Confessions

I had written the first draft of the blog entry on paying attention when I began the drive to the church where I sometimes help out with the Sunday worship experiences. Since it's a very long drive of 45 minutes I was using the time to chat with my mom and then my sister. During those conversations I heard the beep of incoming calls, so I tied them up quickly and discovered that two different friends in two different parts of the country were experiencing some new and different life highlights. I took great delight that in the midst of their delight they both wanted to share their joy with me.

When I got to the service, I noted that our small group had been joined by a visitor. Since we meet in a coffeehouse, someone off the street will sometimes sit with us a while and then move on. This guy seemed planted and he was also enjoying the other libation served by the establishment -- a beer.

Now, I don't have a problem with that because we really do want to be a place that is welcoming to all. But I think that was my first "sign." This guy was definitely going to be here a while. Usually, the pastor would have engaged him in a casual conversation prior to starting and then might have even chatted him up during the service. But my pastor wasn't here. And most of our extroverts were missing as well.

So after the music I followed the plan of introducing prayerwalking and sending the folks into the community to pray, and then made my way to the visitor to discover his story and assure him that he wasn't expected to prayerwalk if he didn't want to.

I need not have worried about not being the world's best greeter. (For those who know me, this may be a surprise but I don't do hearty handshakes and small talk with the new guy well. A party with folks I know? No problem. Conversations off the cuff with complete strangers? Not my thing.) This guy wanted to talk. About what? Well, that's the story.

In about 15 minutes we covered: that he might be a man or he might be a ghost, that his family included a saint, that he -- like the saint -- would die at 33 (even though he was obviously already somewhere between 50 and 60), that he was once asked to be a mercenary in Africa but turned it down, that he did serve in a "conflict" but he didn't say the name, that he was divorced and the oldest son bore the brunt of the scars but he didn't want to go into the details of that because that would blow my mind. Or was it the three born again experiences that would blow my mind? Frankly, at some point, I'd started trying to recall what the protocol was for talking with someone who had a fairly weak grip on reality. I decided it was to go with whatever he said as the working reality and ask no questions beyond clarifying the last statement. That kept us fairly busy.

Finally, one of the walkers returned. Finally, I made my way away from the table where we'd spent those few moments. Finally, I began to wonder about my commitment to paying attention.

I must confess that while I really want this place and group of people to live up to the commitment of being a "space for the community and a community that offers space," I cringe at having to be space for folks who are just plain off in space! I like reality. I like conversations based in reality or, if we must go to a "realm," I prefer the spiritual variety. I like getting calls about new jobs and vacations that are so good they have to be shared via the cell phone. I like paying attention to the things I find worthy of attention. OUCH!

This day I saw the test of my commitment. I'm not sure I made a passing grade.

Paying Attention Pays Off

Yesterday I paid attention. Such is not always the case, but for once, I got it nearly right.

I started the morning at the hospice where I volunteer. Usually, I know who my fellow vols are but I'd lost the calendar and simply knew I was supposed to show up. When I arrived, I found that some of my favorites would be working alongside me and that there would be plenty of surprises.

Some of those surprises came in the form of people -- lots of people. We had workers in the hallway finishing up chair rails. We had volunteers in training on the floor above. We had two older women in the kitchen delivering both groceries and a meal for the day. And, later, I discovered a couple of folks painting rooms near the offices up front.

With that many people come stories.

For instance, one of our crew had brought a visiting nurse from Thailand. Her English was broken but she held her own and really lit up when she fed us Thai food she'd prepared and shared the story of her experience on a boat while the tsunami was actually HAPPENING! She and her twelve companions survived but she spent two days with very few clothes on what she pronounced as a nearby ice-land (island).

Another story came when I volunteered for a second time to assist with one of the resident's showers. His girlfriend stays with him most of the time and usually handles much of his care. I was told she doesn't allow men to assist her but she let me two weeks ago and agreed to do so again yesterday. Her boyfriend is very tall, no longer talking, mostly blind, very cute, white, and incapable of standing on his own. She is short, a little stocky, Hispanic, older than he, holding down two jobs, and dealing with a home that recently flooded, a daughter that is angry because mom threw the deadbeat boyfriend out of her house they all were sharing, and a mother of her own that reversed her role years ago and still relies on this woman to hold the family's feet to the fire. (When we took a break after giving the shower and wrestling with clothes for -- did I mention the boyfriend is TALL? -- the resident, I got the extended story including the brother with seven kids who doesn't work and does drugs with his now adult kids, the ex-husband cop who she hasn't lived with for 8 years but is cute and charming and probably going to jail, and much, much more.)

The hospice also became the backdrop for learning a little bit of the story of the nurse assigned for the day and the fact that one of the residents has a chocolate cake birthmark on his thigh . . . (I resisted pointing out to him that as an African-American any birthmark would probably resemble chocolate something. I'm trained to be sensitive like that.)

After the hospice I sped to a downtown open air exhibit that included works from around the world on the theme of coexistence. Each large canvas was accompanied by a quote that seemed to support or challenge the artwork. As my friend and I explored each piece, we caught each other up on our latest life happenings. More stories, more enjoyment.

And then I missed it.

As I was concentrating on the printed words beneath one billboard, I heard, not too far away, "M'am? Say m'am?"

My mind immediately went to the fact that I was holding my wallet in my hand, that this was downtown and that panhandlers often interrupted my walks or meals in the area asking for "just a few dollars for the bus." I just didn't feel up to the give and take, so I ignored the voice and quickly moved across the park to reconnect with my friend.

From my now safe distance, I looked back to see what my would-be encounter might have been. The only possibility was a man sitting on a bench directly behind the billboard I'd been so intent on understanding. The seated man was obviously blind.

Fear kept me from the story of the blind man at the art show.

I pray I pay more attention next time.

What Is It About Color?

I love a good black and white photo. The impact of the story seems so much more evident when the "characters" are captured in the starkness of dark and light.

But . . .

When you truly see color explode off the page, outside your window, on your plate, in a storefront window . . . WOW!

Reds warm me and conjure silky luxuries. Midnight blue takes the oxygen from the air and fills space with possibilities. Yellow stings in a silly, satisfying way. Orange pouts and demands attention beyond being Red's second cousin! Green has to grow on me . . . while not my favorite, I do see its potential. But best of all is purple -- the one you can almost taste, the one that drips with promises and possibilities. If ever I were crowned queen of color, purple would be my cape.

Evidence of purple's truly engaging persona can be found on visual-voice.net.

Loquat About It

A loquat tree grows on my patio. At the moment, almost every limb ends with a cluster of round, plum-sized yellow fruits. The limbs are high overhead and I could only reach (by standing in a chair) two last night when I determined it was harvest time. Still I collected a bowlful.

I'd heard someone say I had a Japanese plum tree but I'd never taken the time to find out much about it. This week the newspaper carried a story about the loquat or Japanese plum and offered up several recipes for using the fruit.

Wow! I had a food source outside my window and I didn't even know it. You see, I'd assumed that the round objects weren't edible. Otherwise, I figured someone might have mentioned it. We're talking food here, people. In my world this is not a topic to be ignored.

Yet for weeks, I'd watched the objects grow, and other than fear the clean up when they began to drop, I'd not given a thought to the things.

Now, I'm both consumed by and consuming them. I sat outside last night designing imaginary devices for reaching the top branches. I played out an Alfred Hitchcock influenced storyline when the birds began to feast on them. I engaged in conversations about their flavor, texture, and uses with my neighbors -- having now become the resident expert because you know I'd read an entire article about them.

I've discovered they are tasty -- much like the cherries I plucked off my grandmother's backyard tree when I was a child. I discovered they are lots of work for little gain -- the pits are huge and between them and the outer skin there's little room for actual fruit. And I've discovered that I like them natural -- because there's no way I'm taking the time to peel and cook them. The whole tree might cook up into one jar of sauce! (and that's an if-fy "might")

But I love the idea of the loquat tree on an urban patio offering up its treasure and right outside my door. A tree may grow in Brooklyn but here in Houston we go one better -- ours have loquats!

Nightmare of a Man, Dream of a Life

I was in a meeting with several men (what a shock! me in a room full of men). Several in the room were friends or friendly. One was not.

A friend and the one who was sharing his success story was asked where his boss was. He knew the general location but couldn't remember why. I knew and shared with the group.

My friend, chuckling, said, "That's you. You know us -- where we are and what we're up to."

And then to the group he said, "What's more she's great at telling our stories!"

The member of the group I was hosting and the one guy I've now deemed THE OBNOXIOUS ONE then said, "She has to. Without your stories she'd have nothing to say."

(I'm pausing for your righteous indignation to rise to the appropriate level. . . . There yet? I can wait. . . . Ok that should do it.)

My friend encouraged me to breathe deep cleansing breaths as I noted aloud my own outrage at such a socially inept commentary. And we continued on with the meeting.

Later I reflected on THE OBNOXIOUS ONE's remark. At first, I wondered if indeed he was right. Then I slapped myself and returned to reality. The man didn't know me. He had chosen, in the two days since he'd met me, to engage in less than 5 minutes of impromptu dialogue with me and had otherwise based his whole opinion of me on conversations he'd overheard or presentations I'd made. He never asked me a single question. He never said anything directly to me.

And he was the one who had begun the experience acknowledging that he lacked a dream.

I want to be EXTREMELY angry with this guy. But you know what? I pity him. He not only lacks a dream. He lacks joy. He lacks the beauty of seeing beyond the face of diversity and learning from its heart. He just lacks.

I also came to be so very thankful that I have the reputation of knowing the stories. For it's in the stories that life happens . . . again and again. And we celebrate . . . again and again. And I have the undeniable pleasure of being a part of all that. As a storyteller, I'm living my dream.

Faith Secrets

My friend(regarding a recent experience with her child): "When you were 12 did you ever sit at the dinner table and ask your mother if Buddhists were going to hell?"

Me: "Are you kidding? We whispered the word catholic!"

My friend: (laughing) "Oh yeah. In my hometown, an older man remarried and we never knew his second wife's name. It was always, 'oh you know . . . the (whispering) catholic one."

Catholic, cancer, pregnant . . . the verbage of my youth relegated to under-the-breath commentary. Similar to but not quite the same as profanities we could spell but not speak . . . the f-word, n-word, a-hole, etc.

Funny how word games far beyond the daily Jumble and crossword puzzle abound.

Rants Happen . . . And Can Be Deleted

My first blog today was a recounting of my day in which I was rather negative . . . and unpleasant. I didn't wish this for my day nor do I wish it upon anyone taking the time to read www.starsdancing.blogspot.com. So I deleted it. Instead I will tell you about a particular moment in my day. While riding away from the city, I turned to chat with someone in the van. I caught a glimpse of the skyline against the cloud-spotted blue and unexpectedly, but without hesitation, gasped, "I love my city!" And I do. I really do. Here's hoping you love your city too.

My World In Barn Red

I bought a chair for the patio. And thus it began.

The chair needed color. Red! I thought. So I bought stain.

The chair needed company. Flowers, I thought. So I bought flowers.

The flowers needed planting. So I invited a friend to show me what to do.

The chair needed staining. So I accepted the offer of yet another amigo who did a masterful job.

The newly planted and newly painted needed musical interludes. So I moved my musical source from bedside right to bedside left and in front of the window.

Bedside right needed something to fill the gap and the patio needed ambience so I bought candles which could serve two purposes (as opposed to two masters which we are not supposed to be able to do).

And last night after I watered my new, multi-colored plant life, I sat in my red chair, listened to my soft jazz, watched the flames of my torches and knew . . .

This is my world . . . and it is good.

I'm Thinking About This One

Anne Lamott in her latest book called Plan B tells the story of a rabbi who always told his people that if they studied the Torah, it would put Scriptures on their hearts.

One of them asked, “Why on our hearts and not in them?”

The rabbi answered, “Only God can put Scripture inside. But reading sacred text can put it on your hearts, and then when your hearts break, the holy words will fall inside.”

ARGH!!!!! vol. 3

Is anyone else bothered by the fact that our American contingent to the Pope’s funeral that had a five person limit to it included former Presidents George Sr and Bill Clinton but Condoleezza was sitting where Jimmy Carter should have been? I pray he said no to the opportunity to go and that’s the ONLY reason she’s in his chair . . . ‘cause let’s face it, there’s no way she can take his place!

La. La. La, La Means I Love You

Motown. What's not to love!?

Monday nights at Houston's Red Cat Jazz Cafe three older Black men in matching suits sing the songs of Motown and with choreographed movements to emphasize particular parts of the choruses bring smiles to the few folks who have discovered this entertainment option at the first of the week.

Twice now I've joined some friends for this musical interlude. Twice I've smiled to the point that my dimples stretched. Last night I was the object of the singers' attention.

Seems part of their act is to make their way through the audience and sing to women or encourage women's dates to do the singing for them. The first night I went with two gay men and a married pastor. They tried to determine which one of the men should direct the chorus of "My Girl" at me, made a guess, got it wrong and we laughed at how confused the singer seemed to be at our table's plight.

Last night we were seated a bit closer to the stage in the still rather empty room (March Madness was taking its toll on the potential audience) and I somehow caught the spotlight. First the younger man with the shaved head and earring seranaded me. Then the short guy with the gap between his two front teeth decided that he needed to direct his falsetto in my direction. And finally the lead and eldest had a song or two for me. Hands were held. Lyrics were spoken, sung, acted out. The evening was much fun . . . at least from my perspective!!

I plan on letting more of my buddies in on this little Motown Monday secret. But I'm going to miss the attention!

ARGH!!!!! vol. 2

My friend comes in from the east coast. She's visited two times in ten years. And BOTH times, the airline she's traveling on (different ones) lost her luggage. Ok, that's aggravating but not a total ARGH.

That's what happens next.

First she's told that they don't know where her and the other 15 passengers' luggage is. What do we get those handy computerized tags for if not for keeping up with such things?

Then she's given a telephone number that only takes her to computerized option or the friendly reminder that she can check the bag's status online.
What happened to HUMAN customer SERVICE????

The bag arrived this morning . . . 21 hours after she did.

ARGH!

With Fear and Trembling

He had the look of a blind man -- dark circles under unfocused eyes, clothes slightly askew. A cloud of pathos seemingly rose from his over-gelled hair . . . spiking underscoring how little he still had at such an early age. He wanted to please. He really did. And that's what made it all so very uncomfortable.

My friend and I were enjoying another one of our we-may-not-have-money-but-we-do-like-the-finer-things adventures at a local community college. Their culinary school has practice runs as the semester concludes and tonight was seafood night. For $15 we received a five course meal complete with palate-cleansing sorbet interludes.

Not too shabby.

Except for the waiter. "Shabby" is exactly the term that comes to mind when reflecting on the young man we learned wasn't quite a student in the program yet. He's taking this course in hopes of getting in and having it count next semester.

Hearing him stutter through that explanation and seeing him fumble with his acknowledged "cheat sheet" of courses, stumble through the placement of plates, cups and saucers, and require more and more assistance as the the night wore on had me wondering if someone wasn't holding out false hope.

We learned that all the students rotate roles from week to week. Tonight's manager of the "restaurant" might be next week's chef or even be bussing tables.

After watching our waiter spill the tea, lose the berry off my friend's sorbet, delay the salad, and have the manager "assist" with the table clearing, I began to cringe at the sight of his impending arrival. He walked with such caution, precariously balancing glasses or plates on the oversized platter that I almost bolted from my chair to help him out. I did take the ever-clattering dishes from his hand on more than one occasion as he approached my place setting with true fear and trembling.

Oh, and lest you think otherwise, I was employing my very best calming voice, words of gratitude, and "there, there" attitude. If someone was inciting his fear, it wasn't our table.

When the absolutely delicious meal of seafood quiche, garlic soup, trout with vegetables, lentil salad and bananas foster concluded, my appetite was definitely sated. But the experience overall left me wanting.

I want people like our poor waiter to have a place in the world. I want ineptitude in one arena to unfold into expertise in another. I want good things to come to sad situations.

I want him to be a great cook!

But, here is where I have my own serving of fear and trembling. I fear that such is not the case. I tremble that inequity is part of the system and that rather than simply "feeling bad" for truly pathetic people, I'm supposed to extend grace . . . love them in their unloveliness.

Here is where I pray for an understanding manager to come to my aid. 'Cause, frankly, here is where I suck at this job.

Age Matters

I got an email today from a friend in China who just turned 65. She left the states to teach English there when she was in her early 50s. The email came while I was instant messaging a friend who is 22 and can make me laugh over the silliest things -- especially her mastery of profanity at such an early age.

I'm struck today by diversity. I just finished several stories that spanned charismatics to traditionalists, Chinese to Sudanese, student advocates to medical doctors. And, of course, there's the age thing.

While I'm absolutely convinced that with age comes wisdom, I think the wisest thing I've ever done is be open to diversity. And I learned that one early on.

WooHoo! Happy Holiday

Today is Shouter Baptist Liberation Day* in Trinidad and Tobago.

This holiday is one of the islands' most recent. The government granted a public holiday to the group known as the Spiritual Baptists to commemorate the repeal of the 1917 Prohibition Ordinance. The repeal was granted in 1951 after the Spiritual Baptists, particularly the group known as "Shouter Baptists," were outlawed by the government because their practices (bell ringing, loud singing, chanting and praying) were considered a disturbance of the peace. The day is marked with several religious rallies.

Can I get a shout out for those crazy Baptists?

*This falls into the category of "little known facts learned on the Internet."

Want to See My Slides?

I know that there's truly nothing more entertaining than seeing slides of someone else's vacation. Think of it . . . an entire evening in half light with the chk, chk sound of the projector insuring you that indeed someone really would take that many photos of that particular thing and in that position and then print EVERY single one of them for you to endure . . . uh, I mean enjoy.

Having now indicated that I'm socially and culturally savvy enough to realize that if you continue reading you may be equally bored with my verbal snapshots, I will nevertheless share them. Because, hey, that's what vacations are for!

(Please insert the chk, chk sound between items for the full slide show effect. And for you literalists out there, no, there are not actually slides to be seen somewhere. There's nothing wrong with your computer. I'm simply using metaphor, ok?)

Let the show begin:

• Here's one of J and I standing in the line for taxis from the airport. It stretched across 14 taxi stands, that's the length of more than 14 cars and it wound back and forth for five lanes. I had flashbacks to the rides at Disneyworld and wondered why we didn't have those neat TVs entertaining us while we waited. Then the Taxi Stand Manager got all "I'm only going to say this one time" on the crowd and things became a bit more amusing.
• Here we are with one of the three Ethiopians we encountered during the weekend. Taxi driving is definitely a draw for our friends from Africa. But only the girl behind the Zumanity sales counter seemed remotely impressed that J and I had actually visited her country.
• Yep, that's exactly what you think it is . . . a pyramid. We stayed in a pyramid. And we didn't ride elevators, no that would be too plebeian. We rode inclinators. I was inclined to tell them the whole "theme" thing could be taken too far, but I decided to ride it out.
• My winnings started early on . . . a whole $8 at a two cent slot machine. Touch that, will you?
• Before I move to the next slide, I'll warn you, it's not pretty. J got blisters. You try walking through the football field of our casino three or four times a day (do you know how many wrong turns you can make in a pyramid?) then making your way down the Strip and stopping in on every new themed way of housing beeping slot machines in a new pair of tennies and see if you don't come away with some Momma-sized babies on your tootsies! (What's that? You wouldn't wear new shoes on a vacation. Well, take that up with J. I'm just reporting the facts.)
• Here's the Tropicana. Tacky just doesn't get any better than this, does it?
• Here's the Siberian baton twirler stretching before his 11 a.m .free performance. We were sitting at the quarter slots at the foot of the "stage" entrance and engaged him in a limited English conversation about his ability to handstand horizontally on one hand -- which wound up being much more impressive than his actual performance.
• I had to get a shot of the Hispanic men and women on the streets trying to give baseball cards to the men. Can't tell you how many times I heard one of the recipients say he was going home and creating a display of his numerous opportunities to call a "model" to his room. I even saw a couple of guys "trading" cards. Never actually saw the photos but I did see the free magazines offered in "newstands" on the streets and if those are any indication, there must be lots and lots of contortionists in Las Vegas for all those Cirque troupes to choose from!
• Here's a yardstick tall margarita, followed by another drink in a Paris hot air balloon, and yet another in a replica of the Eiffel Tower. Free drinks, tall drinks, theme drinks . . . there may be a drought in Vegas but it has no effect on alcohol intake.
• When you think of Vegas, don't you just automatically think of wildlife? Saw at least three tigers, two parrots, and any number of drunks while I was there.
• Ahhhh . . . chocolate. Who knew they could fill four stories with M&M memorabilia. Oh, alright, make it three. The third floor was devoted to the Oscar-ready production of the case of the missing "M" and in 3D no less.
• Here's one of the dancing fountains. I loved it when they used Faith Hill's "This Kiss" and choreographed full on water explosions at just the right spots.
• Speaking of right spots . . . here's the whirlpool in the women's spa at the Luxor. Notice how I took extra care to hide the fact that swimsuites were optional here?
• And here's one of the river stones that warmed my tensions right out of my back. Now this something I don't mind paying for by the hour.
• Here's one of J getting carded at a show and a blackjack table.
• Here's one of me not.
• This is the line at the buffet, at another taxi stand, at the roller coaster ride, at the wildlife exhibit . . . all things I didn't do once I saw the line.
• Oh, I love this one. It's the 10 ft tall glass flowers at the Bellagio. Omigosh, exquisite! Anyone who doesn't appreciate fine blown glass . . . well, I scoff at them!
• Here's me looking for something to do to kill time until the next show. Yes, I succumbed to a slot machine. Yes, I put my money in. $5 as a matter of fact.
• Here's me looking around to see if anyone is watching me win $800.
• Here's J with her mouth open. She was on a quarter machine. I won on a penny one.
• The next series is from the show Zumanity. Any children reading this blog should turn away from the screen at this point. We begin with the peep holes you could use as you walked through the lobby. Yes, there were photos on the other side. No, I'm not going to tell you of what.
• Next there's the accented gentleman (from who knows where) who exclaimed that the beautiful women were making his ticket taking job very difficult. And that it pained him to have to give us away to his cohort who would show us our seats.
• This is his cohort. No, I'm not taking this shot from a weird angle. The guy's a dwarf.
• This is our seat in the theatre. Yes they were good. Yes we paid dearly. Yes, I found a way to sit by at least two of the gay guys in the audience.
• Here's the two obese women in thongs and fishnets serving strawberries to the crowd. No, I'm not making this up. I don't have this kind of imagination.
• And this is the lounge lizard who had scales on the back of his jacket. He liked to do things with his tongue.
• There's the two women who swam in the champagne glass, the dancing gymnists who seemed to be doing a living illustration of all the Kamasutra positions, the blonde and the other dwarf who flew through the air on a ribbon, the nude comics with the strategically placed pom poms, the bodybuilders who wound up in a cage and ending up kissing, the blow up doll who came to life and lived up to her name, the drag queen emcee and all the audience members who wound up the butt of several jokes.
• Here's the buffet at the House of Blues on Easter morning. I was all about the shrimp and salmon.
• And here's a shot of our little bit of heaven that day. Koreans to the left of us, Russians to the right, and a little child leading us. Couldn't ask for a better reminder of the Kingdom.
• Here's a shot of when we finally "crossed over to the dark side" and started playing blackjack. The casino actually felt darker, quieter around the tables. After my big win, we figured why not. Soon I had the answer. I walked away even at one point and the next day lost $50.
• And this is us in yet one more line . . . at the airport on our way home. I'll forego the usual sunset over the wing shot. You'll just have to imagine that one.

Viva Las Vegas

I was only faintly concerned that one of my friends might be right and I'd be headed to . . . as she put it so eloquently . . . H, E, double hockey sticks for traveling to Vegas on Easter but hey, it was a long weekend and my traveling buddy didn't have that much vacation! And since we wound up at the House of Blues on Resurrection Sunday for the Gospel Brunch I didn't feel I'd strayed too far off the straight and narrow.

(Brief aside: Don't you just love the idea of "Good News Blues"? I've been playing with that one since my Sunday morning bread pudding.)

In general, I'd say of the experience:

• I saw more cheese than sleaze in the big LV. Yes, there were non-English speakers lining the sidewalk and interestingly enough popping their stacks of baseball card like advertisements against their hands in the hopes that you would be startled enough to stop and accept the information on how you could have a . . . ahem . . . uh . . . "model" come to your room. But otherwise, it looked and felt like Disneyworld. I mean after one stroll down the strip I'd been to Paris, Italy, New York, Egypt and the Tropics all in one day!
• Gambling is too nerve racking for me to call it fun. But it is intriguing. And I can't argue with using 25 cents of a $5 credit to win $800 now can I? (Ok, so after that line you either hate me or are smiling big time. I've gotten both reactions when I've told people.)
• What must the fall down the entertainment evolutionary ladder feel like to the singer who finds himself now emceeing the 11 a.m. free show at the Tropicana perched just above the slot machines and having to simultaneously cue the one-step-above-a-boom-box-CD player for the girl who has mastered dozens of hula hoops and the Siberian man who twirls hockey nets like batons? The long hair wet look and Harley belt buckle wasn't really helping his image either.
• Fun times can always be had if you are smart enough to travel with fun people!

While I have now "been there and done that" and really feel no need to do a return engagement to Sin City, I can honestly say "a good time was had."

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

What to do, what to do?

I know!

I'll create three categories:

1. Diving in
2. Breathing
3. Two steps forward, three steps back

Under each, I'll consider action steps that would set or keep me on that path. What would it look like to dive into the potential change, no holds barred? What would taking opportunities to breathe, pause, reflect look like? What types of things would put my life on hold or even feel like I was going backwards?

It's a plan. Let the lists (or mindmapping) begin!!!!

Drama Thoughts

Ushered at Orange Flower Water last night and had the "joy" of reliving the day I left house, home, husband. The play involves two couples. As the wife of one and the husband of the other make the choice to leave the lives they've created, the audience gets the bedroom view of experience -- caustic remarks, slaps to the face and ego, words and sex as weapons.

That's not entertainment but it is thought-provoking art. And provoke it did.

As my friend and I recapped the drama over a late night snack, I shared how it had reminded me of this or that reaction from my own exit. My friend saw parallels in his life. We chatted for quite a while and then we agreed that relationships are work . . . lots and lots of work, that the thrill of the initial hunt/chase/infatuation-turning-to-love was absolutely necessary in order to give the worker bees in later life something sweet to remember and want to build upon.

He was the first with the confession. "I don't know that I have the energy or the desire at my age to work that hard again. I like my life the way it is."

I concurred, "I'm at the point where I could fit someone into my schedule but I'm not willing to do all that's necessary to fit them into my life."

We liked that line.

We also liked the idea that while it's true, we still hold out hope that there is someone for each of us who will create enough chemistry that will in turn ignite the emotional energy that could lead to the "making of space."

Call us self-centered, selfish, self-something if you want. I prefer to think of us as pragmatic optimists.

Semana Santa Offers a Sip of Controversy

rearviewwindow said yesterday was Controversy Tuesday if you're following the events in Christ's life leading up to Easter. The idea comes from Christ having caused quite a stir among religious leaders days before his crucifixion. Seems some faith groups take their cue from Christ and mark this day with dialogues that might have a controversial twist or two. His group talked on "who do you say Christ is?" last year and this year they were tackling "who does Christ say he is?"

Challenged by a friend to provide a bit deeper conversation that is sometimes the norm for us, I decided that I'd take part in CT myself last evening. So ultimately there were five us at the table and our topics ran the gamut. The only "rule" was that we weren't about arguing but rather about hearing from one another. Here's some of the subject matter covered:

• the government's intervention into the Shiavo situation in Florida
• is there a "body count" quota that the media deems must be met in order to offer the same degree of coverage (or even remotely near it)to a reservation in Minnesota as was given to Columbine?
• self-loathing and how to deal with it in someone you care about
• is a 40 hour work week a guide or a parameter? In other words, if you can get the job done in fewer hours or if you occasionally need a mental health break in order to be more creative, shouldn't you allow yourself that freedom . . . sans guilt?
• when is lying ok . . . if ever?
• pet peeves
• when does grace become compromise?

Feel free to weigh in . . . .

Humor . . . Alive, well and on the Internet

Saw this the other day on one of the early morning talk shows (I surf in the a.m. between the big 3) but hadn't taken the time to find it on the web. Then in my daily blog readings one of the bloggers offered up the link. So here you go for "all the drugs I need."

Something About the Blues

We stood beside the path that led from the door to the first visible break in the crowd. So we saw every soul that entered.

Bikers in bandanas, what looked like a convention of no-neck mafiasos, apparent regulars of old/young ballroom dancing couples who practically had the songs choreographed, Rice football players and their dates -- they were all there at The Big Easy on a rainy Saturday night. They were all there to hear the blues.

What makes a guitar a living entity like that? Capable of entering your soul and touching places you've long since allowed to go numb? What makes a graveled voice older gentleman become a soothsayer of sorts, telling you the secrets you've hidden from yourself? What generates the heat that melts bodies into one so that they flow rather than dance across the floor?

God, I love live music.

Lesson Learned: I Ride a Bike

I ride a bike. I am NOT a cyclist.

Note: Generalization ahead. Stop now if you are easily offended by such.

Cyclists are rude! Cyclists wear multi-colored spandex, lean forward in their own little worlds or swarm like a hive as part of a similarly clad club, speeding by without or with little warning, and do not talk.

I sit high on my seat . . . looking at the world I'm riding by, engaging other riders/walkers/runners in conversation or at least a friendly-yes-you-are-a-fellow-human-smile.

After 20 miles on the city-sponsored Tour de Houston, I am resolved. I will wear a helmet (though until this weekend I didn't own one). I will continue to add distance to my journeys. But I will never become a cyclist.

I ride a bike.

Thanks for the Memories

I couldn't hear or understand what he was saying.

"Would you bmrphff brmrphff?"

"What?"

"Would you like to dance?"

"Oh! Sure."

That was the last time I spoke to him save for the response to the question he asked as we exited the dance floor. That question was clear -- my name. And I simply responded.

In between the first and the last query came the dance. The elderly blues guitarist was in his groove. The bass player was in my eyesight and smiled knowingly (but then again, don't all bass players smile knowingly?) at this new "couple" dancing near him.

He is black. I'm white. He is thin. I'm whatever. He has gold teeth. I don't. He talked while he danced. I said nothing and simply smiled.

I smiled because I was dancing with a man . . . never mind that he was a stranger. Never mind that due to the fact that I never looked into his face during the dance, I couldn't describe him beyond what I just said. Never mind . . .

Because in that moment I was dancing. Yes, he was a means to an end. I was on the floor, not simply watching the bikers, ballroom dancers, and BMOCs from Rice from the side. I had a hand on my back, my hand in his, my face near enough to his shoulder that I smelled cologne and the faintest hint of a TicTac. He wasn't big on footwork which was probably good since there was no space. But he moved me. We swayed. We bent. And his commentary was consistent but not enough that I wanted to leave.

I mean really, hearing "I like it" isn't all bad is it?

I said no to a second dance. Once was enough -- enough to help me remember. Funny how the feeling of someone's arm around you, someone leading, someone enjoying you enjoying the moment, someone holding on . . . can fade. You'd think you'd remember.

Saturday I did. And I smiled.

Rebels Without a Clue

The Houston Chronicle carried a story the other day about quiet rebellions. Seems people feel helpless about the major things and are frustrated enough with the little things that they are exercising their right to rebel. How?

Well, one guy always orders a small at Starbucks even though he knows he's supposed to call it a tall. Seems that whole grande, vendi thing just steams him.

Another one asks Dominos to deliver a small even though he knows there's no such thing at Dominos. It's the little things that mean so much, don't you think?

A woman always selects zero out of the computerized voice message options because it will take her to a human. Even when she knows the extension, she chooses mankind over machine.

If all those cards falling out of a magazine have you on a tear, you could copy the guy who saves them up and once a month returns each and everyone of the postage paid cards -- without a single piece of information included on the card. He's satisfied in knowing that they still have to pay. Yet another guy wasn't satisfied that his message was getting across when he did the same thing with junk mail so he started stuffing the envelopes with as much weight as possible so the postage would be higher. He swears his mailbox is lighter now.

While I appreciated how out of control many of these people felt, "I never minded about the little things" (I'm quoting Ann Bancroft's character from an 80s flick) and so mostly I just marveled that they would take the time to take a stance.

I did admire one group however. The article also included the story of Poland's Solidarity Movement. Seems when the government took control of the televised newscasts, people took to the street during the broadcasts and made sure that they were visible by wearing their caps backwards as they strolled. When enough folks were doing it to garner the government's attention, a curfew was established for the exact time of the nightly broadcasts. Not to be topped, the people simply turned their sets on and placed them on the windowsills, facing the street where the only people who could watch would be the police enforcing the curfew!

Made me wonder what would I make my voice be heard for? I attended an awareness event last night calling for an outcry against what is going on in the Sudan. While I appreciated the enthusiasm of the young adults who organized the event, I don't have this compelling sense that letters to congress (or President or UN) are going to make that much of a difference.

I think I'm a rebel in search of a cause.

In One Day, vol 4

• A Spanish/English discussion of the power of the message, the need to claim a cause, differences among worldviews, and how to assist immigrants
• A lunch with a woman in ministry who speaks my language in more ways than one and who is gracious enough to share her journey with me
• Consultation with a coffeehouse minister
• and a Chinese youth leader in search of a ministry opportunity
• Lost Boys of the Sudan at yet another coffeehouse church to spark ideas and . . .
• A discussion with fellow advocates as to what the church can do to offer systemic change for immigrants arriving in the city

Will Wonders Never Cease?

I was asked by a Chinese youth pastor today if there were any ministry opportunities in the city where his youth could work with people rather than organizing clothes closets or food pantries or painting, etc. I listed the ones I knew of and offered a degree of commentary on each. He then asked if I was aware of any opportunities among the homosexual community. I didn't miss a beat and simply said, "With them or to change them?"

"Oh," he said. "I just think it would be cool to hang out with them. We'd not want to change them."

Quotable Quotes

Some people say that I’m a liberal Christian, but I don’t think of myself that way. I don’t want to be a liberal or a conservative.

I want to be a surprise.

From Real Live Preacher

Ice Cream and Spirituality

I visited with six wonderful folks tonight over ice cream. When the number dwindled slightly the conversation became a bit more personal and even took a turn toward the spiritual.

I shared a wonderful quote from Walking a Sacred Path by Lauren Artress. She's doing the quoting but doesn't provide the source: "Religion is for those who are scared to death of hell. Spirituality is for those who have been there."

As I scanned the table, I realized every person seated there was on intimate terms with such spirituality. One dear man said he liked the thought and then quickly asked, "What's your definition of spirituality?"

In a burst of what I hope might have been inspiration and with barely a pause I uttered a response I've never used before but wouldn't mind having a chance to explore again, "I think spirituality is the honest pursuit of something bigger than ourselves."

I paused as though I might add to it and then couldn't think of what that might be.

So there . . .

More Walking

The Celtics said we are all on a journey toward God. Some of us simply don't know it yet.

Today I experienced an excellent metaphor for how this step-by-step stuff really feels. In one of my most spontaneous gestures to date (and that says a GREAT deal), I called a spring breaking friend when my morning meeting was cancelled and we took off to a state park near Austin for a hike we'd been planning for later.

The park is nice. The trail wasn't difficult. But while the ride there was one burst of color after another as we called out the Texas wildflowers that are already bursting forth along I-10, the park was brown . . . very brown. Pine trees are what it's known for and we saw plenty of them and a forest floor of needles -- all brown. No flowers. No wildlife. Just brown. 8.5 miles of brown.

At several points along the otherwise well-marked trail I began to see the metaphor emerge. I would turn a corner and before me was a vast expanse of the aforementioned brown and only the slightest, and I do mean slightest, indentation in the needles to suggest that the path still did exist. I'd pause, get my bearings, heed the suggestion and strike out. While sometimes questioning myself, I nevertheless knew that somehow I was safe.

We finished, tired, pleased with the extra exertion of the day and while we may not have walked in line with those who went before us or those who would follow, we arrived at the destination . . . home.

The journey continues.

Two Steps in the Right Direction

I began the day with a walk and I ended it with one.

The AIDS Walk this year was blessed with perfect weather. Clouds kept it cool but the sun would shine forth at just the right moment to highlight the sea of T-shirt colors. No clearly lined rainbows here . . . just the kinds of splashes of color to suggest a whirlwind in a Sherman Williams store.

Tonight as the sun was slowly lowering behind the towering evergreens surrounding the labyrinth, I walked with my community of faith. Round and round we went . . . they for the first time, me as guide. I've walked indoors and out, on crude and uneven paths and sans shoes on canvas. And the labyrinth never fails to calm me, move me, generate new thoughts and prepare me to return to my day in day out journey.

God, I'm grateful for a life that encompasses the diversity of this day.

Step by Step

I completed the three miles of the AIDS Walk 2005. Several times I noted that it was the same path of my first ever 10K and how different the two experiences were. One offers the opportunity to be a part of a united voice against a disease that affects 1 in 90 Houstonians. The other is a competition (at least for some, I'm more interested in breathing that racing when I complete a "fun run"). Both underscore my chosen city's diversity. But there's nothing quite like the AIDS Walk. This year proved no exception.

I raised money for the first time. That was new for me. Because I signed on with Shell as a "team member," they will match my contributions. So . . . drum roll please . . . friends and family helped me contribute $1210 to the cause!

To these friends and family I say a BIG thank you. I kept my promise and took you with me . . . even read a list of your names to the folks I was walking with. Because I don't use names here, I'll list you in a way that captures at least one of the reasons I thank God for you:

• You saw how bad an athlete I was when we played softball together and not once did you ever make me feel less than for it
• With each book, email, or surprise note in snail mail, you encourage me to find the humor, the possibilities, the power of words
• Once you sat across a table (ladened with tasty treats from both your cooking talents) and heard me confess what I imagined was the darkest of my secrets and you offered me unconditional love
• You never fail to laugh at my jokes or conclude a phone conversation without having made me feel creative
• When I approach your ages, I pray that I will have touched half the lives you have touched with your compassion
• In the turmoil of a life littered with other people's sorrows, you have created a work of art from the remains and you don't even seem to know the impact you make daily
• My faith is made stronger as your roots grow deeper and I see the integrity with which you both live your lives
• You are not through learning and with children nearing independence your hey day of ministry is just beginning
• As one of the most practical women I know, you still recognize the value in the pursuit of ideas and the support of people
• You find your niche and you serve well . . . usually behind the scenes and anonymously, but very well
• With you I feel like royalty, with you there is always a crowd, with you beauty is easier to behold in people, places and things
• You love my sister and support her sister even when the miles separate us
• You help me know that Bart never really left me (ten years ago this week) and that "brothers" can come in all shapes and sizes
• The two of you have made a place for me in your home, in your hearts, and I strive pretty regularly to give of myself with as much intelligence and sensitivity as you give to others

God bless each of you as you have blessed me. Step by step we make the world a slightly better place. THANK YOU!

I've Never . . .

Saw a feature story on the legacy of the band U2 and realized something that then got me to thinking about other related matters and I've compiled the following list of things I've never done . . .

• Owned a U2 or Beatles album, CD, 8 track or anything else they might have put out
• Wanted to have a baby
• Been on the receiving end of a pick up line
• Written a fictional short story (outside of a class assignment)
• Broken a bone or been hospitalized
• Asked to speak to the manager or written a letter of complaint to an editor or politician
• Felt like no one cares
• Understood why I had to take geometry in high school
• Sought revenge
• Worn a cocktail dress
• Knowingly benefitted in the work force from being first in my class
• Lacked for anything I truly needed

I'm not listing what I want to do but have never done, just a few things that might surprise or illuminate. What about you? Care to share?

Estoy Hablando en Espanol

Once a week I meet with a dear man and he practices his English while I practice my Spanish. Rather than use a textbook intent on helping us order off a menu, find the restroom, or locate the library, we simply talk. Today our conversations ranged from a punchline in a joke he didn't quite understand, to the connotation and denotation of "flirting," to possible options for leadership development among Hispanic pastors. AND I included a brief recounting of the past decade of denominational life and its possible connection to postmodernism.

Did I mention I was speaking Spanish???? Did I?

Truth or Dare Revisited

You may have noticed that I haven't said anything about the Truth or Dare blog from a few posts back. That's intentional. I had all manner of things to say should anyone have come on trying to "fix" the person brave enough to leave a comment. But as I've suspected all along, I have incredible friends who read this and they are wise enough to know that "fixing" isn't the point.

For all those who have refrained or understood or simply waited and wondered, I thank you. Yet again, grace reigns.

Tax Dance

My taxes are done. My taxes are done.
And me, yes, me, I get a refund.

[imagine the above repeatedly chanted and chanted joyfully while doing quite the jig]

Word Weary

The meeting lasted most of the day. The man talked most of the day. At times, I was talking to myself just to hear another voice (even if it was silent). At times, I was reprimanding me, "Listen. Don't wander. Ask about his wife. He likes to talk about his wife . . . and his daughter . . . and his work . . . and his country . . . and his . . . "

At the end of the day, I realized he never once asked me a question. He couldn't tell a soul a thing about me other than what I do for a living. At the end of the day, I knew I'd tried to be culturally sensitive, tried to learn from him as well as share learning. At the end of the day, I was tired.

Musings in Search of a Poem

Self-deprecating/tion
Learning, growing
Focus on someone's attention
"Attention short-term shoppers
discounts available for pick up"
Expectations of anticipation
Every change changes everything
Open arms, open mind
Too close to kiss
Something sensual this way comes
Losing propriety
Success/sacrifice sainthood/sin
Somewhere between meaning and matter
In the moment/Not a moment too soon/
Spur of the moment/Momentary lapse/momentous
Holding on for dear life
Missing me

3 Days . . . 3 Plays

Let me begin by saying once again that I know I'm blessed. The opportunity to see 3 . . . count 'em . . . 3 plays in 3 days doesn't come along for most folks. This I know. And while counting plays, I also count blessings.

That said, I'll recount the plays . . . The Movie Game at Theater Suburbia, The Crucible at the Alley, and Children of a Lesser God at Kingwood College. Thursday night it was community theater at its best. Friday we saw folks familiar with Broadway carrying off extremely difficult, thought-provoking and still very timely though written decades ago material. And Saturday night it was an astounding effort by college students -- some of whom are deaf and hard of hearing -- as well as some local talent interacting with a work that demands we pay attention . . . to our own prejudices, our own communication models and our own relationships.

One play was a gift -- an experience given to those who give of themselves as volunteers at Omega House, the AIDS hospice. One was the result of volunteering as an usher. And the other cost all of $10.

3 Days . . . 3 Plays . . . $10 -- I'm blessed!!!

Cried Myself to Awake

"Cried" isn't really adequate. I sobbed in my bed last night (technically this morning in the wee hours). I'd committed to finishing The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffennegger and at 1 a.m. tragedy struck.

No spoilers here. I'm not revealing a thing about this well told story. Tragedy of sorts is on every fifth page or so -- the tragic reality of longing.

The two main characters are deeply in love, yet there is none of that sappiness that I usually relate to a "love" story. Though the term is never used (perhaps one of the reasons the book doesn't rate high on the sappy scale), these two might be described as soul mates. And yet because of the subject matter these who seemed destined for one another are accompanied on their journey by Longing. Often separated, they long to reunite. In the reuniting, there's the knowledge that the next departure is guaranteed and again Longing takes the stage.

The sobbing was due to many reasons -- some physical in that it was late and I was tired and some emotional in that I related well to each character . . . Henry, Clare, and Longing.

Which leads me to a question: Is longing more often due to the absence of what was or the anticipation for what will be?

A Moment

A moment
A simple act of kindness
No fanfare
No grand parting of the curtain
Or bowing to the crowd

No crowd
Just a moment
When you
Are important enough to me
For me
To stop
To speak
To touch
To listen
To care

An act
The specifics forever unchronicled
And yet
No less
A part of history

Our history
Our time
Our moment

Let us applaud
With enthusiasm
Even if
Silently
For the pleasure
Is in the knowing
That now
This moment
Matters.

Truth or Dare

Actually, I'm offering a gift more than issuing a dare. I started thinking about the incredible freedom that's come to me as I've delved into telling the truth . . . about my marriage, my weight, and the fact that I no longer accepted as fact the church teachings of my youth. As a result, I've encountered new people, regained my health, and found that in letting go of someone else's spiritual truth I was empowered to embrace God in a way I'd never experienced before.

One avenue of truth-telling for me has been the very blog you're now reading. So here's the invitation . . . tell the truth. Using the comments option and keeping it anonymous (if you wish, 'cause really this is for you), tell something you've kept hidden . . . out of fear, shame, embarassment, whatever.

I remember the first time I admitted something for which I had harbored so much shame that I truly felt chains binding my body. And, amazingly enough, with the admission came not judgement, but grace.

That's the gift I was talking about. Grace. Like a lover who knows the nape of your neck and the meaning behind the furrow of your brow, grace awaits. Having said that, I will acknowledge there really is a dare here. I dare you to believe in grace.

Now Here's a Compelling Vision of a Preferred Future

". . .Emergent's role is likely a temporary one: to carve out a space in the institutional Christian church for artists, lovers, and mystics to take it the next step. We're using words, publishing, and logical arguments; they'll use dreams, art, and beauty." -- Tony Jones, from theoblogy.

A Block Party

A friend and fellow writer told me that it had been a while since she'd written, that she had ideas and phrases floating in and about but nothing she could grab hold of. I told her of a neat book my buddy J gave me called poemcrazy. Susa Goldsmith Wooldridge, the author, teaches poetry and feels confident enough with her abilities to subtitle the book "freeing your life with words." I'm not promising freedom but I do find her exercises rather interesting. Here's a sample (and a prompt for my currently blocked friend):

Jot down in a list the first thing you see when you ask yourself,

If I were a color, what color would I be? (From red to the inside-of-a-watermelong-seed color.)
What shape would I be? (Whatever you see -- an airplane wing shape, a boot shape, a parallelogram, a cone, a diamond.)
If I were a movement, what movement would I be? (glide, hop, wiggle, spin)
What sound?
What animal?
What song?
What number? (infinity, googoplex, eight, sixteen)
What car? (Details: year, color, condition)
What piece of furniture?
What food?
What musical instrument?
What place?
What element in nature? (dust, galaxy, waterfall)
What kind of tree?
What's something I'm afraid of?
What's the word hiding behind my eyes?

Put down the words I am . . .
Write about yourself using answers to the questions above as well as action words . . . Just pile on words. Don't think. See images. Daydream with words. Wander. Gor crazy defining yourself. There are no rules and there's no audience. Be silly, serious, wry or overdramatic.
If you get tired of I am, start lines with

• I will be
• I want to be
• I used to be
• I let go of
• I've forgotten
• I remember

-- as long as you're writing about yourself.

In One Day, vol 3

• Yoga with a new instructor who actually said, "What you're trying to do is squat, using only the tips of your toes and then placing your hands on the floor in front of you, slowly put your weight on your elbows until you lift yourself off the floor." To which I thought, "No, that is definitely not what I'm trying to do."
• Breakfast at a small cafe with French accents and an actual fire burning in the fireplace . . . in Houston!
• Shopping for shoes and bras . . . not my favorite adventures but in the list of "has to be done some time"
• Cleaning my apartment . . . the kind of cleaning where you actually lift things and wipe, sweep, vacuum, etc., the kind where my new bagless vacuum cleaner now looks like an old bagless and only dear friends would be allowed to see how very dirty my place was, the kind that took 3 HOURS
• Helping a friend pack to move and hearing wonderful stories behind stuff we were packing
• Attending a Vietnamese wedding reception with a friend who is an instructor to the brother of the groom and therefore merited the invitation along with 300 or more other folks who enjoyed 9 (!) courses of Asian foods from one of the premiere restaurants in the city . . . all while seated with more Anglo friends of the bride (a seating mistake that proved fun) and hearing the following types of music performed by various artists (all excellent) -- pop English, pop Vietnamese, country Vietnamese, jazz, opera, rock and roll. The event took 4 1/2 hours and every minute made me smile, laugh, think, or say a word of thanks that my culture didn't require that much from me on my wedding day (two ceremonies, three changes of clothes at the reception, a video made at each table with the couple as the "stars" thanking the guests for coming, receiving numerous gift plaques, dancing, and smiling . . . always smiling).
  

Definitely Some Truth in This One

Since it's been suggested that this blog may be a bit on the intense side (yes, J, I'm listening) . . . I am passing along yet another email essay that amused me and is currently making the rounds. I decided that it's ok to share them this way since I'm not filling your in box. AND, this is just too close to home . . .

In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth and populated the Earth with broccoli, cauliflower and spinach, green and yellow and
red vegetables of all kinds, so Man and Woman would live long and healthy lives.

Then using God's great gifts, Satan created Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream and Krispy Creme Donuts. And Satan said, "You want chocolate with
that?" And Man said, "Yes!" and Woman said, "and as long as you're at
it, add some sprinkles." And they gained 10 pounds. And Satan smiled.

And God created the healthful yogurt that Woman might keep the figure
that Man found so fair. And Satan brought forth white flour from the
wheat, and sugar from the cane and combined them. And Woman went from
size 6 to size 14.

So God said, "Try my fresh green salad." And Satan presented Thousand-Island Dressing, buttery croutons and garlic toast on the side. And Man and Woman unfastened their belts following the repast.

God then said, "I have sent you heart healthy vegetables and olive oil
in which to cook them." And Satan brought forth deep-fried fish and
chicken-fried steak so big it needed its own platter. And Man gained
more weight and his cholesterol went through the roof.

God then created a light, fluffy white cake, named it "Angel Food
Cake," and said, "It is good." Satan then created chocolate cake and
named it Devil's Food."

God then brought forth running shoes so that His children might lose those extra pounds. And Satan gave cable TV with a remote control so Man would not have to toil changing the channels. And Man and Woman laughed and cried before the flickering blue light and gained pounds.

Then God brought forth the potato, naturally low in fat and brimming
with nutrition. And Satan peeled off the healthful skin and sliced the
starchy center into chips and deep-fried them. And Man gained pounds.

God then gave lean beef so that Man might consume fewer calories and
still satisfy his appetite. And Satan created McDonald's and its
99-cent double cheeseburger. Then said, "You want fries with that?" And Man replied, "Yes! And super size them!" And Satan said, "It is good."

And Man went into cardiac arrest.

God sighed and created quadruple bypass surgery.

Then Satan created HMOs.

Moody Blues

Monday was a difficult day. On Tuesday, I determined a possibility as to why.

A friend lost her father to a freak accident as the weekend started. On Saturday I spent time with another friend and her father (as well as her mother, husband, three kids, a dog and some extended family). On Sunday, I watched as a 17-year-old made her way to the "adult" table at a dinner party and with obvious comfort and in silent agreement with her dad made a place for herself on his knee.

That picture captured me. I smiled. And later, much later, after a day and a half of frustration mounting, small inconveniences transforming into major intrusions, and I general sense of bitchiness, I realized that behind that smile was longing.

Grief hits me at the oddest times. Movies. Commercials. An offhand comment. Or a 17-year-old sitting in her father's lap.

I can't say I miss my father. He died when I was 10 and before fathers were encouraged to take active roles in parenting, before they drove to soccer practice, and shifted their schedules to make not one but both performances of the school play, and went shopping.

When asked how the early loss of my father has affected me, I'm usually at a loss as to specifics. I don't know what it's like to have had the paternal influence so I don't recognize the implication of its absence.

But I do recognize longing.

At least I did on Tuesday. And upon its recognition, it was much easier to accept my admonition to myself to keep moving, to allow for the pain but also anticipate the next adventure, the next opportunity to be with friends, to engage in laughter, to live.

There really is joy in the mourning. Sometimes I just need to remember that.

Twice in One Day . . . Must Be a Sign

The Sunday paper included a review of Mary Gordon's Pearl and in the review came a quote from the book -- which explores family and faith issues:

"Can you lose your faith and hold onto what that faith insists on? Isn't that, in fact, the purest faith, faith without faith? . . . Faith without the possibility of faith's consolation?"

Later, as I was listening to NPR, I caught the last of an interview with Gordon. (I'm always amazed when something like that happens . . . I mean, yeah, the book is new and there's probably a press junket attached to it, but in the same day? in the same morning? the same author out of all the authors I could have heard? the last bit of an interview?) She was asked if, given her distress over the church (she's Catholic) did she still attend. She responded with a laundry list of what disturbed her about the established church and then confessed that yes, she did still attend. Then she quoted someone else (whose name I didn't catch and whose quote I'm only going to paraphrase because I can't remember it word for word), "I keep doing the things I've always done in the church even though I don't believe the way I once did. I can't help thinking that doing them without faith is an act of faith."

Her Father Died

Someone I know just lost her father. A freak accident took him away from a family who are just beginning to celebrate marriages and grandbabies and all the stuff that makes life joyous when there are more years behind you than ahead.

God, I hope my friend has memories to hold to, times of shared laughter between just the two of them, moments when he looked at her and she knew, just knew, without a word spoken that he was always going to be there for her. Because now he can't be, and that look though in her mind and not her reality, will be so very precious.

And I pray that those of us looking in will know when hugs are needed, words are right, and silence is the best gift to be given.

I don't get it. I never will. But each time, I want to get a little bit closer to making what comes next as right as it can be.

Eavesdropping

Some friends and I attended a play last night -- Two Trains Running -- written by August Wilson and set in the 1960s in a small urban diner. I love his work and once again I was entertained and challenged. But the three of us agreed . . . we felt like we were eavesdropping.

All the characters are African-American. And almost all of them in almost every speech used the word "nigger." This is a word I can barely type. I have never used it in conversation . . . except to quote someone . . . and even then I probably said "the n-word."

As a result, I was reminded that I was an outsider looking in. The crowd was predominately African American as it usually is in this theater. The three of us are white. We were graciously received as we usually are. Yet when the performance got started and during the intermission, I definitely felt a different vibe. No anger. Nothing like that. In fact, it wasn't coming from the other patrons. It was radiating from us. We had a sense that while we were obviously allowed to be here, we didn't belong.

We were listening in to conversations held only in community, when you know you're surrounded by friends and you don't guard yourself. While this is true in any performance -- I'm in the audience, not on the stage -- the obvious racial distinctions were . . . well obvious.

Which got me to thinking about community. We all know that we have our own little communities. We've known it since junior high. We called them cliques back them and the liberals among us, while lamenting their existence and the barriers they instilled, were simultaneously shamed by them and glad to be in them. One aspect of community is a common language. Sometimes it's a common dress. Often it's a common way of thinking.

Communities are more about space than place. We know that churches are communities. That friends are communities. And I can't help thinking that there are plenty of people who stand on the outside of what feels like a vast space, looking in and they don't understand the language, the dress, the thinking. Even though they are allowed to be there, they have an incredible sense of eavesdropping where they don't belong.

As I said, I love August Wilson's plays. He makes me think. And today I thought about eavesdropping and how I truly can't make anyone feel accepted or a part of a group. But I can be aware. I can bridge that vast expanse of space. And I can speak clearly so that they too may hear.

AIDS Walk . . . You Can Help

I'll do the walking. You can do the giving. Click here to go to the website where you can make a donation benefitting services in Houston that assist those affected by AIDS.

Here's a promise . . . I'll take the list of those who donate with me on the walk. As I look out on the sea of people (and I've never seen anything quite like this in all the races, events, adventures, etc. I've done) with their colorful T-shirts and diversity of backgrounds and reasons for being there, I'll say a word of thanks for each name on the list.

Happy Thoughts, vol. 2

• Supper . . . outside . . . in February
• Conversation that ranges from books, to people's idiosyncrisies, to politics, to silence
• Hugs at the end of evening
• Timely phone calls that offer a much needed laugh
• Knowing your call will be returned
• Having something adventurous to look forward to
• Defining "adventurous" in my own way
• Creative bursts
• Words, glorious words
• 300 crunches . . . completed
• Uninhibited antics
• When J tells me to "hurry up and blog"

But Wait There's More

The announcer jars me from my sleep
It's 1 a.m. and the TV's still on
Adjusting to reality, I slowly peep
At the infomercial.

"Incredible," says the assistant, wide-eyed.
With questions suggesting
No script has previously described
The product's considerable attributes.

"Incredible," I think
As I interrupt the barrage
And the screen returns the black ink
Of the night.

But wait there's more,
don't I want to see
All that could be in store
for one as susceptible as me?

Having adjusted my eyes
I have my answer
I'll venture on sans guide
No shipping or handling required.

I'm in Mourning

I realized this morning that I've been gradually experiencing a loss. A friendship that once mattered greatly to me is no more. The gift I offered willing and I thought unconditionally has been rejected.

No drama. No big display of emotions. No real closure. But it's over.

I know now there was one condition . . . that my gift be accepted. Now that I accept the rejection, I see how I've gone through the whole grief cycle with this thing.

Loss -- physical or emotional -- is still loss. And I'm in mourning.

Scarred for Life

At the tender age of 5 I fell up the concrete steps that led to my front door. The damage to my face was superficial but I did sustain a scraped nose. (Let's not talk about the damage to what pride I might have had . . . I mean falling up? I'm convinced the incident kept me from ever seeing myself as anything near athletic, thereby insuring that I stayed inside, with the air conditioner and near the fridge and launching my lifelong battle with the bulge . . . but that's another blog).

The scraped nose was severe enough that I lost freckles . . . an entire patch! And to this day, they've never returned. I have freckles between my fingers, on my knees, across my chest, and pretty much all over my face -- except for that now tiny spot.

Recently, I was trying to recall a childhood incident that shaped me. This is the one I came up with. Funny how often it's the little things.

Cut and Paste

Once upon a time
I cut and paste
Each word or rhyme
On actual paper

To be copied and shared
With tons of folks
Who didn't really care
About the topic

Yet on I'd go
Adding art
(clip, you know?)
And quotes

And borders and lines
Until the thing
Resembled my mind
Cluttered and confused.

Now

I deal in publisher and word
And wizards fuss
Over what used to disturb
Me and my kind.

Still . . . the hours are long
For with more tools
Come new ways to go wrong
And I comply.

(This message brought to you by the Internet. NO border tape, clip art or exacto knives were harmed in the making of this presentation.)

Sunday's Comin' (Yea! Rah!)

Sundays . . . I'm now a convert.

For years I saw Sundays as anything but the Sabbath -- a day of rest and remembering. Sundays were all about busy-ness, even if I didn't frequent that many businesses. (And yes, I went through a period where I didn't go to any stores on Sunday.) I've spent my entire life getting to the church by 9 a.m. and staying until after 12 . . . sometimes waaaaaaaaay after 12. Committee meetings, training, whatever . . . these tasks consumed me.

And then there was the ongoing debate about Sunday nights. Do we make everyone come back? Do we call it family time? "We've never done it that way before so why start now?" was a constant cry. "We should meet on Sunday night; it's the right thing to do."

Should . . . must . . . have to . . . all those glorious obligation words. I embraced them.

Then my whole faith system went through the shredder. I stopped going to church after the divorce. Initially because my ex worked at the church. Then, quite honestly, because I didn't really want to have that many conversations with God. We weren't exactly on speaking terms.

I came to love Sunday mornings as a result. I relaxed. I gave up feeling guilty. I read the paper section by section. Sometimes I treated myself to a decadent breakfast. Sometimes I didn't. I gave myself permission to make the bed whenever it was convenient. I walked or jogged or rode a bike.

I rested . . . and soon I even remembered.

I remembered that the home that I was nestling in was a blessing. I remembered the paper exposed me to a world of adventure created by a greater imagination than I could even imagine. I remembered that the food I ate was a celebration in creativity, yet another connection to my Creator. I remembered the air I took in, the sights of people, trees, birds on the bayou and silly little moments along the trail were all brought to me by powers outside my understanding but not outside my grasp.

Eventually, my work got me back to a group of folks who meet regularly as believers with questions and the grace to allow time for answers. But they meet at 4 p.m. on Sunday afternoon. So all those things I had started doing? I still do them. Only now, I close the Sabbath with a celebration. Sounds almost Old Testament, doesn't it?

The Sabbath -- once a day where I worked to worship and almost worshipped my work, and now truly a day of rest and remembering.

Yet Another Lesson Learned in Yoga

Last week I attended my first yoga class at my new gym. No one said a word to me. Since it was held at 8:15 on a Saturday morning, I really didn't blame them.

I did get a response when I asked one woman a question. But otherwise, not a whole lot of group-ness was going on in this crowded room.

Today, I attended my second class. The fill-in instructor, who filled in last week as well and somehow got the word this week that we weren't advanced yoga students and so therefore the 10 minutes in one pose (ok, so I exagerate) wasn't necessary, asked if anyone was new to yoga. The petite woman beside me meekly held up her hand.

I interrupt this blog for a brief explanation: I am an extrovert. But not always and certainly not early in the morning. I also don't "meet and greet" even when they tell me to at church. It's not my thing.

At the end of class, I knew what I had to do. An overwhelming sense of rightness in the act made me ask the petite woman what she'd thought of the class, if she was new to the gym, and a couple of other questions. I learned she was new to the city and the gym. That she was from Philadelphia, married, and that her husband worked in research at MD Anderson. They moved here this week and chose their neighborhood because of the facility we were standing in, the library next door and several other factors, I'm sure.

The conversation took less than 5 minutes.

But on her first day in yoga class, someone talked to her. And I left smiling.

Yoga . . . mind, body, spirit connections.

Friday Night Lights

My Friday night plans fell through at the last minute so I was left with time, a definite sense of cabin fever brought on by two days this week nursing a virus, and a city full of entertaining options. What I didn't have was a companion.

I'm not asking for pity however. I have plenty of friends. But on this particular night and with so little advance warning they were either out of town, sick, tired after being sick, or just not in the mood for the kind of fun I was.

What kind of fun were you up for, you ask?

Tsk, tsk. Put that naughty little thought back on the shelf (we'll dust it off for another time). I simply wanted to see the Fertles Celebrate Weiner Day at the Skate-arama.

Houston is blessed with numerous theaters where all types of drama, musicals, performance art and the like can be enjoyed. One of my favorite venues is the Radio Music Theatre which happens to be only a few miles from my humble abode.

When I couldn't find a co-conspirator, I decided that I was a big girl and I could go it alone. So I changed into something that made me feel all grown up, grabbed the keys and made my way to the show.

I love the fact that these three actor/writer/comics have created their own world in Dumpster, Texas, populate it with characters they embody by simply changing a hat or a hairpiece, and house it all in a fantastic theater space that is solely dedicated to their world. The only drawback is that there is no assigned seating. Which means that I had to get there fairly early to get a good seat.

But I'm confident. I'm secure. I'm a woman who can hold her own. No problem, right? Right!

I march to the ticket booth. I state my name and receive my ticket. I stroll down the narrow hallway where the familiar sight of Steve*, the founder, primary writer, and one of the actors greets me in the doorway.

"How many are in your party?" he asks as he reaches for my ticket. (One of the traditions here is that everyone pitches in to do all the work, which of course, means Steve has more hats than his head could hold -- including usher.)

"Just one."

"One?"

"Yes, one."

To the sound man who was helping locate available seats, "She's alone, Can we find a place for her . . . for one?"

Me, smiling, "Could you say that just a little louder? That whole 'she's alone' part. Thanks."

Now he's smiling and it's not just the polite I-have-to-stand-at-the-door-and-welcome-people smile, but a genuine grin. "Well, I guess I could escort you," and he takes my arm and moves me halfway across the floor before giving me over to the other guy who has found me a seat.

A seat.

At the end of an empty row. A row that will remain empty for the 30 minutes I have to wait for the show to begin and then will fill in the last minutes with loud, old people who don't turn off their cell phones and then when it rings, and it does, announces to whoever they think cares, that they don't know that number before fumbling with it and returning it to their front shirt pocket. But that's another story.

For now, I'm alone on this row that is in the main traffic pattern of the waitresses and those who, having secured their seats with their parties of four and six and eight (do you notice those round numbers?) are now checking out the toilet options. So I'm shifting from side to side in order to keep my foot out of the traffic pattern.

At one point, Steve walks by, smiles and says, "We had to put you here with an empty seat beside you no less, huh?"

I answer, "Yes, and if you could manage to turn the spotlight on me at some point that would be delightful as well."

Again, he laughs and returns to his numerous duties.

On his final walk through the audience, he stops one more time. "I'm Steve, by the way. What's your name?"

"K____," I say and smile, because I know that bit of information will turn up again and very soon.

I'm right.

When we enter Dumpster to celebrate the bigness that is Weiner Day, Doc is called upon to emcee the dance action at the Skate-arama. Doc, played by Steve, is supposed to be a fast talking Cajun that no one can understand but due to his standing in the community (population of about 15-20 from what I can tell), he's often asked to perform duties outside the medical profession. Communicating must not have been critical at the Skate-arama, since English only comes out of Doc's mouth every 10 words or so. Otherwise, it's a marble-in-the-mouth-form of gibberish.

But tonight I definitely understood one word.

Doc: "gibberish, gibberish, gibberish, gibberish, gibberish, K_____ (my name), gibberish, gibberish, gibberish"
2nd character: "What did he say?"
3rd character: "I don't know exactly but I think he said, 'Couples Skate.'"

One last zinger. Steve got me in the spotlight for my single-ness one last time. I laughed.

Of course, no one knew the joke but Steve and I. But we shared it. And I wasn't alone. Yet another reminder that I never truly am!

(*I admit I'm making up my blogging rules as I go along, but it's my blog so I can. Steve is really this guy's name and he is definitely alive. My rule has been that only dead people got their real names printed. But Steve is famous . . . at least more famous that I am, so I now have a new rule: Dead people and famous people will be named."

HELP Wanted

Some of you know that I volunteer at an AIDS hospice in Houston. Called Omega House, that hospice is now under much needed renovation. Lots of folks have dedicated their expertise to upgrading the facility. Now we're in need of not-so-much expertise as pure labor!

Here's the latest note that's gone out:

THURSDAY FEB 10, FRIDAY FEB 11, SATURDAY FEB 12, SUNDAY FEB 13 all day, any time, you could come and be a part of the AWESOME team that is renovating this home so the residents have a compassionate place to spend their last days with dignity, surrounded by people who love them.
Please call 713-523-7110 ext. 117 and let us know when you can help. This Saturday especially needs lots of able and willing people. Volunteers on this project do not need to attend any orientation. You can bring friends and family and just sign in at the door. We do ask that volunteers are at least 16 years of age, and if under 18 accompanied by an adult.

The projects they are working on are simple ones like pulling up carpet. Don't wear good clothes but do expect to be rewarded with MUCH thanks.

I Give Up!

Today we start the season of giving up . . . not in the cry-Uncle-please-stop-torturing-me-type-of-giving-up but instead the stop-this-for-a-while-and-consider-God-instead kind. I've been toying with what my offering might be this year.

I considered several of the familiar options . . . some kind of food or drink. I listened as friends described theirs -- the radio in the morning on the drive to work, chocolate. And I even toyed with the yeah-right variety . . . as in giving up the nonexistent sex in my life.

But I've determined that for me it's all about really focusing. And many of the possibilities wouldn't necessarily insure that I replace thoughts of IT with thoughts on God. That's why I've determined that it has to be a daily exercise that I'm sure to do and sure to notice not doing. So . . . M's candy dish in the front foyer and the nuts/raisins/M&M bowl in the break room are now officially off limits to me during the days of Lent.

A friend who is new to some of the practices of the Christian calendar asked what all the fuss was about and wasn't this whole giving-up-thing a bit too over the top. I found myself explaining with a great deal of passion that to give up something familiar and replace it with a focus on God -- if only for a few moments a day -- was an incredible experience. And in the midst of the explanation I knew that Lent isn't just an empty ancient ritual. There's meaning in the absence of . . . (in my case) sweetness, and I plan on enjoying each morsel.

But While I'm At It

Really, I don't pass these along . . . but once I got started I couldn't keep myself from sharing this one as well. These are insights on Southerners:

Only a Southerner knows the difference between a hissie fit and a conniption fit, and that you don't "HAVE" them, you "PITCH" them.

Only a Southerner knows how many fish, collard greens, turnip greens, peas, beans, etc., make up "a mess."

Only a Southerner can show or point out to you the general direction of "yonder."

Only a Southerner knows exactly how long "directly" is -- as in: "Going to town, be back directly."

Even Southern babies know that "Gimme some sugar" is not a request for the white, granular sweet substance that sits in a pretty little bowl in the middle of the table.

All Southerners know exactly when "by and by" is. They might not use the term, but they know the concept well.

Only a Southerner knows instinctively that the best gesture of solace for a neighbor who's got trouble is a plate of hot fried chicken and a big bowl of cold potato salad. If the neighbor's trouble is a real crisis, they also know to add a large banana puddin!

Only Southerners grow up knowing the difference between "right near" and "a right far piece." They also know that "just down the road" can be 1 mile or 20.

Only a Southerner, both knows and understands, the difference between a redneck, a good ol' boy, and po' white trash.

No true Southerner would ever assume that the car with the flashing turn signal is actually going to make a turn.

A Southerner knows that "fixin" can be used as a noun, a verb, or an adverb.

Only Southerners make friends while standing in lines. We don't do "queues," we do "lines"; and when we're "in line," we talk to everybody!

Put 100 Southerners in a room and half of them will discover they're related, even if only by marriage.

Southerners never refer to one person as "y'all"

Southerners know grits come from corn and how to eat them.

Every Southerner knows tomatoes with eggs, bacon, grits, and coffee are perfectly wonderful; that red eye gravy is also a breakfast food; and that fried green tomatoes are not a breakfast food.

When you hear someone say, "Well, I caught myself lookin'," you know you are in the presence of a genuine Southerner!

Only true Southerners say "sweet tea" and "sweet milk." Sweet tea indicates the need for sugar and lots of it -- we do not like our tea unsweetened. "Sweet milk" means you don't want buttermilk.

And a true Southerner knows you don't scream obscenities at little old ladies who drive 30 MPH on the freeway. You just say, "Bless her heart" and go your own way.

To those of you who're still a little embarrassed by your Southerness: Take two tent revivals and a dose of sausage gravy and call me in the morning. Bless your heart!

And to those of you who are still having a hard time understanding all this Southern stuff, bless your hearts, I hear they are fixin' to have classes on Southernness as a second language!

And for those that are not from the South but have lived here for a long time, ya'll need a sign to hang on y'alls front porch that reads "I aint from the South but I got here as fast as I could."

Bless your hearts, ya'll have a blessed day.

Mensa Musings

I don't pass along lots of those emails that float around with cartoons, funny stories, pleas for help for sick children who want to cover their room with cards, etc. but this one put a smile on my face and so I thought I'd add it here. That way I can still say I don't "do" mass emailings! (smile)

The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are this year's winners:
1. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly
3. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
4. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
5. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
6. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
7. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
8. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
9. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.
10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease.
11. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
13. Glibido: All talk and no action.
14. Dopeler effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
15. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
17. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

And the pick of the literature: 18. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole.

Those Books and Their Covers!

Perhaps not the ultimate people-watching opportunity but certainly a reminder of the "melting pot" status of the good ol' USofA is Mardi Gras in Galveston. For one thing, it's not New Orleans so we're not talking "Girls Gone Wild" video footage in the making. Families enjoy this parade.

On Saturday night I was struck by four distinct forms of family.

The first group was a Hispanic couple with their almost 3 year old daughter. She was dressed in a fluffy white coat -- which they said would stay white since she was such an obsessive child about cleanliness, totally contradicting the fact that I had just watched her dig her little index finger in the dirt along the crack in the sidewalk. We learned they were from Houston, in Galveston for the weekend, they'd not been to a parade since the baby was born, etc. As usual the child was a bead magnet with every float falling in love with her and dishing out all manner of prizes to the mom. We LIKED them.

The next group was an African-American family that include a tall beautiful mom, a shorter and stocky dad, a maybe 5 or 6 year old son that they kept pulling back from the chaos at roadside, and a 7th grader who was the nicest young man of that age I've been around in a while. At first quiet, they warmed to us and we definitely LIKED them.

A surprise was the five or six Hispanic youth who had "don't mess with us, we're trouble" written in invisible ink on their bandanas and t-shirts and what not. Initially fearful of them, something possessed me to stand up for my inability to stand tall and when they almost fell on me for the sixth time as they crowded in front of me to grab the thrown beads, I loudly declared, "I'm short and I'm older than you so move on down the road and give me some room." What I loved about that moment is that they stopped in their tracks, looked at me and did exactly as I said. Even the African American mom was impressed with me. Once they moved out of my way, I even LIKED them.

And then there was THAT group . . . the ones who came late, crowded in, chain smoked around the children and kept downing coke and crowns as if they were going to stop producing liquor any minute now. They were all heavy set, all unkempt, all near or close to three sheets in the wind and we did NOT like them.

I was sort of amazed at the diversity. And how each group was so very distinct. And then I began writing this and realized that any one of these groups might have relished describing my little band as well. Three men and one woman, middle aged, gregarious, talkative, obviously very comfortable with one another and not one of them looked married to the other . . . hmmmmmm wonder what their story is????

Can't judge a book by its cover, can you?

A True Tale of the South

A Louisiana-born friend of mine tells the story his father told him:

Seems there was a young woman in the small LA town of my friend's birth who in the 1930s found that she was pregnant and unmarried. The church, concerned about her spiritual well-being suggested that if she were going to act un-church-like, perhaps she shouldn't be considering herself a member of their congregation. She repented and they kept her in the fold on her promise that she would "do better" in the future.

A few years later and still unmarried she had twins . . . the town dubbed them the "do better" girls.

He Asked

"How's it going?"
He asked with genuine-ness,
taking his seat at my otherwise empty table.

One of the good guys,
he refrained from empty
platitudes and
showy gestures.

So I answered.

"Do you see those two young men
at the end of the table?
The ones who look as though they
just entered college?
Do you see the crowd surrounding them?
Do you hear the excitement in each greeting?

"They were invited to this all-male
gathering of priests and pastors.
Pleas went out for this next generation
to participate.

"They were invited,
And I'm allowed to be here.

"So under the circumstances,
allowing for that . . .
it's going well."

Hand Me a Towel

Run away thoughts race
through my mind

Not from
family and friends
But to
The next adventure,
the new idea.

Yet the only pavement pounded
is treadmill like in its routine
Fears of stumbling
still securing my hands and feet
to that which is sure.

I refuse to release.

"Someday soon"
I tell myself
As I sweat through the too familiar
And only
Imagine the idea
Of the not-yet-to-be.

Mine Would Be Red

I said I'd meet a physical challenge this year
And I have.

I said I'd plan a trip to somewhere I've never been
And I have.

It's only February
And I'm restless
for the next big adventure.

If this is a mid-life crisis,
couldn't I just buy a car
and be done with it?

Tied

I want so much to be poetic --
For succinct profundities to purge
themselves from pen to paper.

Yet I'm tied
To too many rules
To freely let my spirit dance and sing and
play across the page.

Constrained by the unspoken criticism
I'm sure awaits me,
I avoid the jeers of my peers,
Keeping to the lines and borders
Never nearing freedom
Forever taunted by benign bullies
of my own making.

Sometimes They Just Rhyme

Would you let your imagination
take you to places
I'd like you to go . . .

Places dark and lucious
with secrets
you've yet to know?

Would you trust my hands
to guide you
as you take
each step blind?

Would you relax
with me beside you
and trust
I'll help you find . . .

Mysteries and magic
Still unexplained,
Delectables and delights . . .
The line between pleasure and pain,
Groans and utterings
Held too long within,
What some see as faith
and others call sin.

Would you?

J Says I've Not Posted in a While

5 Days! Between sickness, travel, and going to see a bad movie that was truly not worth my time (but did net me my first post in 5 days), I've been silent for a while.

Believe it or not, sometimes I have nothing to say.

When Does a Trailer Become THE Movie?

Saw a movie last night (won't say the name because to do so will perhaps make this very blog the kind of spoiler I'm about to rant against) and exactly what I feared would happen did indeed happen. The trailer that I'd been seeing for the last week gives the twist ending away. While simultaneously imploring viewers to not tell the movie's "secret," some stupid marketing guru determined that they should also slip in the one scene that would insure even a not-so-astute movie goer would be able to easily put the pieces together.

ARGH!!!!

Mindless entertainment draped in the facade of making me think . . . is that too much to ask?