingredients I used–the mushrooms, the roasted red peppers, and sliced olives–but I was painting my picture of children joyously making pizza from scratch.  I couldn’t have stopped prepping if I wanted to.  I was quite happy.

In 1968, I was in San Francisco for the first time.  It was a dynamic time, filled with the presence of flower children and the so-called love generation.  I remember being amazed that I could walk the entire city from one end to another in a day.  There was no BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit), no subways.  It was quite a different city then.

One day while walking–and brooding on how difficult life was, a pastime I thought necessary if I wanted to live as an artist–a beautiful man came up to me.  He was African and so beautiful that I will never forget his face.  In those days, I had no suspicion of strangers.

“Why do you look so sad?”  he asked.

I was taken aback, but before I could open my mouth to respond, he was almost singing.  ”You should be happy!  Be Happy!”   He patted me on the shoulder and cheerfully walked off.

It seems that this has been a spiritual theme–a command from the Universe, if you will–wherever I go.  Live joyfully. Empty the pockets. That’s the ticket I’m supposed to buy.

Creativity is mysterious medicine, generating in us the desire to live with a fire in the belly for joy.  We’re inspired by interpretations of life–stories, choreography, theater, music, photographs, paintings, and poetry — that reveal the stages and emotional paths bringing us to the joy that we yearn to experience.

Artists inspire us to get up and do something.  Dance something. Write something.  Sing something.  Cook something new and fabulous—maybe a pizza.

Yes indeed.  It is a very good Friday.

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Creativity, Humanity, Inspiration, Life Stories, Reflection, Story telling, Values and Spirituality, World View

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Sassy

Posted on March 27, 2012 | 3 Comments

 

Sassy.

I love s words.  Ssssssssssss.  Especially this one.

May all young girls grow up to be sassy women.  Don’t take no stuff.  May they not let anyone put them down or define them in words that aren’t their own words.  I don’t care who they might be.  Father.  Husband.  Mother.  Sister.  Boss. Minister or priest.  Girlfriends.

Sassy.  Sometimes it takes decades to get to that place of courage.  But get there, prayerfully, we will.  Easter is coming.  It’s a time of rebirth.  Let us as people, and especially as women, be reborn to the magnificence of the light within us.

I’ve always loved Easter because of the powerful theme of rebirth.  It means we have the chance to begin anew.  We can armor ourselves (I know…it’s an aggressive word) in the truth of rebirth.  We can honor ourselves with rebirth.  Rebirth is our protection and our weapon because it holds the magic and power of our personal strength.

Dang.  What, you may be asking, set her off this time?

If you have happened across this blog for any length of time, you know that I can get pretty passionate about things that inspire self-respect and inner strength. Today, my passion lies in the insistence that young girls grow up confident in their ability to hold their own in all things.  Being sassy is not an easy path.

Sassy.  I define myself for myself.  No one else defines me.  No matter what words they use.  No matter who they are.

Not too long ago, I was sitting in a group of women. We were a multi-cultural group of varying ages.  A young woman and mother stated that she was feeling pushed to go into a career that she didn’t like because of the money she would make.  She wanted an artistic career.  She wanted to explore her options.  All of a sudden, some of the women — women who had crushed their own dreams and desires — were all over this girl, blabbering all the things we have heard all of our lives.  Be practical.  There’s no money in the arts.  Make a living.  And..did I already say this? – be practical.   I saw the light of doubt flicker in her eyes, and I thought of all the times I chose practicality over my heart.

Well.  Folks who know me know that when it comes to women’s dreams, I’m going to go on the aggressive.  And I was all over these folks like white on rice as I defended her right to decide for herself how she would make a living, and explained lovingly —  to her directly — that only she could decide, but that she had the right to her dream.  She had family support.  Why not?

The women reminded me of too many misery filled women of my generation who made the wrong choices, and now want others to swim in the waters they’re drowning in.  In the end, my message is: Young women, define your selves, and, if you are aware, do not make choices out of fear.

Women.  We, too often, say yes when we mean no.  We become afraid of being alone and think that alone means lonely.  Women.  We, too often, play coy and lead people to the belief that they have to take care of us and that we are willing to go along when — really — we are not willing to go along.  Women.  We may tell someone that she looks just great when she has spinach in her teeth.  Where do we learn these passive aggressive behaviors?  Sad to say, but it’s often from other women.  Our inability to stand in the truth of our own strength leaves us feeling like limp celery in the important areas of our lives.  We just won’t call back rather than saying “don’t talk to me that way.”

A friend showed me a trick the other day . Cut off the bottom of a piece of limp celery, and stick that thing in a glass of water.  It firms up again.  Rebirth.

I know.  Men have issues, too.  But in so many ways, society has given them a foot ahead of the starting line.  No one — no exceptions — can define a person better than that person herself.  We are as we see ourselves to be.

Be Sassy.  Tell the truth.  Be sexy.  Be creative.  Be talented.  Be all that we can be.  God put that energy inside of us.  S/he placed those desires within. S/he doesn’t intend for the fire to be put out.

Use the s word.  Sassy.  Sassy begins with an S.  Rebirth begins with an R.  S follows R in the dictionary.  Be Reborn.  Be Sassy.  Have a glorious rebirth and a magnificent spring!

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Creativity, Essential nature, Humanity, Inspiration, Language, Life Stories, Reflection, Respect, Values and Spirituality

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Addiction

Posted on February 14, 2012 | 2 Comments

I am sad today.  I feel as if I lost a relative, a close personal friend.   Her music filled me up.  Her voice gave me hope.  Her sound healed my heart. 

Along with sorrow, Death brings, perhaps, a little insight.  This week the topic of addiction is on the minds and in the hearts of people all over the world.  Whitney Houston’s public struggle with her addictions should force us—all of us—to open our hearts to the inner battle that is so fierce and real for each and every person. Not a single one of us can sit in sanctified judgment.  Every one of us has a demon, an addiction that is not necessarily a chemical dependency.

Over the years, I have seen many good folks succumb first to despair, and then to chemical addiction.  The sociologists and psychologists and folks think they have all the answers, and perhaps they do.  They talk about treatment and intervention and go on and on.  But with all their knowledge, addiction doesn’t go away. 

Drugs, alcohol, sex, food, and relationship cravings can push a seemingly invincible warrior into the abyss.  Only one person can win the battle.  Families can’t do it.  Friends can’t do it.  Preachers can’t do it.  Laws can’t do it.    

Now, let’s get this straight.  A chemical addiction is just one way that deeper issues manifest.  Let’s talk about the craving for relationship. Women and men around the world are familiar with relationship addictions that are just as troubling as any chemical craving.  In fact, sometimes relationships will lead to chemical addictions.  The craving to be with people—and it is a real craving–even when they are bad for us is our response to terror.  We are afraid to be alone with our own thoughts.  We are running from our own sorrow, shame and heartache.  But we are also running from our own beauty.  Cravings are the attempt to still the belief that we are not good enough as we are. 

Women hear over and over again the age-old myth that it’s better to be with any man or partner than to live one’s life alone.  Stop the lie.  This craving for relationship, no matter the cost, is filled with the same “highs” and “lows” of any other addiction.  How many of us surround ourselves with people who reflect back to us our own self-dislike, self-doubt, and low self-esteem rather than surround ourselves with people who reflect our true greatness and light? 

Acknowledging a relationship addiction is harder than calling out a chemical dependence.   If we could understand on a deep, deep level; if we could shine a light into our hearts and marvel at what we see, there would be no addiction.  The very breath and fiber of our being is filled with the holy essence of God, and once we consider that as even the possibility, then we’ve put a leg higher up on the ladder of life. 

Battling addiction is about erasing our own feelings of unworthiness.  Knowing this doesn’t make fighting our demons necessarily easier, but if we just accept, once again I say, the possibility of that truth—that the spirit of God is our very breath—perhaps, no guarantees, but perhaps, we can win the war. 

I once had an unstable manager.  She would give a person flowers and a thank you note one day, then scream at the person the next day.  Although her behavior was erratic (and I imagined chemically induced), the responsibility for eliminating my addiction to unstable personalities was my problem, not hers.  I know about being addicted to persons who are unpredictable and unstable.  I know the battle of fighting the addiction to people who do not lift me up. 

So, I am sad today.  I didn’t know Whitney Houston personally, but her struggle is every person’s struggle as we continue to fight to see our own best self through our own hearts and eyes.  To surround ourselves with greatness and to live in the light of our own inner greatness is the battle.  We will win it.

My prayers are for Whitney Houston’s daughter, her mother, and her whole family.

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Humanity, Inspiration, Reflection, Values and Spirituality, World View

Drawing Outside the Lines…

Posted on December 21, 2011 | Leave a comment

It’s heart-wrenching to be invalidated by someone you love.  I was around ten years old when I showed my father a picture I had drawn and colored.  Sitting at the dining room table, I was pleased with what I had done.

As I remember it, he grabbed the drawing, shook it, and yelled “You colored outside the lines!” 

Oh.

Well, this tendency of drawing outside the lines has become a quality of character that I adore.  It is a Christmas gift of immense proportions!  I did not know in that moment that his criticism would become a mantra of sorts, kind of like my personal 11th commandment.

“Thou shalt always color outside the lines because that’s where learning, character growth, and love are placed.” 

Ironically, the same man who was pushed to anger about my straying outside the lines was also the person who taught me about taking chances.  In a booming voice Daddy would stride into the kitchen with vague ingredients in his large, deep brown hands and look into the boiling pots on the stove. 

“Improvise!” he’d shout, and we’d watch with doubtful, although hopeful, faces as a splash of this or that was thrown into our evening meal.  Sometimes, his improvising didn’t work, but most times, I was astonished to see, it worked out just right.  So, yell as much as he might, my first lessons in straying outside the lines came from him. 

I was sitting behind my desk and chewing.  The rules in my third grade class were clear:  no gum chewing; no eating.  It wasn’t that I was being openly rebellious.  It’s just that as I quietly watched my teacher chewing, I had decided that a rule was a rule.  Didn’t everybody—even teachers—have to follow the rules?

So, as she chomped away, bold as you please, and drew math examples on the board, I put the gum in my mouth and began to chew.

“Take the gum out of your mouth.  You know the rules.” she said. 

So I said (my sister tells me that I always had to have something to say), “But you’re chewing gum, Mrs. H.”

Okay.  If you’re old-school you may have some belief about child-adult relationship values, and how the adult has the final word.  But I color outside the lines.

Mrs. H. glared at me. 

“Why are you chewing gum?” I insisted as my classmates laughed, went silent, or coughed with surprise.

“It’s medicine!” she snapped.  “On the black board, 100 times, I will not chew gum in class.” 

I hate the sound of chalk on blackboard, but although I’d lost the battle, in the end I won the war.  I don’t remember seeing her chew gum in class any more. 

I found out later that it was a chewing gum laxative.  But knowing myself as I do now, I’m pretty sure I would have asked “why?” anyway.   That’s the mold from which this cookie is cut. 

Drawing outside the lines—or in my adult persona, challenging the status quo— requires at least a dot of courage in order to ask the questions.  I may not get the answers, but I will ask the questions.  Asking puts me in the driver’s seat. 

Drawing outside the lines is what compelled me to (politely) explain to a manager that she was abusive—knowing full well the consequences.  I am healthier and happier for it.

Even when we try to stay inside the lines, twisting and shifting our personalities and behaviors to be liked, life’s pictures shift and change, and we find ourselves grabbing new colors, different inks, or sharper pencils to keep up.  Sometimes we just have to go over those little lines to make life beautiful and–dare I say it ? –filled with dignity, love, and respect.

The cynical (you know how I feel about cynical…) might ask, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” 

Excellent!!!

Happy Holidays, everybody.  May the New Year continue to bring you peace, joy, prosperity, and courage!

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Humor, Inspiration, Life Stories, Memoir, Reflection, Values and Spirituality, World View

Dignity

Posted on December 15, 2011 | 1 Comment

I’m late with the posting this week.  I’ve been reflecting on a word that’s brilliant with the light and warmth of one hundred thousand candles.  Dignity.  I am learning more and more about this word every day.  Here is my definition (I did not ask Merriam-Webster about it). 

As human beings, we are born with the right to see ourselves in the best light through our own eyes.  Dignity is our birthright.  When we are unable to uphold our own vision of our best selves, we project our smallness of vision onto others and try to “bully” them into seeing themselves as we see ourselves—without dignity. 

It’s almost Christmas.  I’m into one of those looking inside places that makes some people hang up the phone with a ”see ya’ later.”   Perhaps it’s the long, cold and dark days leading up to the solstice that has me wrapped in the warmth of this word that is wholly connected to respect.  Perhaps it’s the memories of all the times someone tried to strip away my vision of my best self through my own eyes.  Perhaps it’s just that, with the approach of the solstice and the New Year, I do what I always do every year.  I pull out my journal and reflect on the passing year and the changes–large and small–that have pushed me to growth.  Have I stayed true to my values?  Have I been able to give each person, including me, the space to see her best self through her own eyes?  Have I given away my vision of my own best self?  Have I been respectful of the planet and its resources?  Have I dispersed joy and encouraged dignity, or have I contributed to fear and uncertainty?

I am trying to cut back on my addiction to the “news,” and I try not to dive into the political on this blog.  But I’m going to take a bend in the road this evening because I feel like it; and because it’s my blog. 

It doesn’t matter whether a person is pro- or anti-abortion, pro- or anti-death penalty, gay or straight, a man or woman, a Democrat or Republican, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jewish, or Buddhist.  If a person cannot carry his words of life in a way that supports dignity in all people, he is using up precious oxygen and stripping away someone’s vision of her best self through her own eyes.  I say, save the oxygen.  

Dignity.  The right to see ourselves in the best light through our own eyes.  

The days before the winter holy days are a perfect time to re-affirm a committment to treat every person with dignity and respect through the next year.   It’s a challenge, right?  So, what else is new?

U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton gave a historic talk on December 6 before the United Nations on the rights of LGBT individuals throughout the world.  And while her emphasis was on this particular struggle, I took away the moving lesson around which she weaved her message:  it is the absolute right of every single person to be treated with and live his or her life in dignity and respect.  You can find it here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MudnsExyV78

This is my continuing goal for the New Year.  Yours? 

 

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Humanity, Inspiration, Life Stories, Reflection, Respect, Values and Spirituality, World View, Writing

Obsessed With Positivity

Posted on December 7, 2011 | 1 Comment

Frowny-faced.  Don’t you just hate it when you see someone with lips all turned down at the edges and the forehead is all wrinkled?  “Happy Holidays!” you want to say, and then you reconsider because, the truth be told, those down-turned lips are scary.

I’m the first to admit to life’s difficult times.  Originally, the title of this post was going to be “Obsessed with negativity.”  It’s actually something I know a little bit about, so I was set on blasting our national tendency to sink into whatever cesspool of the month makes us feel sad, scared, angry, bitter, or distrusting.  You know, the old “if it bleeds, it leads” form of journalism.  But, I changed my mind.  I changed my mind because I get tired of giving negative news oxygen.

When I was little we could sometimes irritate our older relatives with our spontaneous, out-of-control laughter.

“What do you have to be so happy about?  Maybe you need something to do.”

We had something to do.  At Easter, my favorite holiday, we would eat jelly beans, Marshmallow Peeps, paint Easter eggs and fill Easter baskets.  We’d wear our new clothes with hats and gloves for church and dirty the gloves with chocolate Easter bunnies.  Wasn’t that “doing something?”

We relaxed as spring, evidence of renewal, warmed our frozen little hands.  Even frowny adults smiled when, after a long and hard winter, the first tiny buds appeared on what would become honeysuckle vines.  Even the most cantankerous neighborhood elder would find him/herself out in the sun marveling at the delicate green of new grass as they planned where the tomatoes would go later on in the summer.  My obsession with positivity began with the spring.

There are childhood things that stick in your mind like bubble gum to a shoe for no really good reason.  Like the melodies and words for each weekday’s theme song from the Mickey Mouse Club (good for getting our bass player to bend into a laughing U shape).  Or Shirley Temple singing, “On the Goo-oo-ood Ship Loll-lee (screech) Pop.” Or “High Hopes” by Frank Sinatra.

I am embarrassed to admit these things.  But the truth is the truth.

These songs, as goofy as they were, had an impact.  One of my favorites was the theme of a Sunday radio show broadcast from a local church.  “Happy Am I!” the minister and congregation chanted back and forth.  The ebullient song with its positive surety made a difference in my pre-teen mind, and, still, more than 40 years later I find myself singing it when I need to remind myself that, yes, I am happy.  Words have power.

Have you ever checked out tree frogs?  I was in upstate New York one summer, and a friend and I were listening to tree frogs.  They begin their chatter at dusk, croaking to each other in a call and response fashion that sounds like a lovers’ spat—all in croak-speak of course.

“Yes, you did!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!”

“No, I didn’t!”

Reminds me of some conversations I’ve had.

“9.6% of workers are unemployed!”

“90.4% are employed!”

“9.6% of workers are unemployed!”

“90.4% are employed!”

Tree frogs.

I have crafted a plan for myself.  I spend at least a half hour every day in laughter.  It feels good, burns calories (the research says so…) and Lord knows I need it.

Recently, I canceled a subscription to a popular magazine.  Over the years, the publication had changed editors, and I had hoped that with an editorial shift the content would get lighter, less critical; less cynical.  It did not.  Annoying Cynicism should be its title.

So, keeping the corners of my mouth turned up and my heart open, I canceled.  I just didn’t want weekly cynicism as a part of my days.

Go ahead.  Say I’m in denial.  Call me Pollyanna.  Believe me I have been called so very much worse.  But whatever you call me, call me laughing because I am obsessed with positivity.

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Posted in chocolate easter bunnies, Commentary, Creative nonfiction, honeysuckle vines, Inspiration, Life Stories, Reflection, Values and Spirituality, World View

Provincial

Posted on November 30, 2011 | 1 Comment

This is not a pleasant word for me.  It brings up inner challenges in the commitment to write one’s truth.  The prods and pokes of fear are pushing me towards keeping things small.  Safe.  Predictable.  I’m learning how easy it is to slip into a provincial–narrow-minded–state of mind  as I sit down every week to put these thoughts into W.O.R.D.S.   The provincial promises safety, but there is no reality in it.

“Keep the point of view narrow.”   But a narrow point of view is like going backwards.  Like so many provincial serving politicians today.  No thanks.

Dreams are a critical piece of my internal GPS system.  They direct me to places I need to explore, and, on several occasions, when the thick broth of memory drips into my sleep, I travel back to a time where we experienced joy in a solidly  provincial world on my grandfather’s farm in South Carolina.  In these dreams, I am wandering the landscape of the farm.  Over there are the pigs.  Here are the chickens.  Down that path are the grape vines.  There are the fig trees there, and over there are the fields of vegetables and fruit.  Sometimes I am standing on the back stoop or sitting on the front porch or looking out the window over my grandmother’s wood burning stove.  We would heat the irons to press our clothes on that stove.  Sometimes I am staring up in the inky black sky at the constellations and losing myself in their depth.  I know what the safety of provincial feels like.

I remember glorious mornings when we kids harvested corn, vegetables, and fruit in the mid-morning sun.  The corn husks and corn silk caused my skin to itch miserably, and although I complained, I knew that by dinner we’d be sucking on sweet, juicy kernels lathered with fresh butter.

Oh, darn. I forgot about the scary corn worms.  And that, my friends, is the problem with nostalgia—aka narrow thinking.  It’ll leave out those worrisome corn worms of life every time.

Our visits were fun because we did not have the burden of being trapped in the restrictively hard farm work like other kids and relatives. We would always go home to our own restrictions.  Theirs was a world of fiercely provincial ideas that kept them safe from the outside world, and while there, we fell in line with those restrictions.  Given the life-threatening politics of the time, I understand that provincialism was a positive force in saving lives.  So, it bothers me to hear:

“Things were better in the old days.  People were better when they followed tradition.”  Really?

I want to burn the bridges to these words, these proclamations that amount to painting ourselves into a corner of life with a teeny, tiny brush.  Rural provincialism had a life-saving purpose.  But that was then; this is now.

Everyone longs for a safety net of predictability, but aren’t narrow views weighted with constrictions and fears that keep us from seeing the bigger world up close and personal?  It seems to me that this yearning for a return to a simpler life is accompanied by fear.  Fear is accompanied by ignorance, and ignorance cheers the repression of civil liberties and a person’s right to make his or her own choices.

I met a woman who has lived in Philly her whole life and never once ventured outside the one or two miles where she lives, works, and prays.  She did not know anything about the lives of the other cultures with whom she worked.  She had never been to the Italian Market or Reading Terminal Market or visited Old City.  Yet, she had some very strong, narrow and wrong views of how to whip the 21st century world into shape.  Efforts to keep things small, predictable, and controlled always fail.  Look at Prohibition.

This evening I went to a local observatory to watch the waxing moon through high-powered binoculars.  I don’t have words (me who can rattle on) for the breathtaking beauty of the crescent and the clearly outlined shadowed side.  The sky was salted with stars, and the constellation Orion so huge and clear it felt as if it enveloped the earth.  Looking through the telescope, I was stunned by the sight of Jupiter with two bold stripes across its body (rings) and two of its moons.  The universe does not offer a provincial view.

There is so much to see, to do, to experience.  So much that can open our hearts to the beauty of being alive.  But we won’t know this if we keep looking backwards, yearning for a life that’s all Andy Griffith-y and Mayberry, without those worrisome, but necessary corn worms and beautiful, but itchy corn silk.

Can we, as a nation, afford it?  What do you think?

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Creativity, Inspiration, Life Stories, Values and Spirituality, World View