Tragedy, Loss and Other Happy Thoughts

Mark mumbles.

Mark also wears a day glo orange baseball cap on his closely cropped hair, suspenders that keep his pants below his protruding belly but at least up, and a sweat stained t-shirt. He drags his right leg slightly as he walks his "route" around my hometown.

When I was in my 30s, I heard that teenaged Mark had been in an accident. The town rallied with prayers and family support as he came out of a coma. They prayed harder when the recovery started. Then, they still held out hope for the Mark they'd known to return.

He didn't. Now almost two decades later, the town that rallied often runs when they see him heading in their direction. As we say in these parts, "Mark just ain't right."

The town does support him. Odd jobs keep him busy. Everyone does chat with him or at least attempt to because, really, all you can understand are one or two words in the stream of sounds coming from him.

My stepfather is one of his benefactors. He keeps him sweating with outdoor jobs that no one else in town would want to do and especially with the demanding tone that Doc often uses when he's focused on a task. Mark does them with a mumble or he simply leaves and comes back the next day. Their relationship works in some Odd Couple kind of way. Doc can't hear. Mark can't speak. And together they survive each other's personalities.

Mark's recently gotten into some trouble with some of the other townspeople. He's said some inappropriate things, popped up at a door at the wrong time, etc. Still, the town keeps supporting. They just do it with eyes open and no longer the innocence of thinking their good deeds are going to be rewarded by Mark suddenly becoming something he's not. Mark is and will always be a grown man, emotionally and physically stunted by a tragedy.

Mark's plight made me think of Dolph. He was only a few years younger than me when I got word that he'd had an accident on the football field. A bad tackle and this outstanding quarterback, blonde teenaged hottie, and all-around great guy was paralyzed. Thirty years later he's still in a wheelchair. He's about the size he was back then. But he's also degreed and working in a management position in the rehabiliation center where he recovered what he could of his body.

What exactly makes the difference? One tragedy puts a man on the streets. Another is equally as tragic but has something of a better ending. Both have families. Mark isn't homeless. But Dolph maintained the essence of who he was. Mark left more than his physical ability at that roadside wreck.

In a workshop, I once used a Winnie the Pooh video about Tigger losing his stripes. After his friends tried to help him answer the question of who he might be if he were not a Tigger (the popular thought being that without his identifying stripes, he must no longer be a Tigger), he became frustrated with the failed attempts to make him a Rabbit, Piglet, Pooh and even a Christmas tree. Frustrated until Eeyore saw him on a dark road, "Evening Tigger" he moaned.

"That's the second time today you've called me that," the Tigger-who-thought-he-wasn't exclaimed.

"That's your name isn't it?" Eeyore offered.

"But Tigger's have stripes and I don't have my stripes!"

"Just because you don't look like a Tigger on the outside, doesn't mean you're not still Tigger on the inside. It's all in the stuffin!" and with that, Eeyore went his not-so-merry way and Tigger bounced, reclaiming his signature stripes.

After showing the video, my friend Pat made her way to the front of the room. Pat had had a stroke a few years before. She'd been in management then. At this point, she had a job at the building where we both worked but she no longer had a career. She, too, dragged her left side. As she made her way to me, the familiar rise of guilt started. The guilt came as I and other friends had been there in the beginning of her crisis with good intentions, prayers and a flurry of activity but eventually we had each fell away as we realized that our image of Pat was a memory and would never again be reality.

She spoke first and when I saw the tear forming in the corner of her eye, my tears started organizing as well.

"You know that's true, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Just because I don't look like Pat on the outside, doesn't mean I'm not still Pat on the inside," and now her tears were flowing.

In that moment, I agreed. I agreed with the IDEA that she remained the same. I agreed because I wanted to support her at least one more time. But in truth, I didn't believe it. She wasn't Pat, not the one I'd known, not the wise-cracking, irreverent creative but practical manager of time, people and projects. She was a new translation, not any less than but never to be the same. And I had little in common with this Pat, the one prone to depression, anger, and quick to point out her limitations.

Eventually, she married someone from rehab, someone who knew her as she was post-stroke and would never compare her to the Pat before. We celebrated with her and sent her own her way. I've seen her once in the two decades since.

Wouldn't it be a testament to the goodness of humanity if the initial efforts around a tragedy were sustainable? Wouldn't it be worthy of note and possibly celebration if we could adjust from what was to what is now without hesitation, frustration, or failure? But we can't, can we?

Pat has the husband she'd often longed for but still limps. Dolph has a career but needs care and maneuvers with a wheelchair. Mark stays busy but still mumbles.

And me? I watch and still feel the guilt.

Accent-uating the Positive

(on phone)

Him: How long have you been in Tennessee now?

Me: Four hours or so, why?

Him: Sounds like it's been longer.

For those who are keeping track . . .

Hot air balloon ride -- check
Day at the lake in Louisiana -- check
Visiting family in Tennessee -- in process, returning to Houston on Thursday

Next:
Road trip to California with Stan including stops along Route 66 -- Friday through next Monday or Tuesday
Lake Tahoe and detoxing with Larry at Redwood Glen (hiking, learning his vegan lifestyle) -- couple of weeks in October
Pretty much ruining the detox when I spend a week with Richard and Robin (both great chefs) -- third week in October
Road trip back to Texas with stop in New Mexico to pick up Roger for last leg -- beginning around October 20 and returning October 27

Week of nothing but trying to figure out where all my stuff that just got packed and stored in four different locations now is, having lunch/dinner/whatever with whoever that is available, trying to get a handle on my rodeo speaking commitments and writing

ESL certification class -- daily throughout November

Playtime!!! and working for rodeo speaking committee in Houston -- first two weeks of December

Road trip to Alabama and east Tennessee to see family and friends -- third week of December

Holiday with mom, Doc and family

New Years Eve in Houston

Ten weeks in Tanzania beginning in January

RODEO -- last two weeks in March

And then ????
(plans currently include Taiwan, spending some time at a cabin in New Mexico, and one more trip to Australia before the big adventure concludes)

Behind the Scenes of Hope

Sing for Hope.

The event is annual, has been for 13 years. What started as a something-just-above- “we’ve got a barn, let’s put on a show” has evolved into the biggest fundraiser for Bering Omega, the AIDS-based community service program that includes the hospice where I volunteer. Up to 10 performers from across the U.S. converge on Houston and put together a half opera/half show tunes 90 minute program of excellence – with only two days of rehearsal.

A couple of years ago, the organizers heard me when I mentioned I had some backstage experience. Since then, I’ve headed up the crew that ensures props are where they are supposed to be and when they are supposed to be there. We stand in the wings, invisible in our black-on-black attire, and wait for cues to act. However, our performance is best if no one ever knows we’re there.

Since we are volunteers, total cloaking isn’t usually the case. We are also human and on occasion a chair can be dropped, a prop misplaced, or some other slight. But for the most part, we run a smooth operation and I’m proud of the continuing emphasis that Bering places on the value of volunteers working alongside professionals. I’m not a nurse but I assist with resident care. I’m not a stage director but I keep my crew alert and ready.

This year, I added a couple of other duties to my responsibility list (since rounding up props and keeping up with changing scripts wasn’t consuming nearly enough of my time) by being part of the hospitality team.

Brian is our captain and he’s a wonder. He orchestrates all airport pickups and extracurricular requests from the artistic folks. He guarantees that some form of transportation will be on hand when needed and he sincerely puts forth every effort to make the artists happy they’ve come. I drove for him last year. This year driving and massage therapy were on my agenda.

The therapist who usually gives his time for the event was getting married. My massage therapist was happy to give of his services but he was only available on Friday night. Still he enlisted a couple of other guys and they handled that night with ease and compliments.

But no one was free on Saturday. So I said yes to two massages and then added another half before my morning was over.

The first was a hoot because the New Yorker wasn’t accustomed to all our air conditioning and took the opportunity while in her room to avoid the cool blasts by not turning on her unit AT ALL. I walked in to what felt like a sauna. Fifty minutes later, I looked like I’d been in one. She had had her eyes closed throughout the massage and actually gasped when she finally saw how badly I was sweating. I began the second massage with an explanation since I was sure my next “client” would be frightened by my appearance. She laughed when she saw me and, quite reasonably, asked why I hadn’t mentioned the heat. I told her my basic philosophy about giving massages – I may not be a professional but what I can do is give you my best and allow my time with you to be totally about you. As a mother and wife and performer, she really liked that idea!

Two of the women tried to tip me. I thought it was a sweet gesture but as an amateur I didn’t think it was right for me to accept it and, really, I wanted them to know it was a gift. While I don’t hit a high C or know a major from a minor chord, I do know how to help a person relax. Put a bow on it and call it my contribution.

We raised more funds this year than ever before. After the stage was clear and the champagne had been poured, after all the artists were safe in their rooms or wherever they chose to unwind after the show, Brian opened up his home for some of the volunteers to finally breathe. And we did. Hot tubs are good things, you know?

I actually wasn’t completely through however. I had an airport run the next day and I still needed to get the U-haul truck back to its location. But the sun was shining a bit brighter on that Sunday morning and the breeze was definitely cooler and the company was most excellent so it didn’t seem like work at all.

When my friend Fiona who made an excellent U-haul driver and I returned to Brian’s for a final goodbye he was preparing a Sunday brunch to rival our city’s best restaurant’s. We stayed and chatted and finally parted about mid-day.

The women I massaged commented on how they were grateful for my gift of time throughout the weekend and how they hoped I was being taken care of as well. No worries. Between Brian, my most excellent crew, and my dear friend who gifted me with a kicking hairstyle on the night of the performance, the pay-it-forward theory was definitely being realized.

Sing for hope . . . even though I can’t carry that much of a tune . . . I do sing with my hands, my connections, my car. And I do hope, waiting with expectation for the day to come when the songs will be only those of celebration.

Launching THE Big Adventure

When the shadow of the hot air ballon was visible on the stone wall of the Shreveport factory, I was visibly reminded that every experience has both its bright and dark side.

While more than a hundred feet above the city, the lush green of the treetops was the first thing to grab my attention. Then I noted the street life of the inner city neighborhood -- the drab shops, buildings with windows broken, men walking home in the early morning hours from a night out, a garage sale in full swing at a gas station, dogs barking (lots of dogs barking!) and reality set in. Life was going on. I was above it all and not.

We waved. We called out. They waved and answered back.

"Coffee on?"

"Sure thing! Come and get it!"

When we arrived at the meeting location, I felt a tinge of worry. The pilot was over six feet five inches and pure Louisiana redneck. He was slightly put off because we were late, having stopped for Southern Main donuts at a shop that also advertised their outstanding fried catfish. He shifted to giving orders quickly as we drove to the launch site.

"When my guys get started I want everyone out of the way. You men might be asked to help out, but you ladies (I was the only one) will have to stand back."

I held my tongue given that I was about to put my life in his hands. Later I would remind him of his comment and he would assure me that he wasn't a male chauvenist and was simply concerned for my safety. I pointed out the three other women in the other two balloons -- one of whom was a pilot -- but he didn't notice the contradiction.

We floated. We ooo-ed. We ahh-ed. We took photo after photo. And we simply took it all in.

We also hit the tree tops at one point to make a right turn (not sure if this wasn't a convenient explanation for a steering error or not). And we landed with ease.

Rather than the traditional bottle of champagne at the close of our trip we were treated to eggs and fried pork products with hashbrowns at a dive that knew our pilot well and allowed him to come back and help serve the plates.

We chatted up the crew who helped launch and pack the balloon and discovered they were all volunteer, mostly retired and felt that our storytelling talents would allow us to fit right in with their make-shift family.

I smiled. When the pilot asked which of the three men with me was my husband I had assured him that not one of the handsome men was attached to me. I didn't mention that Roger had dated both Geary and Carlos. We still needed a ride back to the car!

When we got to the vehicle and said our goodbyes, I found out what a Lousiana tip feels like when the non-male-chauvenist-pilot pushed himself against my breasts and grabbed and tickled my ass.

Beauty in the shadow of reality . . . I was struck throughout the day with how exciting all that I have planned has already been and is going to be but I was also more keenly aware of all that I'm also going to be missing. My friends are moving to new homes. New relationships are forming. Babies are going to be born. Hearts are going to be broken and mend. And that's just in the next few months. I want to see it all and still live the adventure and yet I can't.

Today I choose the adventure. Today I choose to rise above the treetops, to eat the bacon, to watch the 8-year-old football game that looked like a field filled with bobble heads, to ride the hydro behind the boat, to hit the wake while on the jet ski. Today I choose to live full out. But . . . I still noticed the shadow and remembered all I couldn't see, couldn't be a part of.

Seeing both the light and dark -- not a bad way to start a journey of reflection, I'd say.

All About the Story ....

My 11 year old charge was sitting in the back seat of my convertible with the wind in his hair (because he and his little sis like the top down) and he piped up, "You know we have all those facts and stuff on the Internet, Karen?"

"Uh ..." not sure if I was supposed to offer a reply I went with keeping the conversation open for him to feed into it, "Why don't you tell me?"

"So that we can pass the stories down from one generation to the next; the way it's always been," he practically beamed at how pleased he was with that answer.

Another storyteller, I thought. Gotta love it.

At least I do. I tell folks all the time that it's all about the story. When my friend Larry took me on a 40 mile hike for his 40th birthday, I reminded him and me along the way when I was breathing hard or his buddies weren't keeping the pace he wanted that we'd have stories to tell. And we do!

Last night I spent a wonderful evening with three incredible women -- two of whom owned the fantastically modern house with such clean lines an architect would salivate just to see it -- and they were explaining how they had come to see the stories that were behind every one of the estimated 10,000 decisions they had had to make in the building of it made the living there that much richer.

I marveled at how two people could be so thoughtful. From the ramps for the dachsunds that are prone to back problems to have free reign of the first floor to the mud room to the elevator that goes directly to one of their mom's wing of the house to space that was designed for entertaining, this house speaks to looking outside one's own self and to the needs/wants of others.

I imagined walking through the house in a few years and hearing the stories upon stories that would be added. I've already fashioned a few of my own there.

Of course, the best part of storytelling is when the moment the great aha comes.

I see the next few days as prep for one of the biggest ahas of my life. What stories I will tell! Hope to see lots of you here in this space.

For direct contact, I'm going to be at kccomm@hotmail.com.

Ouch! Ouch! Double Ouch!

I hate it when I have slap my own hand!

Recently, I spent a lunch hour with an agnostic and listened intently as he told me of what he "sort of believed". Later, I chatted with several theological conservatives and secretly rolled my eyes at what I was actually not hearing.

A day had to pass before I realized that I was acting the role of hypocrite. I was willing to embark on this faith journey open to what the Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim, atheist, agnostic or wiccan might have to share that would give me a different perspective on what this world looks like to others. But I was unwilling to listen to those using the language with which I was most familiar; I was convinced I'd heard it all, been there, done that.

Ouch!

So . . . I commit to opening my ears to many voices -- including those with tales I've heard before.

A Pocketful of Paradox

The rodeo mixer at the bar and grill elicits more talk of God than my entire day at work at a denominational entity.

One of only two participants in a workshop I did today on communicating effectively across generational lines was so entrenched in his way of thinking (shaped mostly by his being raised by his grandparents than his generational issues) that I had to practice what I was preaching in order not to throttle him.

The wisest woman in the room today had the least amount of formal education.

I'm ready for change and terrified that it's right around the corner.

God is great ... God is good ... let us thank him ...

A friend who is caring for her ailing mom in a nearby state texted me on Friday.

"Know you would appreciate this. The church ladies have indeed kicked in. I'm looking at a lemon meringue pie with 2-inch high meringue, having just put two pans of brownies in the freezer and found a place for the chicken and dressing in the fridge. This comes after a peach cobbler last week. Of course, mom can't eat any of this so that means I'm going to weigh a ton -- or two. And, by the way, all this except for the dressing was cooked by two 85-year-old women!"

I replied, "Baptist women -- we can't fix what ails you but we can certainly feed it."

Later, I had to laugh at my amusement-filled reply given that I did the exact thing when I was told at the AIDS hospice on Saturday morning that two of our residents were "actively dying." Knowing that translates into family members streaming in and out for their final goodbyes throughout the day, I inquired about the status of our freezer/fridge. We always have food at the house, but, many times, it's donated food and while quite filling and very appreciated, there's only so many ways you can make frozen chicken nuggets tasty.

My fellow volunteer and I found some ground beef (actually, we probably found a half a cow ground up in one-pound-packages of brick-like frozen tubes) and a few things for sandwiches. I asked if she would mind if I vacated the premises for a few minutes to take a drive to the store. She ushered me forth and soon I had all we needed for a large pot of soup with FRESH vegetables and aforementioned ground beef, cornbread and some tuna salad.

I left my four-hour stint knowing that the 30-year-old who had to sit up with almost 100% oxygen hitting him as he fought valiently to breathe while drowning in his own fluids and the 30-something-young woman who was so out of it she barely knew we had to give her a suppository to break her 103 degree fever would absolutely not care that their families had soup and sandwiches for later. But I knew. And as a Southern woman I had done the one thing I knew to do. Care for the living. Pray for the dying.

Amen.

Seeing and Believing

Yesterday I was recounting to a friend how I had talked with the home office for the volunteer gig I want to do next year in Tanzania and how it was really coming together that I would probably be there for 10 weeks starting in January AND how I had been accepted by the ESL certification program and would start 9 to 5 days M-F in November for four weeks AND how one of my instructors is from the one country I know I want to try and teach in and probably has the connections I will need to make that happen.

After the bubbling brook of information and enthusiasm for my initial days of my great adventure subsided she said, "I would say how great it is that it is all working out for you but that sounds like it's just happening and you've put a lot of work into making this 'just happen.'"

I love this friend.

She sees things like that and doesn't let them go unsaid. I have researched and called and networked and am continuing to do so. Lots of folks just observe the outcome and don't recognize the foundation on which its built.

She does.

May her tribe increase ... and may she herself get some good news this weekend!!!*


*Even though many of you don't know her and I'm not using her name, just say a prayer, ok? She's one of the good ones who loves deeply and one she loves is waiting for some good health news.

A Rainy Night in Houston and I'm Standing in Line with THE List

I heard the words that my friend, a mother of three who is in the midst of a move and starting her own new school year as a high school teacher, was saying. But I didn’t grasp the real meaning until I was standing at a ransacked shelving unit in Target asking complete strangers if they had, as yet, found college ruled notebook paper. Discovering that, yea verily, Super Target was not so super as to have ordered enough of that particular product to satiate the masses who were set forth, lists in hand, by our educational system the first week of school. Neither, I discovered, was Office Max and they topped off my buying experience by having a credit card machine breakdown in the line I had carefully chosen because it didn’t have three weary mothers with carts overflowing with book covers, 2-inch (not half inch!) binders and multi-colored highlighters.

I never knew.

I’ve lived this long and was clueless that such a ritual existed. “They” have The List. But “they” don’t divulge it until the children/youth are seated in their classrooms and thus a system is born.

I’m thinking it’s a Wal-Mart-based conspiracy.

I also suggested that with the one package of 150 sheets of aforementioned college rule paper that my 15-year-old charge found tossed in a bin of writing utensils, we could have perhaps had an auction right there in Office Max and perhaps paid for her first semester of college.

I’m just saying.

Faith Wow!

This weekend the big news was that Mother Teresa had doubts. In fact, she spent most of her ministry wondering where God was.

When I read the account, I had two reactions. First, I thought, "My God, I finally have something in common with Mother Teresa!"

My second was a bit startling. Since she really didn't want her letters of confession published it hit me that she could have possibly lacked in a community who would accept her in her unbelief, a community who gave her the freedom to doubt.

"I have that!' I thought. "I never doubt that I have room to doubt and still be loved by my friends. . . Wow . . . I'm one up on Mother Teresa!"

Wow.

Perhaps I'm Smiling TOO Much!?

Today I had to fill in for my boss who was filling in for our other boss but who had to take care of family business so she wasn't there for my organization's quarterly business meeting.

Still with me?

So I pinned up my dress so I was somewhere near conservative in the cleavage department, reviewed all the Powerpoint slides she'd prepared for a state of the union address and called upon my incredibly gifted co-workers to be ready to fill in the blanks should I stumble with facts and figures -- not my strong suit. I'm all about the story, remember?

But before the report, I had to play her as interviewer. We wanted to feature this incredible pastor who maintained his successful export business while pastoring a church that in the last year or so has started 18 churches which in turn have started 6 more. He's also been "detained" in North Africa when he was picked up on the street because he'd openly answered a woman's question about his faith, and his network of small churches have raised thousands of dollars (and they are mostly churches of immigrant Hispanics) for wells in Mexico. I LOVE this guy!

I also interviewed the co-worker I bragged on in an earlier blog entry.

They were great and I was almost giddy.

I think people suspected I might be a bit toooooo happy about the resignation letter they were also seeing for the first time!

That announcment was in their package of papers but came later in the meeting. Nice things were said about me and I smiled.

After a few more announcements and updates, the rest of the staff and I went to the front of the room to fill in the blanks of the slides. I called on each one of them at one point or the other and they made the stats come alive with stories of what those stats translate into.

I smiled.

I also encouraged, challanged, and declared that since I was leaving I could take a personal point of privilege and say that this staff was one of the most incredible group of consultants I know doing what they do in this country.

I smiled as I acknowledged that I would probably never again work with a group of this caliber.

I smiled when I asked the folks in the room to support the efforts of this staff.

I smiled when we concluded our time with one more pat on the back to those who were there and those who helped to move toward the organization's vision every day.

I smiled when some pastors I've met through the years came forth to hug me.

And I smiled when I walked away, got in my red VW, and saw that location that has housed this meeting for most of my nine years of quarterly meetings in my rearview mirror.

I am, in fact, still smiling.

Every Change Changes Everything

I'm a big fan of systems thinking. Once again, while reading The Week, I was rewarded with a wonderful illustration that serves to unpack this complex subject. The piece, written by one of my favorites -- William Falk -- also prompts the question . . . so what? we do nothing???

On my Saturday shopping expeditions, I've noticed a change over at the Whole Foods. A new sign has popped up here and there amid the heirloom tomatoes, specialty cheeses, and fresh-roasted coffees, bearing the single virtuous word: "Local." It's a wonderful salve to the conscience: My fellow shoppers and I live amid such embarrassing abundance, yet simply by paying $4 for a head of local lettuce, we can do our part to save the planet from global warming. Or so it seemed, until some scientific spoilsports at Lincoln University in new Zealand ran all the numbers. To accurately calculate a product's cabron impact, they found, you have to go beyond "food miles" -- the distance that kiwi or artichoke-flecked sausage traveled before reaching your table -- and figure in how much fertilizer, transported water, electricity, and other energy was used to produce it. Lamb raised on New Zealand's sunnier, grasier hills and hipped 11,000 miles to Britain, the study found, produced a mere 1,520 pounds of carbon emissions per ton. "Local" British lamb, which requires more intensive ccare, prodcued 6,280 pounds --- four times as much.

As if that heresy were not upsetting enough, a British scientist has calculated that walking to the store contributes more to global warming that driving a car. Walking, it seems, burns calories, which have to be replaced by eating food. And producing food -- especially beef and dairy products -- is more carbon-intensive than burning a smidge of gasoline, particularly since ruminating cattle emit so much methane. Now does this mean we can do nothing to slow global warming? No. It only means that the world is enormously complex, and that simple soulutions to big proplens--solutions that make us feel comforted and virutous -- are almost always illusory.

Gotta Love the Irony

I'm on hold with the Baptist-based financial organization that has collected my retirement funds for the last 20 years. I'm sitting at my desk. I'm waiting to ask questions related to how I can get my money out of their hands and into the hands of a not-tied-to-the-denomination financial group.

The "on hold music" is a rousing piano solo of some old time gospel song. Meanwhile, my office radio is blasting away with Tim McGraw's "I'm gonna live like I was dying."

I'm thinking, "I'm working on it, Tim, just give me time!"

Learning Takes All Forms

Cross cultural work begs the metaphor. Some have suggested that diversity is like a patchwork quilt. Others say it's more like a stew. Still others have claimed the mosaic. As with most comparisons, the similarities eventually leave us at loose ends, blend into mush, or crack in some way.

But I love that we strive to connect something visual and artistic with the joys and struggles of communicating across/around worldviews and cultural beliefs.

I also love when the work creates in us the possibility of something heretofore unimaginable.

One of my cohorts at work is, by appearance, the least likely cross-cultural guru one could conjure. She looks dowdy. She dresses economically (which means that long skirts with shirts tucked into her rounder than her bustline waistband are her preferred uniforms ... with good shoes or flip flops). Her haircut is one that she could get at a barber shop since it's so short. She doesn't look her age (older than me) nor does she look young. She's timeless in her appearance ... pretty much the same woman I saw the first day I came to work here over a decade ago.

I made the mistake of initially judging this book by its cover. DOH! What an idiot I am!

She has transformed herself in the time I've known her -- not once but over and over again. She doesn't have a degree, yet she can now stand before thousands (and has) and speak to them of orality and how to address cultures who don't think in outlines and arguments. She doesn't capture your attention when she walks into a room because she's shy enough that she's usually looking for a space in the back where she can blend in. But the moment you offer up the floor for questions, she has them.

She spent much of her early adulthood raising two children as a single then remarried mom voluteering at a church as a preschool teacher. Now she uses experiential learning better than any education professor I ever had. In fact, she may be better at it because she doesn't rely on theory but her own experiences and she doesn't bother with trying to convince you of anything. She trusts the experience to do her teaching for her.

Recently she spoke of a small group she's brought together around the Russian language (a locale she's adopted and now helps to develop evangelistic strategies for) and scripture. Only most of the group aren't believers. And she's cautioning the one who is to keep it in check and allow thought-provoking questions just hang. (Challenging I'm sure to the the former Pentecostal who might usually have jumped on opportunity to provide THE answer.) In this group, she's got a physicist who knows three languages, an aging Ukrainian, and an atheist . And she speaks of their journey with more joy and enthusiasm than I've ever seen come out of a revival speaker.

Her latest tale involved them talking about the animals affected by the fall. Using her best take on scientific lingo, she asked, "Since we've spent some time on the assumption that the creation and fall of man stories are not true, let's give some equal time to the assumption that they could be true. If so, what about the animals who -- without sin -- had to die to cover the nakedness of Adam?"

When your audience has just spent several discussion minutes laboring over the animal kingdom, that kind of question is going to stop them in their over-analyzing tracks!

She's come a long way from home living centers in Sunday morning classrooms with fake kitchens and baby dolls. And yet she hasn't. Because for her, it's always been about learning and still is.

I'm going to miss all this woman has to teach me. I can't wait to see who will fill her shoes (flip flops) in my life.

Ever Happened to You?

Sooooo . . . I'm all about living as honestly as possible, allowing folks to be who they are, hoping that they grace me with the same gift, and earnestly seeking to be mature in the practice of being a human.

Here's the rub . . . I recently spoke up and said what I needed from someone. Healthy, right? I offered that I had no expectation that just because I said it that it would now translate into reality and acknowledged that my need to set a boundary wasn't to be taken as a demand for them to honor it. I simply needed to say aloud what I needed. The problem is that after this very healthy exchange where no one got defensive, emotions were expressed but not projected, etc. etc. etc., I wanted to call later and say, "Are you ok? Because really, if I hurt you, just forget it."

I'm thinking the road to emotional health is filled with just such speed bumps as these.

Sailing, Sailing

He held out his hand and I took it, wondering if he could guess the strength of my grip was only a suggestion of the power of my soul. Our eyes met . . . and that was the last time they would that day.

I wasn't what he expected and I knew it. He'd seen photos. He'd heard stories. But he was obviously disappointed and it showed.

After the obigatory toast when we boarded the 70 ft sailboat, he directed all his monologues towards Gary and Traci. I use the term because he wasn't really engaging anyone in conversation. I wanted to stop him at some point and suggest that he could breathe, that I got the message, and that I had no intention of jumping him -- physically or verbally -- in the next three days we'd be together.

We soon learned that the ship had much in common with an aging drag queen -- somewhat spectacular from a distance but upon close inspection the cracks were not only showing but affecting performance. They had been hit by lightning a few days before and the rainy summer had not been a profitable one for charters so money was tight and repairs were still on the "to do" list. Batteries were the big loss so we couldn't flush after each use, the showers worked only after the motor had been running a while, and the speakers for the promised music were iffy as well.

As soon as I learned what we had boarded, I made a slight adjustment in my thinking and had a great time. Luxury charter? No. Camping out at sea with an incredible view no matter which way I turned? Absolutely!

The first mate made me laugh and that made up for the silent treatment I was getting from the captain who was almost twice the young man's age. He had a way of telling a joke that was almost as amusing as the punch line. He would grin, announce that he had a joke, pause, grin again, and after a few moments when I came to realize he was retelling it in his head first, laugh aloud before launching into the telling. I laughed every time.

Gary asked the 28 year old what he had done in high school (because he truly looked like that was only a few years before) and he replied, "Drugs." Traci asked what kind. He said, "Uh yeah."

Should give you some sense of the cadence of the guy's stories.

While I was obviously not the captain's choice in the looks department, I did seem to be his therapist of choice. Granted, I'm all about questions so after the dead silence of the early morning with him three feet away smoking the first of his pack of cigarettes for the day and me writing in my journal whenever he made noises that his personality was now fortified enough to emerge, I would start simply.

"Your neck still bothering you?" this came after I had offered up massages all around and he had noted that he carried his tennsion there.

And he would begin ... I learned his work background, his Navy career, how many times he's been to the doctor this year and previously, how much needed to be done on the boat, how little he had with which to do it, his plans for the future, his regrets from the past and much, much, much more.

Reminded me of the time I hit the jackpot on a penny slot machine and how the $800 payoff I won after only two tries made itself known with a droning tickety tick sound that just kept going and going and going. Only this "payout" wasn't going to buy me dinner or cover the cost of a show.

I finally told him that I understood why he liked to shoot craps for his gambling of choice. He did it every day he sailed.

I had inquired about working on the boat prior to seeing the captain or the ship. He said he had a full crew for the fall. At the time, I was slightly disappointed that my year of adventure wouldn't be launched as dramatically as I thought. Now, I'm quite content in knowing that my three days on board made for a beautiful vacation (you should have seen the full moon reflecting off the water as the breeze blew over the deck) and will leave chasing that dream to a captain whose eyes can't see what's right in front of him.

Magical Sunday

I'm overwhelmed when I least expect it. Today, I watched the movie Practical Magic with Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman and one of my favorite actresses -- Stockyard Channing. The movie is more than a story of spells of course. The real story is the power of hands held tightly together in love.

Something in that film made me know that the time has really come for me to leave. Perhaps the focus on finding one's heart's desire prompted it. Maybe it was the lessons learned even in the mistakes made (and Nicole's character was a definite screw up). Possibly, I longed to believe in something again with the absolute "rightness" that the "aunties" believed in themselves and the power of their family. Or maybe I just want to find my own Aidan Quinn!!

What I know is that you can't truly leave by running away and for the most part, I'm not. I also know leaving wouldn't be possible for me without the promise of arms outstretched to embrace me at each return. Those arms are not the arms of a lover, partner, husband or anyone committed to me by words. But each day, I'm reminded that I am not alone. And that un-aloneness makes the idea of a few goodbyes so much more bearable.

If I could conjure some magic, I would cast a spell so that every time I thought of someone I hold dear, they would smile. Then we could share that moment no matter how many miles separate us.

Smiling even now . . . .

Happy Bday 2 Me! Happy Bday 2 Me!

WARNING: You may tire reading this birthday account. Perhaps you should sit down. Breathe. Now hold on ....

My friends really came through for me this weekend. Miss "e" worked on making me a pretty girl all Friday afternoon. After she got through with me, I had a new color on my hair, my eyebrows and CURLS!!!!

I went home and slipped into the most cleavage-bearing dress I have ever worn in all my 46 years!!!!

Then Shane and Brit escorted me to a downtown restaurant where about 25 folks showed up to wish me well. Most of them were shocked that I'd gone the girly route. I must admit to varying degrees of amusement watching their reactions!

After good eats and conversation, we walked over to the Alley where we saw a play called The Gospel According to Tammy Fay. She was an icon in the AIDS community and among gay folks since she was so accepting early on when many in the church were more focused on condemnation. We found out Sunday that she died the night we saw the play! Wish I could brag on the play but what I can do is not pick on it so I'll just tell you that several of us (we'd lost a few and gained a few more at the theater) went on to the Chocolate Bar after the first act of one hour and forty minutes was over.

At this point, my wonderful escort Shane also took me to get jeans casual. A woman of my age can go the girly route only so long, you know?

Now back to the evening ... Imagine if you will a place where vanilla doesn't belong, isn't even allowed to enter! Candies, cakes and ice cream all featuring chocolate -- ahhh!

Chatted there a while and lost a few more but gained a few too and soon we were headed for a country and western dance place. Not much dancing going on there however because there weren't that many people either. So we packed us up and tried another locale. FUN TIMES!!!

We actually closed that place down or close to it and Brian was gracious enough to offer his place as our next stop. He's got a pool, hot tub and extra suits. We agreed and ended our "night" around 4 a.m. on Saturday morning.

Saturday was all about getting ready for a more intimate dinner party Roger and Brit were throwing at my place. Since I like to cook I served as her sous chef. Mostly that meant I chopped.

I left the premises at 2 p.m. for errands and to allow my humble apartment to be transformed by Geary, Bob and Roger. When I re-entered, they had created a bistro! Four linen clad tables with linen napkins, centerpieces that stood at least four feet tall with white flowers and a single butterfly in each (because Dian said that was the perfect representation of my new life), candles, and lanterns softened the room. We even had a cocktail bar where my dining table usually sits and my leather sofa made for a warm cozy corner.

Geary was also the culprit behind some yummy mojitos. Brit had worked on some olive stuffed cheese balls and also had out edamame and cheese and nuts.

First course was two salads -- grape tomatoes with mozarella and basil in a balsamic vinegrette alongside one of my concoctions of English cucumbers and red onions with champagne vinegar over avocado.

Next came a cold pasta dish with Asian dressing and shrimp and vegetables.

After that we paused for a bit. The next course was butter chicken with Indian spices and vegetables over basmati rice.

Dian and Cyndi cleared plates each time and kept the kitchen tidy. Brit and I plated. The conversations kept going as we occasionally mixed up the seating.

Dessert was Stan's famous carrot cake with cream cheese icing (he even brought me my own container of that yumminess) and Brit's family recipe for an almost flourless chocolate cake that would just make you cry if you weren't so happy to indulge in it!

Several wanted to return to the country and western place and so some did and this time I got in at least three dances! Woo hoo! and Yee Haw!!

Sunday we restored my apartment to its sanctuary status and I drove out to Tomball to do something I've wanted to do for quite a while -- give my friend Becky the massage she was due back when she helped so much when my international friends were in town. She's down 30 pounds so we celebrated with my longest massage to date and some of the best conversation we've ever had.

AND I had a very, very, very happy, happy, happy birthday weekend!!!!

*We even shared in the festivity by calling my mom on Saturday during the dinner and singing to her for her 77th!

Happy Birthday to ME!!!! (and my twin brother and my mom and ...)

Kelly came out 20 minutes earlier than I did so someone's been around me from pre-emergence into this world. May explain my love of a good party. I have a feeling he and I may have had a little cake in the womb before we decided to say hello to the rest of the world.

My mom's birthday is the day after ours. At no point growing up did I ever have a non-shared birthday.

As an adult, I was amused at the idea that finally I would know what it was like to be the center of attention ... until I started working my very first job post-seminary and the executive director of the more than a million strong organization had the exact same birthday. Ahhh ... thanks to buddies I really never suffered from a lack of a good time at the mid-July point when we were usually traveling with workshops but still ...

Last year, I was once again on the road for the actual day. And as I sat and chatted with the young man who had been such a terrrific host to a bunch of would-be emerging leaders, he revealed that he was having a birthday ... at the exact same time that I was.

Sooooooo .... (looking around for any evidence to the contrary) .... I think .... that I am actually celebrating without anyone else to share the limelight. And you know what? I'm nervous!

But tonight I plan on sharing good times with a loads of folks I love as we eat, drink, laugh and then make our way to a production on the life of Tammy Fay (yep, that one) that will help support one of my favorite local AIDS support networks. Who knows what will follow? And tomorrow we're going to keep the party going with a smaller dinner at my house.

Today, I woke up to torrential downpours and darkness. I decided then that I was going to be the warmth in people's lives today that we've been missing in these parts. I've shared my birthday wishes with those who have sent any kind of acknowledgement and I've fashioned each wish for the person who sent me their good thoughts. I figure that if I'm getting older there has to be some benefits and wishes to share is one of them.

So here's wishing you warmth, friendship and the joy of knowing there's always someone to share your birthday with.

Actually Happened

Waiting for a fresh pot of coffee to drip its last drip this morning, my boss asked the office manager how the switch to the new database was going. Good news was not forthcoming.

"I can only see one envelope when I open the program."

"Maybe there's a glitch and the others just aren't visible but there."

"I don't know"

As they begin to explain the scenario to me, I semi listen, recognize a response is in order and say:

"Oh ... sorry ... and I realize this is totally inappropriate but while you guys were talking I just realized my toenail polish totally matches one of the colors in this blouse."

I am sooooooo outta here!

Big News! Big Changes!

I'm leaving my job ... and in many ways, my career.

There! I said it. Whew! I feel better.

Actually, I feel great. Those who know me well know that for the last couple of years, I've struggled with feeling somewhat like the proverbial fish out of water. I loved the work environment that I was able to enjoy every day. I was good at my job. But the idea of working for institutional church life and especially working somewhat closeted about some of my convictions that would just not please those who I serve ... well, that troubled me.

I kept waiting for something to be "done unto me". I thought that the next right job would come about because of my connections with charities or organizations with which I easily agree.

Nothing.

Then I realized that I wasn't really that interested in simply changing my environment. I already had a great one. I realized that I couldn't fathom doing yet another newsletter.

That's when the convergence became noticeable. My lease on my place was about up. I was planning a short trip on a sailboat with friends and one of them mentioned rather playfully that I should just take off and work as the ship's cook for a while. I was asked to fill a very public volunteer slot with a very public organization that my place of employment would not be pleased if I accepted.

And I knew.

So I have no plan other than take a year and see what happens. Ok, I actually have several plans. (Again those who know me will appreciate the emphasis on options that continues to be a theme in my life!)

I may work on this boat at some point. The captain and I will chat in detail when we set sail at the end of July.

I am checking on doing some work with AIDS orphans in Africa.

I know when the two courses that would insure I have the proper certification for ESL occur and have all the paperwork at hand for applying.

And several friends have already offered their guest rooms. Since these friends extend from California, to Washington, to New Mexico, to Alabama and right here in Houston, I feel fairly sure I'll have a place to put my pillow.

I would love to see a novel come out of all this. I'm already writing much more than previously. Feels as though the freedom has unleashed a bit of creativity as well. I need to explore what it would take to make a living as a writer for magazines and such. I need to "try on" some roles and see what works best on me.

My stuff goes in storage to wait patiently for my return at the end of the year.

I tell the leadership at my work (my bosses and co-workers already know) in less than an hour. So I thought I would tell the folks who sometimes read this blog the news first.

Big news, right? Big changes? Definitely. Let the adventure begin!

7 on 07-07-07

While someone has already suggested that this was just a bit too dorky for their taste, I have to brag on my buddies and I for how we chose to recognize the numerical phenomena of the past weekend.

Having planned on an hill country exploration for the post-July 4th weekend, we gave up when the hills were alive with the sound of rushing floodwaters! Then after checking out our options, we discovered that the Austin area stood a better chance of being dry than any other drive-to locale near Houston. So we decided to pack the blow up bed and descend on our friend Geary who is studying in our capitol city.

Roger, Brittany and I made it over on Friday night and on Saturday morning over coffee, Brit, Geary and I determined that we should somehow observe the day's significant 7 nature.

"Let's do at least 7 things," I think our Austin virgin Brit was the first to say that one.

"And each thing has to have 7 in it."

"Like we'll see 7 major sights."

"And each of us have to do 7 things we've never done before."

"How about 7 meals?"

"As long as they're small ones."

"And we talked about going to a winery so we'll taste 7 wines."

"We are also going to Pedernales Falls so we'll take 7 photos there."

"And I want 7 trashy souvenirs," again this from our virgin.

"And then at 7:07 tonite we'll do something related to 7, ok?"

So the plan was set. Roger, who had been in the shower, had no argument against it and we set off.

The Magnolia Cafe was our first stop and there I did something I have never done before. I engaged Brian our waiter regarding his tatoos (that I have done) and then requested his help in accomplishing our goal by assigning him the task of locating 7 things in his kitchen that he could give me (that I've never done). He willingly and thoughtfully complied with a to-go box that even included a pink crayon because the cafe used to be known for the pink flamingos the staff wore on their shirts.

We had made our first 07-07-07 convert.

By the time the day was over, the two waitresses in the wine bar had come over to our side as well. Lisa changed the way they do wine flights at Cliffords outside Dripping Springs to comply with our request for 7 tastes. And when the alarm went off that 7:07 p.m. was approaching, Jessica let Roger leave without signing the bill so he could join in our recognition. When she heard what we were doing, she asked to join us (bringing the credit card slip) and her own word to add to the seven words of kindness we were speaking into the universe on a Texas hillside.

"Grace."
"Peace."
"Gratitude."
"Passion."
"Forgiveness."
"Friendship."
"Us."

And, Jessica added her favorite, "Love."

Mt. Bonnel, the capitol, Lake Travis, The Drag, UT campus, Amy's Ice Cream, and the State Cemetery were the sites we chose to note as our 7.

We didn't quite make 7 meals but since the last stop was a 7/11 just before midnight and we were at number 6 by that point we thought we would give ourselves points for the location alone!

Asking folks to get involved with our little project on at least three occasions was totally outside of what I might have done once upon a time. Eating at the South Congress Magnolia Cafe and standing in the waters of Federnales Falls were also first-time events for me. The Mansfield Dam, which I'd never seen before, had four flood gates open to deal with the rising waters that had so threatened this area. And I saw at least 7 famous Texans graves in the State Cemetery. Ann Richards still doesn't have a stone by the way!

When I shared the story with e, she pointed out that by the time we had enlisted the help of others, our merry band of 4 had become another complete 7.

Call it "cheesey" or me a dork, I love that we took a holy number and made a holy day of it!

Yep .. what he said ...

William Falk in the July 13 issue of The Week writes:

It's such a reassuring notion. Imagine a Supreme Court in which the justices do not make their decisions based on partisan biases, personal whims, or constitutional "penumbras" and "emanations" perceived by the justices alone. "The Constitution means what it says," says Justice Antonin Scalia. "You figure out what it was understoond to mean when it was adopted and that's the end of it." In practice, this philosphy of "originalism" or "strict constructionism" sometimes proves more vexing than it sounds: Did the Framers understand the right to bear arms to mean that every citizen could own a musket, or were they also guaranteeing the right to wield semiautomatics with 50-round clips? How about machine guns? Bazookas? When the Framers said Congress could not infringe on the freedom of speech, did they really mean "speech," as in words, or does speaking freely include the right to hand a 6-inch-thick pile of $100 bills to senators to do your billing?

Being human, you and I might succumb to the temptation to answer these questions to suit our own desired ends, and then reason backward to create a constitutional justification. (That's how justices get "penumbras" and "emanations.") But not Scalia and the orignalists. They know what the Framers intended. In its rulings thus far, the new Supreme Court has sided with religious groups, corporations, developers, the current president, and the white males, and against students, women, blacks, and atheists. Now, this is a wholly legitimate change of direction: The Constitution empowers presidents to appoint judges who share their political prejudices. Pretending that the court's rulings -- or for that matter, the rulings of any previous group of justices -- represent anything but a raw exercise in power, however, is transparently silly.

Can't help but read this and think about those who say the same kind of things about interpreting scripture . . . how they somehow also know what was intended . . . how equally transparently silly that idea is.

Clicking My Heels ...

"There's no place like home."

'Course for folks like me, just exactly where "home" is poses a dilemma. When I'm in Houston, I speak of going "home" to Tennessee to visit my family -- as I did this past weekend.

When I'm in Tennessee, I look forward to returning "home" to Houston where my other family -- the chosen one -- primarily reside.

Today, I landed in the Houston home after an extra night in Nashville due to bad weather and/or questionable practices of my favorite airline (c'mon, TWO plans had to cancel because of weather that no one on the other end of my cell phone said was really all that bad????).

As we touched down, I exhaled -- that soothing sigh that comes when comfort and joy are within reach -- comfort in the form of people who know and accept me in all my eccentricities just as I do them ... joy in the utter surprise each day holds as you brave I610, discover a new ethnic edible, watch God's great diversity actually reside side by side and revel in the enormity of a urban center that feels so much like the small town I just left behind.

No matter how far I roam ... Houston is definitely one of my best-est homes.

If You Had a Convertible, Wouldn't You Be Smiling?

And if your friend has a convertible, you might muster up a grin as well, don't you think???


Come one, come all, 'cause night time in Houston is the time to use this little Beetle!!!

I Forget

Why don't I remember . . .
the name of the first boy to ask me out on a real date, where we went, and if I enjoyed him as much as I did the idea that I was on a date,
the literature I read in college and what did and did not move me (other than the frustration I felt at Sozenhitzen's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denosovitch upon realizing it really was just about ONE day),
every vacation I have ever taken . . . in detail and including the views I knew in that moment I'd never forget?

Why don't I remember . . .
movies that brought me to tears,
those after school TV shows that were supposed to teach me moral lessons,
the reason for each time I walked the aisle and rededicated my life at First Baptist in Greenfield,
how it felt the first time I was truly loved?

Why don't I remember . . .
a night of wining and dining has a morning after,
would-be lovers say things I want to hear and real loves don't always hear what I have to say?

Why don't I remember . . . that I don't always remember?

NOTE: If you like poetry -- and even if you don't like mine -- check out Ellen Bass. Her Pray for Peace rocked me!

Coming Soon to a Dream Near You

Early this morning in that space between the end of the dream and the reality of the clock glaring its get-up message at me, I was overwhelmed with a sense of dread. Usually, I make myself conclude the dream, resolve the story line. But today . . . I realized I just didn't care.

The locale of my slumber-induced experience was something like a seminary classroom. I did mention this was a nightmare, right? I was taking over for a professor and using Powerpoint to teach the class, except the presentation was giving me trouble. So much trouble, in fact, that I had lost my place and was scrambling to multi-task -- fix the slide order issue and keep the class engaged in conversation.

But mostly, I was filling time. I knew it and soon enough they did too.

Some distant part of me wanted to give those preacher boys their money's worth, challenge them with the news of the changing environment they were planning on serving. But mostly, I wanted the commitment to end, the class to be over, and me to be free.

Can you say "foreshadowing"?

Surprise! It Worked!

My friend-as-long-as-I've-been-in-Houston Cyndi turns 50 next week. Her family asked me a few weeks back if I would host a surprise birthday party for her. I hesitated only on the "surprise" part. Experience has shown me that usually the only surprise is how early they discover there's a surprised planned.

We did it!

Last night, Cyndi thought she, her husband, and I were going out to dinner. She called to tell me that my chariot awaited and I told her I wasn't quite ready and asked if they could come in for a few minutes.

One of the guests (who were all now standing in my dining area, eyes glued to the window and the gate that Cyndi would be entering) said that the ease with which she heard me lie kind of scared her.

Surprise! Freckles buy me more trustworthiness than I probably merit!

They entered and before she turned the corner into my den she knew something was up. Could have been the Warning: Someone's Turning 50 crime scene tape covering the foyer or maybe the explosion of color and balloons the family had decorated with, but that was the first clue she had. She truly didn't know.

We shouted. We sang. We ate (my contribution was a buffet menu based on some of her favorite things to order in the restaurants we frequent). We played a trivia game about her life (I knew that one of her first boyfriends later got a job as an exotic dancer but I didn't know why she'd been kicked out of church camp). We even decorated flip flops (her shoe of choice) for her to take home.

Cyndi wasn't the only one surprised by the evening. I had fretted that it wasn't going to be received well or that the mix of folks might not work, but I was totally wrong.

And I'm NOT lying when I say I had a great time celebrating a great friend.

610 Salutations

I'm driving on 610 yesterday and in a jovial mood, listening to tunes, checking out the surrounding vehicles for storylines I could fabricate on the way home when a white pick up pulls alongside me. The driver isn't visible but his "voice" can certainly be heard.

In the back of the truck, this guy has created his own billboard. It's probably three or four feet higher than the cab's hood and runs the length of the truck bed. White, pristine even, the visual announcement includes an encased-in-glass American flag in one corner. The rest of the white board is dedicated to proclaiming the following:

When terrorists kill terrorists and Muslims kill Muslims, the world is a safer place.

America the Beautiful got a bit uglier the moment I read the words. I'm thrilled that he has the right to say what he thinks. I'm even happier that I have the right to think he's an asshole.

Mind in the Gutter

Note: If you are easily offended by innuendo, do yourself a favor and stop reading now.

Writers and editors have long known how violent editorial-speak really is.

Clark Kent may have been working that "mild-mannered" persona but in all likelihood he knew he was Superman long before he donned those tights. He had to deal with deadlines and the knowledge that his story could be killed on a whim. His points would often be made with bullets. Long stories could bleed.

You non-writers might have thought it was all keyboards and white space but I'm telling you, it's a violent, violent word world.

And then ... there's the sleazy side.

One must avoid the gutter in print but we don't hesitate to ask for two more inches to fill the hole.

Oh if it were only that easy!

I Can See Clearly Now

I'm often asked how I have happened upon the friendship network I enjoy. The question sounds innocent enough when read, but how it sometimes should be translated is, "I can't stand some of the people you know, how do you enjoy them so much?"

I was toying with that when it hit me. I don't see what others see.

Now mind you ... if I were to walk into a bar (sounds like a set up for a joke but it's not) I could be just as superficial as the next person. I can objectify a man or woman in minutes.

"Nice chest." "Nice ass." "I'd do him."

See? Crude-avoidance is not what I'm talking about here.

While I can see physical attributes and hone in on the ones I like, I have also trained myself not to see both physical and pyschological characteristics that might be glaringly obvious to others.

Just as I once had to be told that my best friend had shaved his beard (a week later and after years of knowing him with it), I would have to pause for a minute to conjure up a list of any reason why I wouldn't want to hang out with someone.

Because I think I see the essence of people . . . and their potential.

I liken it to women I know (and for some reason it's only women) who see auras eminating from individuals.

I don't see colors, but I think I do see hearts. I see what people want to be, and I'll do everything within my power to help them realize it. I recognize the efforts. Trying matters to me. Even when I am on opposite sides of an argument, if the person truly believes, I applaud their passion.

I learned this from loving my brother (not the twin, but the one who died). We were on the extreme opposites of a theological spectrum. I had friends who could slice and dice and then deep fry others of his particular slant. But I couldn't. Because I saw that while I totally disagreed with almost every belief he held dear, I held dear his belief. He was in and in deep. I had no desire to take it away from him.

Sometimes I entertain the idea of change and, as I said, I am more than willing to walk alongside the transitioning on the path toward realizing their potential, but it's not what drives me.

I don't think that lots of people look at people in this light.

But it's a bright shiny place and I find it warm and inviting.

My Massage Table Is Here!

I love getting massages. I love giving massages. I'm pretty popular at parties when I turn a chair around and start working on backs. A while back I decided a great gift to give myself was the gifts of massages to all my friends. So I enlisted a therapist to "train me up in the way I should go."

Today, the table I ordered weeks ago arrived.

Ahhhhhh...let the relaxation begin.

Playing It Safe on the Ark

Last night I went to a screening of the new movie Evan Almighty. The marketing gurus must have decided that to insure they didn't get any flack from churches concerned with Hollywood envoking God stories (and perhaps not getting it EXACTLY right) they would give out freebies to local pastors and let them see that respect for God and country were evident throughout the flick.

Shame they kept the respect and left out the comedy.

Oh, it's cute enough, but the cleverness of Bruce Almighty is totally absent. Physical humor must trump a good line and bird crap seems to be what someone thought would have us rolling in the aisles.

There's only so much crap you can take before the whole movie smells.

And mostly it smells because everyone was playing it safe -- the writers, the actors, the producers. I think the animal wranglers may have been the only edgy ones in the bunch and even then I'm wondering if most of the two-by-two ensemble were computer generated!!!

Seems "Thou Shall Not Offend" was written on everyone's contract before production began.

And thus, saith the Karen, "it was not good." (Still I love Morgan Freeman and I'll take him as God whenever he's willing to take on the role.)

Wouldn't it be a good day, a day that maybe even the Lord hath made, when Christians could laugh at themselves and remove their righteous indignation and need to protect God (hello!? omnipotent ring a bell?) long enough to encourage artistic risk-taking and maybe even applaud it?

I'm not holding out much hope for a flood, but a cup of cold water for the creative efforts of others wouldn't be too much to ask.

Demolition Therapy

When the Longs first told me they were going to try and save some money on their new house by doing their own demolition work before the remodeling begins, I volunteered to help out. I had no clue what I was committing to, mind you. My "building" experience is limited to roofing under a summer sun on numerous mission trips with youth. I know how to sweat. I don't know that much about tools and what exactly one is supposed to do with them.

But, as an enabler who is very self-aware of her family issues, I was more than willing to "help" -- whatever that might look like. The first glimpse at what I'd signed on for happened the first week. We were tearing out the kitchen cabinets. These stained fortresses to the kitchen gods were built with a bit more care than the ones I've encountered in the apartments I've lived in the last few years. I pushed. I pulled. I figured out leverage might come in handy and grabbed a screwdriver to wedge the hinges loose. I continued to push. I continued to pull. Soon I was playing a blues song in my head as I wondered if anyone was noticing that the non-handy-woman was still on the first assignment as they were removing large portions of dry wall and entire countertops.

When the sweat began dripping off the end of my nose, I found some new resolve and eventually, those doors came off!

Next we took on a bathroom and I held my own with a crowbar as the ceiling came down on top of my dirt-covered, sweat-soaked breasts.

This weekend we did the upstairs bathroom. Now catch that if you will, ok? "Upstairs" translates into trips both up and down, up and down, up and down as the various cabinets, wall fixtures, tiles, and bath tub pieces had to be removed and placed in the dumpster on the street.

This time I traded in the crowbar for a sledge hammer and took out three walls of tiles from Spain. I probably didn't look like a pro while in action but I got the job done.

Breathing was a priority in the heat-always-rises level of the slowly evolving home. Conversations were limited to "excuse me, did I hit you with that?" And/or "sorry ... so quiet ... just ... trying ... to breathe."

I must say that while there were definitely stresses and strains to the body, I was mildly amused at how much satifaction I found in destruction.

As I left the culprits who had engaged me in service to the final stages of the tear out, I had to laugh. "Thanks for saving me a couple of hundred dollars in therapy costs!" was about all I could muster.

They grunted and hit the tub one more time.

I Love the Way . . .

• Preschoolers stare at my freckles. Someone suggested it was my earrings but I'm convinced they are actually trying to connect the dots.
• When people are invited to mingle and cross cultural, socio-economic, or religious barriers in a spirit of true openness, they do. (Don't believe me? Come to one of my parties!)
• How one funny line delivered well can change everyone's mood.
• My friend Stan tells absolutely corny jokes and I laugh every time. "Three legged dog walks into a saloon. Crowd goes quiet. He speaks. 'I've come for the man who shot my pa(w).'" HA!
• A man in a crowded restaurant will look at a woman when she enters and choose to either acknowledge that he's looking or pretend he's fascinated with the sign above the door. Today, he acknowledged . . . and he had a really nice smile.
• If you tell people you love and who love you that you are in a not-so-good-place, they listen, they care, and they remind you that you are not alone.

Visualizing Something Better

When your life begins to resemble a plot twist in a "hope we get to Sundance independent film that features b-list actors and the word quirky in the tagline", it's time to re-think your choices. Of late, I feel like I've been banging my head against a relational wall and looking around for who I have to pay for the pleasure of the pain!

Am I complaining that my own choices have netted me too many nights listening to the non-silence of apartment living (what are those people building on the second floor?)? Well, yes and no. I'm weary of waiting for the next phase of my so-called love life, or maybe I should say lack-of-love-life. But I have no delusions going that anyone else is responsible for where I am other than little old me. (And if I keep on this self-sabatoging path "little" will have little to do with describing me and "old" will look truer than it has in quite some time.)

So this morning when I was assessing my life in my favorite assessing place -- the shower -- I decided it was time to kick ass -- my own. I am not giving up on me or allowing myself to let go of wanting something more. I am not going to accept some script fashioned by someone other than me. I may not be a great writer but I know this material better than anyone.

And just like those independent film folks, I intend to be a triple threat -- writer, producer and star.

I am ready for my close up.

OK . . . I Thought It Was Funny

Justin and I were texting. He's often a bit silly in that tiny space of lighted characters and shortened speech.

J: We need 2 shun Jerry. I just found out he's a Methodist.

Me: It's worse than that. He was a Baptist.

J: We shd strt a club and Jerry and Gary (NOTE: another Baptist and a preacher we know) can't be members.

Me: Anyone with the -ary sound in their name can't be mbrs!

J: We cd have cool t-shirts.

Me: And we wd be called the missing-arys!

(I crack myself up sometimes!)

Why My Definition of "Family" Is More Expansive

When someone
has no one
near
to help her
face
her fears,
she needs
to feel
welcomed
here.

Thirsty?

I usually say I'm a "glass is half full" kind of person. But recently I thought if I were really honest I'd have to add, "with the slight expectation that it's going to start leaking any minute."

My Blood Pressure Just Shot Through the Roof

Read this one today:

Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary President Paige Patterson suggested an attack like the Virginia Tech shooting wouldn't happen at his school because students would ovewhelm an attacker -- even if they died trying. Patterson told students in an April 18 chapel sermon that if a shooter attacked classes at the Fort Worth school, he was "counting on" male students to respond. "See, all you had to do was have six or eight rush him right at that time and 32 people wouldn't ahve died," Patterson said. "Now folks, let's make up our minds. I know we live in America where nobody gets involved in anybody else's situation. That shall not be the rule here. Does everybody understand? You say, 'Well, I may be shot.' Well, yeah, you may. Are you saved? you're going to heaven. You know, it's better than earth." -- Baptist Standard, April 30, 2007

Please note the irony in that this religious-leader-holding-incredible-power-in-his-obviously-ignorant hands was quoted in the same publication as Ira Glass (Jewish guy who hosts NPR show) with the following, "Evangelical Christians are the most incompetently portrayed group in America -- in TV, in fiction, in the news. When Christians say the media gets them wrong, Christians are absolutely right."

Except of course when we make our own fat selves look like idiots!!!!

Birthday Muses

On Friday night as I was helping a friend host six 6-year-olds for a birthday sleepover, a 29-year-old mom of one of them began describing a weekend party she was going to in the hill country.

"Lots of music," she said. "And everyone camps out. It's great. Thrown by this older guy. He's 50 and has been ..."

My glare interrupted her.

"Or maybe 60, probably 70 or 80. That's what I meant by 'older' really!" she stammered and smiled at being caught in the backhanded ouch she'd sent my way.

Four years from now and I'm her version of "old."

Today I picked up some books about generations. I'm teaching a class in a couple of weeks and thought I might need to do some catch up. One is called Leap. Written by a one-time in demand writer, the book chronicles lots of Boomers reflecting on getting older and specifically the question What Will We Do with the Rest of Our Lives?

So far it's been kind of a downer! She's talking about how Carly Simon, Tom Hayden and herself have dealt (or not) with rejection at their age. Famous people ... getting older ... feeling less than ... yeah, cheery reading alright!

I must admit that the last few months I've noticed lines I hadn't seen before. I'm wondering about choices made and squandered. But overall, I'm not really hating this aging thing so much.

Since I never had a tight ass I don't have the same issues with my body as Christie Brinkley. And, frankly, I'll take the wisdom I've gained over my cheeks being perky any day.

In fact, one of the party games I played inside my head Friday reflected just how much I do value where I am. I sat looking at the diversity of personalities in each of those 6 year old faces. I noted that the special needs kid was totally accepted in the other girls' play, without question and quite possibly without notice of her special status. I watched them in their pre-bitchiness, that thing that happens to girls and then women that makes us eat our own. And I marveled. I marveled at what would become of them. I marveled that it would take 40 years for them to catch up to where I was at that very moment. I got a little misty eyed considering their possibilities and what they might do with them.

Then I thanked my Creator for my now and got ready to dance one more dance to Hannah Montana.

A Matter of Perspective ... Yet Again!

When I told my friend about the young woman dying of AIDS who had been born with the disease (see previous entry), I thought her gasp was a similar reaction to mine -- shock that the disease has been around long enough for "babies with AIDS" to now be adults and regret for the life the girl had lived/endured.

Instead, she began to tear up and finally said, "We dreamed of this day. Actually, we thought we were dreaming too big to dream of this day."

"We" in this case were she and her friends who endured the early days of the relatively unknown plague that was taking folks each week in the 1980s. "We" were the ones who were agreeing to abide by their friend's wishes and either not be there to tend to the diapers or definitely be there to see them waste away. "We" were the tired but relentless heroes who found yet another way to bury someone and celebrate their life when the world wanted only to ignore they had come and gone.

She's not as active anymore in the fight. But she shouldn't have to be. She's the retired general who can agree to the televised interview or go tell the now curious to go screw themselves. She's earned the right to gasp and even to celebrate that what was once considered the impossible dream is now very much a sad reality.

'Course one other person I told shared the bright side to this story (yet again, another perspective). Seems she's got a friend who adopted an HIV positive baby several years ago. That baby is now a teen. That baby has just been told that so little of the virus remains in her system that she too will one day have babies of her own.

God bless us everyone.

Similar Diversity

Just read that my friend Shannon went to Stratford-upon-Avon in Warwickshire* this weekend and saw "A Midsummer's Night Dream" performed in English and Bengali. The moment I read that line I stopped. You should too. In fact, go ahead, read it again ... Shakespeare in English and Bengali. . . that's kinda like the King James Version read by a hillbilly. Nothing wrong with it but definitely taking on a whole new flavor with sound alone.

Diversity must have been the word of the day for this weekend on the Universe planning calendar.

On Saturday I was struck by the spectrum of personalities, professions, and backgrounds represented at the AIDS hospice -- A veteran shares a room with a formerly homeless man (and isn't it ironic that someone without shelter finally finds it in his dying days). A man whose Indian relatives want to fly him home even though he's being eaten alive by cancer in the most gruesome way you can imagine is in the next room. A mother and grandmother who barely looks old enough to be the mother part of that is there as is someone who most likely earned her living on the streets (and I don't mean collecting cans). One man has the happy knowledge that he's just there for a few weeks since he gets to soon go home after we make sure he's really ready to be back on his feet. And then . . . there's the 18-year-old who was born with AIDS. I had to gasp when I heard. Is it possible? Yes. Was I ready to hear that AIDS babies were now grown ups? Not really.

So position my Saturday morning in the midst of my Friday and Saturday nights when I was delving into the world of politics and social activism by way of private parties and big events and you've got quite the diverse weekend. Add in my stop by my community in Tomball and one more late night gathering of "folks representing the spectrum" at some friends' house and well . . . Shakespeare in Bengali might not seem so strange.

One more thing ... if you've never danced with a partner who is wearing a feather boa, then you've not really attended a charity event like I get the pleasure of experiencing.

You might not want my life, but you certainly would have a hard time arguing that it's not interesting!

*Please note that this post has been edited because of the diverse knowledge base of this blog's readers (see comments). . . Not much of a surprise that I was once again geographically challenged!

Easily Impressed?

You people know I come from a small town, right?

My sister and brother-in-law are visiting from Tennessee and we enjoyed a nice "first meal in the city" on the patio of one of my favorite coastal Mexican food places in Montrose. I was listing a few of the folks I'd met at the gala on Saturday and providing their roles in city and state politics by way of explanation of how diverse the group had been -- city council, state representatives, the city comptroller and several other politicos were on the list.

She was growing in her appreciation of the impact this gathering might have had . . . until Roger showed up.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "But Moses* dropped by . . . "

She interrupted, "You people know EVERYBODY!"


Say a prayer for our chaplain friend Moses if you do that kind of thing. He and his mom just lost everything in a fire and he's about to be ordained in a couple of weeks.

My Thighs Are Killing Me OR The Downside of Volunteering

Imagine 950 gift bags bearing an obscure representation of Saks' logo. Imagine numerous pieces of propaganda that must be inserted into said gift bags. Imagine having a few hundred ready and waiting for only one missing advertisement, when you're told, "Oh, yes, there's one more thing. . . the ad has to be placed directly in the program and not just dropped in the bag . . . and oh, one more thing, each bag must be placed on this ad that must be placed in each seat . . . and oh, yes, there's that whole thing about we're going to run out of the actual "gift" that is in the bag so you'll have to move about hundred bags you've already placed in the ballroom to the seats up front so the folks who REALLY paid will have a full bag."

Imagine that I don't have to imagine. Because I was there. Perfecting my version of a downward facing dog position as I continuously packed bags for three hours.

Did I mention my thighs are hurting???!!!

I did eventually get in my zone. I smiled politely whenever anyone added a new assignment for these evergrowing then shrinking bags. I nodded with vigorouse affirmation that indeed we would pack these bags to order. Then I continued with what I had been doing.

No way in ... here or anywhere else that may be equally as hot as I was on Saturday ... am I going to unstuff a program to move an ad from the front to the back.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

As far as I know, the volunteer uprising did not result in any furious propaganda readers' abrupt exit of the premises.

I know. We can all breathe a collective sigh of relief!

As for the event ... very interesting. I was none too thrilled with this gathering last year as I had worked hard and never even been asked my views on the organization or encouraged to join.

This year it was run by people who actually believe in the cause more than the party that encourages support. This year I saw chairpersons get down on the floor and stuff those bags. This year we "lowly" volunteers weren't the only ones sweating.

This year I didn't mind the pain because this year, I think we really did have something to gain.

A Pause to Celebrate

Someone I know had a baby today.
Someone I know started an adventure beyond my comprehension.
While I will not be there to watch the daily growth,
The journey launched this very day is one I dreamed of.

God bless the child.
God bless the family.

God bless the dreamers.

Epicurean Enrichment

Last night, I, the woman who as a girl in Tennessee broiled a Spam wannabe for suppers, who recently blogged about adding Cheez Whiz to a casserole, that woman, engaged in an in-depth conversation with a James Beard nominee.

I've often said that as a young person I didn't possess the capacity to dream of the life I now lead.

Can't wait to see what comes after the next fork in the road.

I like this paraphrase . . .

One particular four-year-old prayed,
"And forgive us our trash baskets
as we forgive those who put trash in our baskets."

Amazing And More

Today I was reminded of what grace looks like. Today, grace took the form of a middle-aged woman who is enduring her own personal hell. But in the midst of living out the harsh reality of what it means to be a member of the "sandwich generation" -- caring for both parent and child while trying to maintain one's own sanity -- she gifted me with the wish for freedom.

To not be free, for me, is to maintain the status quo.
To not be free is to conform to what I expect is expected rather than explore the unknown.
To not be free is to no longer be the me that I've become.

She had the power to tighten the chains. Instead, she gave me the keys.

I've not used them just yet. But the gift is amazing.

Grace, indeed.

Been a While

Busy days with lots of caring, lots of sharing.

Stan called at 7 a.m. last Tuesday ... since most of you don't know Stan, this might not shock you as it did me, but Stan doesn't do 7 a.m. He barely does 11! I didn't even waste breath on "hello."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm sick," the words sounded like they were painful for him to utter.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Come here. Call my doctor."

"I'm there."

I tried to make the shower quick and wished later that I might have taken a bit more time on the face, because when I left the apartment to dash across the parking lot to his condo, I wasn't going to see the place again for a while.

We were told to go to the emergency room and two hours after arriving there we got a triage room. Seven hours later, I knew he was about to get a real room and I could leave without worrying there would be no one there to hold the tub if he had to once again throw up what little was left on his stomach.

I told him at one point that he'd given me enough power that should there be a question of pulling any plugs, I was in control!

He told me, throughout the day and in so many ways, that we were family.

I agreed.

Easter weekend the family gathered at my place. The meal was a West meets South adventure. My new friend Brittany brought her California cuisine to my kitchen. As she added dried cranberries to wild rice, I opened the Cheese Whiz for the broccoli cheese casserole. When she was dicing carrots that would be covered with orange juice, zest and pistachios, I was adding a half cup of Crisco to the red velvet cake batter.

I couldn't convince her that a lick of that blood red mixture was tasty. She declared that food was not meant to be that color.

On Easter Sunday, she ate not one but two pieces! Ha! We Southerners might not win battles with ammunition but we can do a number on your arteries!

The activities that day included all the grown ups around one table -- which had to be extended to handle the collection of souls. Then we dyed eggs for the Long children and three of our elders hid them. Later the children returned the favor for the adults, some of whom got in a throwdown about just who had more in their makeshift baskets -- I recylced Christmas gift bags for the occasion to add to the festivity!

A few folks determined we hadn't allowed eggs to be the subject of fun quite long enough so they suggested an egg toss. Two completely mature individuals agreed it was worth their efforts and we cheered them on in the parking lot.

People kept coming throughout the day and by the close of the door, I'd insured that I wouldn't be eating leftovers for the next three weeks. Baggies of takehome were the party favors and eagerly embraced by all.

The next day I received at least four calls calling it "one of the best Easters ever."

That's what families are for.

Remembering When

We climbed the steep, narrow stairs each Sunday.
Our teachers waited in the room of straight edges and few windows
with good intentions and a lack of understanding
that 5th graders require more than rules
to touch their hearts
more than guilt
to push them along the path
more than words
to ignite them to action.

God knows
they tried
they prayed
they talked.

But so did we
and usually our topics included
games, school, and who was being mean and/or nice
to whom (only we would have said who because let's see we were 5th graders).

The Sunday Morning Endurance Race transpired
9 a.m. to 10 each week, rain or shine.

We never realized the power we held . . .
more of us, less of them.

Now
we are
Them.

And the thunder roar of 5th grade feet on stairs
is enough to give me chills and prompt prayers.
I pray that they too hold their power in ignorance
I pray that their Sunday morning chatter focuses on fun and not fears
I pray that guilt is never used to guide them
I pray that their bright eyes and wide smiles
remain innocent just a little longer.

Sex Leads by a Nose

"The number of Web pages dealing with God and religion is booming. Religion, in fact, is now nearly as popular an Internet topic as sex: A search for "sex" on Google returns about 408 million hits; a search for "God" yields 396 million." -- from The Week quoting The Washington Post

Belated Discovery

I've been doing some soul-searching.

Good news:

I think I found one.

Famous for a Cause

Aimie Littler (beautiful inside and out friend of mine) is quoted in the London Times and I'm so proud of what she's done to get on those pages. Noting that The Truth Isn't Sexy she's gone after the demand side of human trafficking. She's taken the lead on a project and given more hours than most folks would ever consider for FREE!!!! I love that I know people with this much passion and commitment. Check out the story . . .

Evidently Size Does Matter

The Houston Chronicle offers up an excellent resource for all things Houston in a publication called The Source. For instance, they include a sidebar with all the OTHER names for the major roadways here. (If you've ever tried to listen to a traffic report in Houston, you'll know what I mean. Took me years to discover what the Pierce Elevated was -- I45 going through downtown.)

They also provide some fun facts that just might support the working theory that Texans are a tad bit over-focused on size:

Houston has the third-largest number of consular offices outside Washington, D.C. (after New York and Los Angeles).

The city is named for Sam Houston, the larger-than-life president of the Republic of Texas, governor of two states, U.S. senator and military hero.

Houston’s Texas Medical Center is the largest medical complex in the world.

At 570 feet, the San Jacinto Monument is about 15 feet taller than the Washington Monument.

Houstonians eat out more than residents of any other U.S. city.

The largest evacuation in U.S. history occurred in 2005 when more than 2.5 million Houston-area residents fled Hurricane Rita.

Biggest or smallest -- doesn't matter to me. I love my city not for its size but for what we do with it.

Does Someone Know Someone???

This art exhibit is provocative and worthy of more time in the public eye. Stacey Chinn has much to say about the cost of dowry in the lives of women around the world. Check it out. And then, someone tell me how I can get it to Houston or Austin??? Does anyone know anyone with a gallery? How about connections at a women's study program??? Anyone????

What Dante Didn't Tell Us

Last week I traveled to the home state of a good friend and we enjoyed her family and the beauty that is Kentucky for a few days before driving home to Texas (16 hours if you're interested in stats like that). She has three kids and the trip was possible in a day if we shared the driving burden. Actually, with DVD players, Ipods, and earphones, the day was long but enjoyable.

A couple of really cool things happened while in the state known for its love of horses, basketball and bourbon. I got a behind-the-scenes tour of a race track -- an old one with a clubhouse that felt like some man in a smoking jacket would be coming around the corner any second with a cigar and a brandy in hand. The horses were doing an early morning workout and it was cold. The snorting and hot breath were both audible and visible. I loved it.

I also saw an incredible art exhibit which I want to come to Houston (see next post) and enjoyed hanging out with my friends's cousins and sisters. Have you ever seen a Kentucky fan during March Madness? Wow!

But my biggest grin came when my friend's five-year-old got her first glimpse of the wilderness themed water park from the second story of the similarly themed lodge where the entire family was staying for the night. She pressed her face against the window pane that gave a bird's eye view of the plastic trees, buckets of water pouring into other buckets, spewing/spitting/spinning water trails, inflated tubes and pools -- lots and lots of pools. She was quiet for a moment and then said as though hypnotized, "I've always dreamed of this."

When we made it down to the first floor and I walked into the heated chasm and began to take in the three stories of children running wild I had a slightly different reaction:

"I'm in hell. Dante forgot to mention the theme park level."

Of course, as soon as I was pulled away from my cynical state and climbed the tower for my first excursion down a shaft of water on top of an inner tube, I had a bit of a change of heart.

Maybe it wasn't my dream, but it wasn't a nightmare either.

And by 2 p.m. the next day when I discovered the 21 and over hot tub, I was a much happier camper!

Would I Heed the Warning?

They paint the tree roots orange when they interrupt the dirt and gravel oak-lined path on which I powerwalk.

Too bad there's not some similar warning system in the journey we call "real life."

I wouldn't mind some orange aura showing up when the next step is going to guarantee I trip, fall and experience pain.

We Walked

Speechless ... I hate the sensation. And, yet, love what produces it.

I always want to say something incredibly profound after experiences such as the AIDS Walk. I want to capture in words the gratitude I felt seeing my communities converge and walk side by side. I want to convey the beauty of thousands of colorfully clad advocates agreeing that taking a walk is making a stand. But I never quite get "there" in expressing all that happened both inside my head and around my blistered (bad shoe choice) heels.

Still I wanted to say something.

???

While listening to the song "What if God were one of us?" from a few years back, I found myself responding the question posed within . . . If you could ask God just one question, what would it be?

My reply: Why?

And if I were the type to use language like this on a more regular basis perhaps I wouldn't feel so strange saying it . . . but it was almost as if God immediately answered because I distinctly heard:

Why not?

What are you looking for?

The Right Answer or a right answer for right now?