This Southern Girl Doesn't Glow -- She Sweats

Yesterday was so intensely hot that sane people were indoors with air conditioning.

Sanity is not my strong suit.

By 9 a.m. I had donned three layers of clothing and was searching for shade at a Special Rodeo. Eleven other clowns and I were among the entertainment for a half day of fun for children with special needs. We were photographed with them. We danced with them. We cheered at their karaoke. Some did rope tricks (note that that wouldn't be me). And all of us sweated.

At one point, I found a way to stand with my arm around Confetti for a photo (we all have rodeo clown names) without touching her wet shirt. She had a leather patch on the back of her suspenders. When Valentine or Geranium stood close to me, I cringed each time a hand would press into my back because I knew visions of wet rags had to be dancing in their heads. One hour in and there wasn't a dry hair on my head. Thankfully the cowboy hat disguised that fact somewhat. But I did fear that some of the smaller kids in wheelchairs and strollers might truly be afraid of the deranged looking woman in crazy makeup, suspenders, bright yellow shirt and wearing leggings. I would have (if it hadn't been me!).

The kids were incredible. Some were inspiring. One girl of probably 9 or 10 but looked to be the size of a 5-year-old and who needed a walker, belted out "God Bless America" with the fervor of an American Idol. Several teenagers dominated the dance floor. One girl could do cartwheels. Her friend happily thought she could too as she bent at the waist and motioned with her hands toward the floor. One young man caught all of our attention as he did a rapid fire reading of the words to "Take this Job and Shove It" occasionally allowing the music to catch up.

The "regularness" of their lives was never more evident as they helped each other, as siblings were jealous of attention paid to the others, as Moms giggled at their antics, as a grandfather helped his acrobatic grandson jump high in the air . . . over and over and over again. They were simply kids having a great time on horses, in wagons; playing with rabbits and laughing at the prickliness of a hedgehogs; and turning their lips blue with cotton candy and snow cones.

My heart was warmed as well as my body!

I had just enough time to drive home, shower (ahhhhhh), and load up the car. Why? Because I'm not content to do one event per day. Noooooooo. Crazy woman books a rodeo event and an Equality Texas gig in one day. In defense of what little grip on reality I have, the rodeo event was purely volunteering. ET was paying me to serve as the event coordinator. And in these lean days, that meant saying yes to them even though I already had something on the calendar.

Minutes after drying my hair, the sweat started pouring once again. I had to drive to the store to pick up ice and lemons. More sweat. I loaded my friend's car with supplies I'd been storing at my house. More wetness. We drove separately to the Heights (about 20 minutes away) and my persnickety AC in my car kicked in about ten minutes into the drive. Yet more moisture. We unpacked at this incredible house that was once a flop house but was now the location of many a gala. With a wraparound porch, huge backyard, art throughout, and both a state-of-the-art kitchen and wine cellar, it's truly the bones of a great event.

I had enlisted friends to make this event one of the great ones. They came through as always. We arranged, rearranged, set up the bar, set up the food, and traversed the emotional landscape of a host with one party in the evening and a Sunday brunch scheduled for the following day.

We transformed ourselves into party-goers with quick changes. My hair was still not dry. And served, photographed and mingled well. Just when I thought that I might not look as though someone threw a bottle of water in my face, the crowd grew to such a level that the AC couldn't keep up. Donation cards became fans. The host felt sorry for me and showed me the one vent in the kitchen I could stand over for immediate relief. I'd almost dried off when it was time to clean up, load the cars and enjoy the convection oven that I now know as my Beetle with the bad compressor.

And yet, when people commented on my performance at the party, I most often heard "energetic." Now when you are a year shy of 50, you've dripped in front of strangers in a strange land, and you still get remarks like that, it's not a bad feeling. A smile is a wonderful form of makeup. Sincere interest in what another is saying adds light to the eyes and complexion. What I lack in physical composure, I make up for with attitude.

A day like yesterday was all about attitude. I learned from the young. I shared with the advocates. And I took a shower when I got home.

Life is still very good ... a little warm, but very good.

Facing Fears and the Table

For some anxiety-ridden students facing the return to classes, the nightmare of standing before your classmates and realizing you're naked is a familiar one. The relief of waking up is sweet.

My nightmare has no such ending. I'm in massage therapy class. I won't be waking up. I will be naked.

Even before I hit the one-year-to-the-big-50 mark, I wasn't that comfortable with my body. I've always been aware of the extra pounds and now, of course, there's the reality of aging skin. I'm not convinced that I'm some crone but I'm also not that excited about a swimsuit.

So joining a class that requires you to shed clothing and jump on a table so that 20-somethings who cycle, play in rock bands, and bartend can beat on you makes total sense, right?

I can't say that I was surprised when we were told this week that we'd need our lotion. That was the cue that our clothes would be coming off. We've been practicing with scrubs on, learning to drape the sheet so that some degree of modesty is maintained. But with the introduction of strokes, we had to be moving to the big day.

What did surprise me was my reaction. Suddenly, I saw myself in such a negative light. Every pound on me seemed heavier, every blemish got darker, every wrinkle looser. And when we were told on the second day on "hands-on lab work" that we had to have a male partner if we hadn't already had one . . . well, gulp, I had to face the fear.

I looked around the room and there was the one guy in the younger set (yes, we've somewhat self-organized by age) who actually laughs at my jokes. He caught my eye, we did the raised eyebrow dance of inquiry and both nodded that we would proceed.

I worked on him first. He's the cyclist and may weigh as much as my two thighs. He's never had a professional massage. On this issue, I definitely had the upper hand.

I followed the class procedure of strokes, got the instructor to use him as a model so that my new young friend could have an incredible glute experience, and got some good response for my degree of pressure.

Then we closed the curtains and I stripped.

When he came back to the table, we had to practice the turn. If he does the draping correctly, he can't see but the move requires a rollover in which the client's breasts are potentially exposed. I rolled and positioned myself and took a deep breath. In that moment, I realized the truth of the words I uttered more than once during his practice of strokes and in response to his effusive apologies for getting some part of the practice wrong. "We are students. We are here to learn. We'll make mistakes but if we can't learn on each other, we can't learn."

My fears were faced by reframing. On that table, I am not a middle-aged woman with "issues" about her physical contours and sagging skin. I am an object lesson, a means to greater understanding. In learning mode, the experience made sense and, in fact, was essential.

Massage really does help relieve stress.

Let the Good Times Roll

We started talking about the trip about a month ago. Our new friend -- who had only recently joined our cooking crew of Wednesday nights -- has a condo in the French Quarter. The long Labor Day weekend afforded all of us -- two unemployed (but I am a student) and two employed but with limited vacation time and equally limited funding -- the chance to pool our resources. With some cooking in and wisely chosen dining out options, we could make a dream vacation happen.

We did it!

Driving over on Thursday night, I asked each person to make a wish and I, the official fairy duster, would help to ensure their realization via my positive energy (and a flourish as I waved my arm in lieu of a wand).

"I want to order the right thing. I always wish I'd tried something else."

"I want to meet someone new."

"We need to be safe and have fun."

"I want to see myself in a positive light."

"I want to survive health care reform."

The last one came from our insurance salesman and we agreed that might be out of the purview of my wish granting abilities.

Every other wish came true. We dined well on Cajun and Creole delights. We met tons of new people at parties and even on the streets. We laughed until we teared. We made up ratings games for the time we spent on the balcony watching the crowds who took one street over (ours) to avoid Bourban. We had scales for intoxication ... 0 for he's a glass or two to 10 for "soon he'll be praying to the porcelain god." And another for "that's unfortunate" fashion statements.

We were five adults who hadn't seen their 20s in a while who were wise enough to say "when" and go off on our own as needed and pitch in and make whatever should happen happen when that was required.

Driving home we knew that wishes and dreams were still within our reach. And we all smiled.

Do Not Bend, Fold or Mutilate ... Ok, Maybe Sometimes

This week we're focusing on draping. Massage therapy classes thus far have consisted of reading about anatomy, ensuring that we have all our -ology's straight, and integrating the terminology of the Swedish massage into our around-the-table discussions. Draping is the first hands-on (get it? massage therapy . . . hands-on) experience.

To fully appreciate how happy this makes me, one must know that I'm a visual or experiential learner. For the better part of five days, we've read the text aloud, stopping only to be told what portions to highlight because they are important "testically" speaking. (Even spellcheck notes how wrong this word is, but it's the instructor's, not mine.) Any chance we get to stand up (away from the massage tables doing double duty as our desktops), stretch and start applying what we've learned is one I gladly embrace.

This week it's how to wrap a sheet around a client so that comfort, warmth, and modesty can be maintained. I fully accepted that I'm a massage nerd when I almost giggled with joy over now being able to secure the sheet in such a way as to actually get at the thigh. My informal training and three years of massaging friends for birthdays, etc. had never had me travel more than a few inches up the thigh. I was always too nervous that my buddies would be nervous.

Well, now, I've got you covered. Really.

Seems it's all about the folds and tucks of that all-important sheet.

Glute work ... here I come.

Eureka! Euphoria!

Euphoria.

Not something that's a daily occurrence for me. Typically happy, I usually land just shy of "a feeling of great happiness or well-being." Something is usually nagging at me -- an upcoming bill, a concern about a loved one, a conversation not-yet-had. But yesterday I crossed the line and lingered in the land of euphoria.

Funny thing is that there was no particular reason for it. Here's the day in a nutshell:

1. Finished a story on a ministry to prisoners for which I will be paid and I was praised.
2. Had coffee with a new mom and her baby. She needed a shoulder and he did too.
3. Lunch with an acquaintance who wanted to celebrate my birthday and treated.
4. Phone chats with two friends with whom I do a bit of coaching. Both had questions, and I had answers.
5. Meeting with a non-profit exec who wants my services and is eager to find a way to pay for them.
6. Exercise.
7. Volunteering as an usher for a fun musical about girl groups called The Marvelous Wonderettes, tearing tickets and making it my mission to make sure everyone who entered the theater did so with a smile.
8. Late night supper with friends.

See? Nothing unusual (at least not for me). But in the middle of laughing around the table and just before midnight, I realized it.

I'm giddy. I don't know exactly how I'm going to pay my bills. My distant family is recovering from illness but is recovering. I'm surrounded by people who love me. And in this moment, on this day, I have known euphoria.

First Day of School and I Packed My Own Lunch

Today I started massage therapy school. Dressed in my hunter green scrubs -- neatly pressed the evening before -- I swiped my id card through the meter and the gate lifted for me to park at the spa and school that will be the site of my newfound education for the next five months. I had chased away the nightmare equivalent of standing before the class naked. In my version it was "what if I'm the only one who wears scrubs the first day?" And I was feeling fairly confident with my backpack and lunch bag over my shoulder.

The class has 24 students but we are divided into two groups. One instructor laid out the rules in an almost militaristic fashion, referring to the on campus labyrinth as something "you moonbeam people" might be interested in. Didn't surprise me when I learned he was Army. The other instructor acknowledged privately to me that he was indeed one of the "moonbeam" types. Guess which one is my instructor?

He's not that bad though. And he has a wealth of knowledge to share. I'm going to learn something from him. If I don't take him out in a two out of three cage match first. Did I mention that to cover the material we are supposed to cover and not have to read at home we are reading the chapters aloud? Yep. That would be me. The trainer who loves to experience learning hands-on, reading from Chapter 1. I'm just counting on the fact that most of the course is an internship. That's hands-on to the max!

I tried not to stand out with this guy. But when we were telling what we had done, why we were there and what we wanted to do, I mentioned that I had worked in politics and now wanted to supplement an income that I hope to generate in working with non-profits. He wanted to know what politician, what party, etc. I could tell by the way he asked the question which side he was on. I said, "I prefer not to offer details at this time since I'm assuming you're the one who'll be grading me." He laughed and then said, "Democrat" as though the syllables might stick in his throat. I told him I knew how to keep my opinions to myself if he did too.

The class went fine and I've already learned something so I'm not going to fault him. He seems dedicated to making us good therapists -- just not the moonbeam kind.

And oh yea, he called out to me when I left class at 5 tonight, "See you Liberal." When I repeated that we really didn't have to go there, he said, "But I like a good debate."

After two failed relationships with guys who started off smiling at my views and wanting to debate, I'm thinking politics is definitely not going to be on my class syllabus!

Looking forward to the Movie

Eat, Love, Pray was a pivotal book in my life. Just not in the way everyone assumed it would be. After 23 years of employment within the Southern Baptist denomination, I determined that I could no longer sit across from pastors who knew I believed exactly as they did when, in fact, I did not. With no plan but to walk away from one of the best teams I will ever work with, do some traveling, volunteering, and lots of learning, the book made an excellent “here’s-to-your-new-adventure” gift.

I hated it.

Well-conceived, written, and marketed, the tale of one woman’s attempt to redefine her life through food, a spiritual quest and new experiences should have inspired me. Instead, I knew the ugly truth (several if you really want a critique of the book). With its release, anything I had hoped to write chronicling my yearlong pursuit of a new life would be considered derivative. So for me, what was supposed to be inspirational was a buzz kill.

Did I laugh at her accounts of carbing her way around Italy? Sure. Did I resonate with her attempts at clearing her mind for meditation? Absolutely. Did I celebrate with her discovery of love on an island? Absolutely not.

I mean,, really. I had already released any hope of pitching my search for truth on $2000 a month to a publisher because she’d cornered the market on women on a quest. But as I turned the final page, I was livid. We began her journey with the realization that a man wasn’t going to be her answer. We ended her journey with her smiling in the arms of a man.

Argh.

So now I had to confront the fact that IF I had a book in me, it was going to be turned down because another female writer was savvy enough to tell a tale which contradicted itself.

Consistency be damned.

Almost three years later, the movie trailers are cleverly appearing on every female-oriented network I watch. Julia Roberts’ smiling face consuming pizza interrupts my weekly obsession with the Iron Chef. Javier Bardem in his pre-Penelope Cruz unattached state declaring that she doesn’t “need a man, she needs a champion” eases the guilt of having spent another hour with real housewives on Bravo. But with each commercial break, I am confronted yet again with what I didn’t do.

My year – carefully crafted to include open ended experiences for learning and growth yet not so defined as to fill like another trap – became three. The three years ended with me at least 30 pounds heavier – from stress eating and not freshly made Italian pasta – and fighting the sense that as a lover of options, I had none. Not exactly the makings of an inspirational story guaranteed to feed the need of women everywhere who want to believe there’s something outside the mundane 7 to 11 work day (cause really, who’s work is ever 9 to 5?).

Sure, I launched my journey with a hot air balloon ride, studied and taught English as a Second language in one of the most diverse cities in the U.S., drove with friends along Route 66 in a VW Beetle convertible, wrote erotica, relished in the kindness of strangers and friends, volunteered in Africa, and ran the field work of a state representative campaigning for reelection. But Tanzania to Texas politics proved to be a beginning of the end of sorts and not the celebratory and revelatory final chapter that would launch my new career. In fact, those preachers began to look rather alluring by the time I concluded that I was once again trapped.

Of course, I’m completely aware that the corner I’d carefully crafted for myself was one of my own making. When the campaign was over and my commitment to my friend, the campaign manager, complete, I could have walked away. The fact that we were in the beginning days of a recession suggested the adage about the bird in the hand was worth noting. I can’t help but wonder what might have been if I’d only looked at the bush! Instead, I signed on for the legislative session – 140 days of Texas shenanigans up close and personal. Ignoring the months of micro-managing I’d already endured, I convinced myself that learning how the state governs would be beneficial to my intentions to return to the non-profit arena. And, hey, religion, academia, politics, why not try them all?

Now that I know the rest of the story, I’ve discovered soooooo many responses to that question.

Welcome Home

The conversation around the table was deep and wide. Religion/spirituality/church work -- check. Human rights/individual rights/denial of rights -- check. Family/growing up/yet to be born -- check. Stupid jokes/lengthy anecdotes/updates in incomplete sentences because not all nouns need verbs -- check.

We enjoyed the kind of night that old friends who feel like family can enjoy. After months spent apart, put food in front of us and let the overlapping voices, laughter, and empathy begin.

No one would say our gathering was without its share of quirky participants -- a former minister-turned-videographer with progressive politics but a growing sense that government may know too much about us, a current minister too young to be sending a child to college and yet in the city for that very reason, the student who vacillates between girlish giggles and trying on the role of wise woman, her childhood friend who quietly absorbs the character-driven conversation, a teacher just back from vacationing on the West coast and weary from a day of playing catch up in his office, a decorator/real estate agent/minister who in his mid-60s is ramping up his career options, and me, formerly in the ministry, then politics, and now heading for new lessons around a massage table and through networking with non-profits worldwide.

If I hadn't been included, I would have wanted to be!

Sensuality . . . A Must for Good Strategy?

Read a review of a new release called Chastened. Described as a mix of "memoir with history, sociology and biology for a heady cocktail that feels anything but virginal", the book chronicles a year in the life of a British journalist in which she gives up sex. I share this background only to give context for the line in the review/interview that caught my eye. The implied question is posed:

"For a book with no sex in it, this was a pretty racy read."

The author's response:

"You don't have to be having sex for the world to be a sensual place."

You know, I somehow sensed that.

In fact, prior to reading the Sunday paper where the review appeared, I had just described what I would consider the ultimate job for me -- and it included an emphasis on sensuality. Clients would come to me for a day of finding leverage. We would look at their passion and purpose and find the points of high leverage in the long term and short term. Interspersed in the day would be a break for a massage and a meal. These breaks would be to remember that within the senses is life. Leadership without remembering that is lacking.

Obviously, the quote hit home.

New Adventure - Week 2

Read my third book since beginning the new beginning. One inspired me to try my hand at writing. While I loved the author's focus on living the life of a sensualist in the kitchen, her overuse of simile was like really getting on my nerves. If she can find a publisher ... Another was evidence of the fact that if you have a following, people will publish you. Julia Childs knew how to make a cookbook zing. Stories told by her when she was in her end years about her first years in Paris were less than compelling. And one was authored by a friend of a friend. Story well told. Not too complicated. Walked away thinking I could do that.

So ... last Saturday I woke up and wrote the prologue for what might be the next chapter and the next.

Did an event for free, sweating in the overwhelming heat but all went well. Finished a gig for pay without physically harming anyone and since it wound up being for less than minimum wage, I put it in the "Lesson Learned" category. Secured a position with a group as their official storyteller. Won't give me any more money but will open a few doors. Hosted lots of friends at my place.

Life is still very good.

New Adventure 2010 - Week 1

The "first day of my new life" included so much potential and possibilities that I found myself smiling throughout. Coolest thing is that it began and ended with me "listening and guiding" rather than "wanting and needing." On the docket this week -- meet with existing clients, reach out to potential clients, make the massage therapy classes a reality, continue to see emotional and physical balance.

Day 2 -- Signed the paperwork to start classes. Did a little coaching on the side. All I needed were some pompoms and a zit and I'd be in a repeat of 1979. 'Course I'm a far distance from that frightened, faith-in-a-box freshman who was seeking to make the grade rather than gain wisdom. In leadership workshops that I now teach I sometimes ask the participants, "What would your teen self have to say about your current self?" I'm fairly sure my 17-year-old version would be saying a prayer for me . . . while quietly envying the freedom.

Today's 'what ifs' included -- What if I joined with my entrepreneurial/missional friend Shannon to write a book about her adventures with social enterprise? What if I could make a go of freelancing and not have to take Eric up on his generous offer to hire me at The Chocolate Bar? While I'm not "too good" to work the counter, I'm wondering if that would feel like wasted time at a lower hourly wage -- time that I could be researching grant writing and gaining clients.

Day 3 -7 -- Added two new freelance gigs. Felt confirmed in my creativity, an experience that has not been mine in some months. Enjoyed time with girlfriends. Headed to Louisiana for time sitting by the lake, jumping in the lake, being pulled to the point of bruises in a innertube, laughing and loving with a great family.

Aspiring to Such Plain-ness

Leonard Pitts is a plain speaking writer. Ok, that reads weird but it's true. When he offers up his weekly commentary (I happen to read it in the Houston Chronicle but he's out of Florida) I "get" him. Sometimes I agree. Sometimes I don't. But I always understand what he's saying.

For instance, this week he dares to suggest that teachers should be accountable and teacher unions should encourage rather than obstruct such accountability. Check it out. I'm sure there are lengthy arguments to contradict what he's stated so simply here but when you get past all the words, doesn't it make sense that those who give them should have to make the grade?

Precious Memories

Mother walked toward me with her hands cupped. If I were 6 and her white hair only peppered with salt, she would be clutching a doll or cookie. Since we were celebrating her 80th birthday, I was fairly sure toys and sugar were not what she was hiding.

With the mischievous grin she usually donned for her grandkids, she said, "For you" and revealed her gift.

The framed photo I had taken more than 20 years ago when she and her then new husband Doc walked hand in hand in front of me on a rainy day as we climbed a hill in the Smoky Mountains made me cry out. "Really?" was what I uttered but my own grin revealed the extent of my pleasure.

"You were always so proud of this picture and I want you to have it," she said.

I must admit I wondered if the gesture was some kind of eery foreshadowing -- like maybe she was disposing of prized possessions, knowing that there wouldn't be another opportunity. But I let got of that morbid thought fairly quickly and hugged her.

Mother was always proud of my creative side but, since she only picked up reading late in life, my writing wasn't something she kept up with. The fact that she too had valued this attempt at art on my part always made it even more precious to me.

Now, sitting in its place of honor in my Texas home, it is priceless.

Smiling

I've been interviewed seven times in the last few weeks. I've written twice as many cover letters -- all customized for the audience. I've made a daily ritual of checking the non-profit job boards.

I'm not fretful about having to job hunt. I'm fretful that I'm getting in too good of a groove!

To date, I've had to refrain from smiling at least once in each interview . . .
-when the exec said for the third time how much he thought of me but that he wasn't sure if the organization could look outside the box enough to hire someone with my limited qualifications in fundraising,
-when the staff was asked if they had questions for me, and they didn't
-when the board member asked if, in the chance that I didn't get the job, would I still volunteer my time (something I've been doing for 15 years!)
-when the two introverts and I were alone in a warm, white office with nothing but a few pieces of paper, a table, and the quiet between us
-when the young man with a list of questions he must have collected from his interview days asked me what my long term career objectives were (at which point I thought about my response to the older man who interviewed me for my first post-college position and said, "You know we only pay minimum wage, and you're getting your masters." To which I replied, "You know I'd like to eat.")
-when the gum-smacking admissions counselor apologized for the gum -- not for the smacking but for not offering me a piece

And the list could easily go on.

How interesting to be on this side of the desk. Reminds me of the many artists, editors and editorial assistants I interviewed through the years. I hope I always left them feeling heard and affirmed in some way. For the most part, that's certainly been true of my experiences this go around.

I've yet to try what one man pulled with me. He explained that I had to hire him because God had revealed it unto him. One of us was obviously not listening to the same God channel. He was pious, yes. He was NOT a good artist.

I am a good interview. I'm an even better employee. And someday soon, I'll be employed again. Until then, I'm still smiling.

Day in the Life of a New Adventure

"What was you favorite subject in high school?" said the gum-smacking admissions counselor with the smoker's rasp.

"Anything to do with writing," I offered, smiling at the fact that the form she was filling out was based on the assumption that the person on the opposite side of her desk would be recently graduated from high school or a GED recipient.

"What was your least favorite?"

"Math."

"I could have told you that was what you were going to say. Happens all the time during these interviews. If someone liked English or writing, they are going to say they didn't like math. So, if it makes you feel better, you're predictable."

"That maybe the last time you say that during the entirety of this interview."

She laughed, coughed, and smacked some more as we made our way through the form she was adapting on the spot. At one point, she apologized for the long pauses, noting that her usual intake wasn't with people as forthcoming as me. Seems that where she frequently had to pull replies from her candidates, I answered one question with enough information to fill half the application.

For instance, as to why I wanted to receive certification in massage therapy, I responded, "I love working with non-profits but they can't afford to pay me. So I need a skill that will allow me to have the flexibility of working with them -- and thus feed my 'habit' -- while at the same time, help to pay the bills. Also, I believe my life is about rest, restoration, and refreshment for others. I can't think of a better way for me to accomplish that than through the gift of touch."

I think that must have covered questions 6-9 on the form.

She continued to apologize throughout the interview and tour of the facility. Once it was for checking her cell phone. Another time it was for the gum -- not the 'chomping' as she called it (and correctly I might add) but for not offering me a piece. Then it was for the speed at which she talked, the scattered approach, the fact that she had to comply with state rules and tell me everything about the school's offerings, the speed at which she walked. Initially, I replied with "I understand" and "No problem." But after a while, I just let the apologies go.

By the time the tour was half over and I had been introduced to my third bulletin board of students in health professions, I knew I needed to call it quits. But I continued. When she couldn't show me the mall-based storefront where interns offer cut-rate massages and underscored twice that they had increased security after five break-ins in the parking lot, I was fairly sure, I didn't really need to talk to the financial adviser. But I did. The price tag sealed it.

I won't be going to this school.

A short ride later, I walked into a posh spa with the required bubbling brook sounds and water installations around every corner. Everyone was in scrubs. The place smelled of eucalyptus and lavender. The lights were muted. The music and water sounds created the score for the tour. Hydrotherapy, a waterbed massage table, and the fact that by becoming a student I would be given free membership to the gym, pool, and exercises classes sealed the deal. Oh, and the fact that though no financial aid is available, the cost was half the previous place and I get a massage chair when I am finished.

I felt like a snob when I resolved that I was choosing the spa over the mall. But if relaxation is what I want to be about, the decision wasn't a difficult one.

Now I await word from the fulltime position I interviewed for. If that job is offered, then classes won't begin for me until spring 2011 when the next round of night options begin. If the job isn't mine, then I can start in a few weeks.

Either way, I've settled that my next step is not a either/or option. I'm all about the both/and. And this time, I'm getting both learning and position, both education and atmosphere.

And I'm one step closer to that woman I am becoming. (No gum chewing allowed.)

Matter of Perspective

I once had a maid, a yard guy, a house with a home office, and . . . the constant feeling that I was failing.

Today I dropped something on the floor and realized that if I didn't pick it up, no one would. A couple of days ago, I weeded the weeds on my front stoop and was satisfied that they looked close enough to wildflowers for me to let them keep growing (at least they are green). I'm typing on a Mac permanently stained by Tanzanian dirt and plugged into the wall because the battery died and I don't want to incur the expense of replacing it. And I am happy.

New Life, the Sequel to the Sequel

Once July got here, the reality of my situation began to sink in. I'm leaving my job (for which I'm paid regularly) because I no longer want to work in that environment. However, I have no new environment on the horizon. So I'm listening to what others are saying and trying to pay attention.

"Karen, you should let people pay you to do that."

"We'd love to have your skill sets, but as a non-profit with no steady income, we can't afford you."

"You need to be in a creative space."

"Karen gets her energy from touch."

"You're not old."

As a result of comments like these and remembering the inspiring examples of my friend Cam and Larry who both stopped the road they were on and went back to school for a new one, I'm looking at massage therapy school. A program starts Aug. 23. I could be through in six months. I could freelance at night and on the weekends to try and make ends meet but I am also looking at whether I could use my retirement funds without penalty in order to go to school.

I'm nervous, excited, maybe a little worried, and ready.

Writing I Didn't Want to Do but Was Honored to Complete

I was asked to write an obituary for a remarkable woman, truly what people would call a "character", someone who made my "family I've chosen" better with her presence, her candor, her unsappy approach to compassion. After writing it, I gave it to her husband Bill for him to give to the newspaper. Unfortunately, a snafu meant that it didn't appear the day before the funeral. I intervened, tried logic, then asked for humanity to prevail and unfortunately, the bottom line was the only thing the business side of the paper was interested in. At more than $800, I thought the charges were excessive when the item wouldn't appear until the day of the funeral. So I switched approaches. A call to the News Desk resulted in a feature story, celebrating her volunteerism, that appeared last night online and the day of the funeral on page 2 of the City Section and above the fold.

Carolyn would not have enjoyed the attention, but would have been thoroughly pleased that we beat the system and got it all for free. They didn't use my version of the story and as a result got a few great quotes from Bill that I didn't. But in case you never had the privilege of meeting her, here's my introduction to a great woman who loved and lived life to the fullest:

Carolyn Sharber, 75, died June 17. Her sudden death occurred as she was fulfilling one of her many volunteer roles – assisting Texas Lovin’ Cloggers prior to a performance in Branson, MO.

Born in Elizabeth City, NC, Carolyn spent 39 years in classrooms in New Orleans and Houston. She and her husband, Bill, recently celebrated their 54th wedding anniversary. Childhood sweethearts, they attended grade school and high school together and graduated from East Carolina University.

Upon her retirement from teaching physical education, Carolyn began a second “career” of volunteerism. Her commitments included Braes Interfaith Ministries, Omega House (an AIDS hospice), Interfaith Care Partners, and the Livestock Committee of the Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo. She was a member of Willow Meadows Baptist Church where she faithfully did whatever task needed to be done.

Known for her sense of humor, compassionate spirit, and practical approach to work and play, Carolyn was able to bring a lighter side to many of the serious issues connected to her volunteerism. Fifteen years ago, upon being told that hospice volunteers were needed for cooking, cleaning and patient care at Omega House, Carolyn quickly acknowledged that she would happily do the laundry but since she kept her cookbooks in her oven at home, she wouldn’t be cooking anywhere else either. At the church, her aversion to cooking prompted other volunteers to capture her one experience in the kitchen on film.

Upon hearing of her death, numerous friends and acquaintances began recounting their experiences with Carolyn’s selfless acts of befriending the outcast and recruiting of others to join her in her volunteer activities.

“Carolyn gave her life to service, caring for everyone but herself,” said her husband Bill. “You would never find a better friend. I could never have found a better partner.”

Carolyn is also survived by a sister, Mary Ann Knight of Garner, NC; two nieces Sheryl Holbrook and Donna Barefoot; a nephew Randal Hardesty; and close friend Buncy Nemec.

The funeral will take place Wednesday, June 23, at 10 a.m. at Willow Meadows Baptist Church, 4300 West Bellfort. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to the church youth programs to scholarship youth activities.


Truly a sanitized version, the best things about Carolyn were her approach to doing good deeds, her aversion to cooking, her total disregard for anyone who didn't want her smoking in the church parking lot, her willingness to do ANYTHING except cook, the way she approached anyone she didn't know and made them her friend in minutes, and the way she never saw what might keep others from lending a hand -- dirty clothes and hair, a shady past/present, a furrowed brow that looked menacing -- and instead just treated humanity as humanity.

I, and many others, will miss her.

A Saturday in Houston in June

The fan on my VW is belching hot air and hot air only. I can't make up my mind as to whether I should put the windows down where the temp is already near 90 before 9 a.m. or keep waiting for the cold air to come.

I drive the almost empty freeway to my workplace where I am greeted by similarly clad folks in campaign t-shirts. I'm thinking that this will be my last blockwalk and while that pleases me the thought of the next few hours does not. The interns have the situation well in hand and I await my marching orders. A volunteer (who came to us in the last campaign and worked as she subsequently got the news she had lymphoma and then began treatment) and I have four streets to cover in Bellaire.

We take her car.

The process of blockwalking is well thought out. I have a clipboard of papers for one side of the street. She has the other. We knock. We wait. We greet. We tell what we are doing. We offer the brochure. We smile and go to the next house. Simple.

I HATE IT!

Who wants to be bothered by politics on a Saturday morning? Especially when the election isn't until November and this is a hot day in June. I did encounter one woman eager to hear me and even though she votes the other ticket most of the time, seemed to be open to what I had to say. AND she offered me water.

Two hours into it and I'm wet all over. Now, not only would I not open the door to me, I would be fearful of the sight if I happened to check out my window!

Finally, we've covered the route and head back to the office. Then I head to my next gig -- babysitting.

Brian asked me to come over because he now has twins and a 2-year-old -- plus he's giving a party that afternoon. I get a quick orientation as the moment I enter there's crying and changing and feeding to be done. They are big dollops of cuteness and despite my lack of experience with small versions of humanity, I walk away without traumatizing anyone.

Next up is a phone call that lasts two hours. Interesting ... Intriguing ... Not enough to write about yet.

And finally I head to see what Fiona needs. She's a friend who is a on a similar journey of discovering the next thing for her life. I wind up filming her on a graveled path with a great view of the city behind her (this after trying a rooftop and then climbing through a stranger's window to check out her "patio" view). She does several takes describing her passion for equal rights, equal respect, and equal responsibility. Then we head for a brief catch up that turns into a lengthy discussion of options, possibilities, and passion.

I realize that passion is addictive. I love the fire it puts in someone's actions, the light it brings to their eyes, the sense of purpose it provides. I want passion in my life and I am beginning to realize that mine is ignited by others'.

Nice day in the life of me . . .

Hands in the Air, Anticipating the Ride

Experiential learner that I am, many of my aha moments are accompanied by "doing" metaphors. I illustrate the ying/yang of the art of leadership -- keeping the urgency taut as you move toward a vision while clearly understanding current reality -- as the motion of cross country skiing. These last few days I've been feeling the hills -- the strain of climbing, the anticipation, the release and pure joy -- of a roller coaster.

First I returned from not only a fun trip but a truly stimulating one. My time in London with friends/entrepreneurs there inspired me. I remembered how much I love helping a person of passion move toward achieving their dreams. The second day back I interviewed for a position with an organization where I have volunteered for 15 years. I enjoyed meeting the staff and could begin to see that it could really be a good match for me. I made the "cut" (5 candidates were simultaneously in this process) and met with board members the next day. At the conclusion of that one, a board member thanked me for my enthusiasm. I hadn't realized how long it had been since someone commented on that (used to be a fairly regular observation folks made about my presentations) and was optimistic but cautiously so. Seems my lack of the title on my resume for the position the director was seeking to fill continued to be a concern for him. He just didn't see how my church experiences would translate into a health non-profit fundraising and volunteer management role.

So yesterday, he called to tell me that they had gone a different direction. And honestly, I felt released. I wanted to work for a group who "got me", who could think outside the box and be ready to creatively answer questions that nagged them, who matched my passion and provided me a challenge and a playground for new ideas. If my lack of the title he wanted to see boxed him in, then that's not the place I want to be.

And if that realization weren't enough, I then got a call that a dear woman and one of the reasons I call Houston home, had died. Carolyn was an incredible force wrapped in a body that was 100 pounds possibly but only when wet. Her story will be another entry on another day when I can tell it without tearing up and jeopardizing the keyboard.

But truly, how can a concern over a career path even compare to the loss of a loved one. I called her husband Bill and simply said, "I love you and am praying" and I went to my next event with the knowledge that my chosen family here is incredible.

The event I attended for my current boss included doctors from the area. One couple heard me mention Tanzania and came back to talk. They've only been married two years. She ran a center for AIDS orphans in Namibia before coming here. I explained a bit about the work I'd done with the organization I'd known as Minnesota International Health Volunteers in 2008.

This morning I decided to see what MIHV was up to. For one thing, they've changed their name. Now Wellshare International they are currently looking for a Communications and Volunteer Manager. I sent my resume.

I've also sent my number to a friend who says her friend wants to introduce himself to me. No clue what that means except . . .

The anticipation begins again.

Paris/London Postings: Written Two Days after Arriving Home

Though I worked at least six days out of the 12 we were gone, I absolutely loved this vacation. The work allowed me to remember who I am, what I ought to be doing, and I was able to give the gift of time to friends I love. The reward was their gratitude and some of the most incredible sites (some not listed on any tourist map, some only highlighted in a footnote, and some that fall into the category of "must see").

Rather than offer up a day to day narrative, I'll provide a list of images and sensations:

- the English version should be the picture beside the definition for "rolling countryside"
- pub life cannot be compared to dropping by a bar in the U.S. . . . there's a whole culture that we don't come near to reproducing, plus the drinks aren't nearly as expensive
- when a bride and groom are both artists, their dreams of a wedding are like no other ... so if you are picking up the responsibility of ensuring those dreams are realized, it's good to get all the details before the other help start arriving
- jam jars and tea cups make for delightful drinks at an afternoon reception but removing almost 100 labels is a rather sticky job
- transforming a 500+year-old-hall into a meeting room/dining room/dance hall takes all hands on deck and it's great when many of those hands are artistic
- I'll never be able to produce dove bunting the way Rob can
- I'll never see a bride as romantically attired and beaming quite as brightly as Aimie was
- I love it when people who love to cook all wind up in a big kitchen together ... when the accents are Irish, French Canadian, Indian, Philadelphian, British, and Texan, it's even more fun
- When asked to prepare food for such an eclectic crowd be prepared to be asked if this, that and the other thing are gluten free ... several times ... with increasing levels of frustration on the part of the gluten free eater that you can do nothing for (other than suggest they eat the items that are obviously sans gluten)
- Never underestimate the ability of a Brit to hold his margarita, whiskey sour, Proseco, bellini, and wine. Amazing fortitude!
- An English countryside "hill" is a Texas mountain ... when climbing up it, take note and walk with the woman with the cane because you look good for "helping" and you are allowed to stop and breathe without looking like a fat wimp
- Weddings planned by spiritual artists who love visual and word art as well as the theater are quite spectacular
- You probably can't imagine but you may want to try ... on top of a high and windy grassy opening, overlooking rolling countryside which make their way to the sea ... all in view as the vows are exchanged
- Items included in the service: sticks transformed into wands which form an archway through which the women walk through, oil from the Holy Land, binding cloth, bread/wine, a girl wearing her fairy wings and a boy clad in a kilt to deliver the rings, a dog running through the circle that surrounded the couple and an embarrassed teen apologizing, biodegradable dove balloons released, and audience participation
- When the hall is stone and includes a smoke-stained Rueben, there's pretty good bones for a breathtakingly beautiful dining experience but add in garland and wildflowers, glass decanters and tealights, and 90 friends and family and it's beyond description
- Brits like written speeches rather than toasts at their weddings
- 1st course: lentil soup; 2nd: meat/veg/gluten free pies with 5 salads served family style; 3rd: cheescake for all and choices of 8 homemade cakes (including 3 which were gluten free)
- The barn dance reminded me of contra dancing ... and Rob and Aimie's friends like to spin . . . a lot
- Releasing biodegradable Chinese lanterns toward the stars . . . WOW
- The realization that the hired help had put in a 14 hour day and I had shared overseeing duties for at least 17 as I made my way to bed
- Listening to the sound of storytelling and singing by the fire through my open window . . . completely spent but pleased at having given the gift of peace of mind to my friends.

Paris/London Postings: Written as Email Update to Family

Thought I would at least tell you that I am alive and very well in London. Roger and I had not one single international incident while we were in Paris! We found our apartment (small though it may have been) and it was in a 300 year old building with a window overlooking a charming courtyard. Within minutes of arriving, Roger made friends with the chef at the restaurant beside us and he not only gave us water (we were a little surprised by the heat), his wife/partner allowed us to leave on bags at their flat when we had to vacate our place on the last day.

We took in all the iconic structures of Paris -- on foot, on bike, by bus, and by boat. We learned the Metro and were able to traverse from the highest hill to the highest building. We fell in love with our bike tour guide who gave us the best tip of the trip -- an entrance into the Louvre that had NO lines on the free day. While the rest of Paris stood in the sun in a entrance line that was at least the size of a football field, we walked right in, took two flights to the Mona Lisa, went into the catacombs to see the Roman antiquities and were back out on the streets in less than an hour. I know that some of you probably think we should have spent the day there but we had miles to go before we could say we had seen and done Paris.

Thanks to great input from my buddy Jocelyn, we were well prepared for the food situation and enjoyed light and inexpensive fare while we were there.

The train ride to London allowed us to meet an interesting woman now living in London but originally from Morocco. A Muslim, a teacher of French, and brilliant conversationalist, Roger and I enjoyed her immensely.

When we arrived at the airport, Rob and Aimie were waving giddily and had flowers for us. We hugged and kissed and hugged some more then they went south to the wedding location and we got in the cab they set up for us and headed to Shannon's. She was finishing off a chicken marsalis and quinoa dish that was delicious. We slept well and on Monday I worked with her and her team while simultaneously biking to some of her favorite spots. Roger took the Big Red Bus to lots of different tourist attractions. We met up for drinks at the city's oldest pub and sat in a cave lit only by candles. We then headed back to her neighborhood and enjoyed live music with members of her team and then prepared a healthy salmon and veggie dinner.

Today, Roger took a boat ride as Shannon and I worked on more strategy. We have a park to visit and some Indian curry to enjoy before the day is out. Tomorrow we head south to Devon to meet up with folks for the wedding. We are looking forward to making homemade salsa for 90 people as part of our requested contribution to the weekend -- that and talking Southern so all the couple's friends can enjoy our accents.

So that's it for now. Love to all. Cathey and Kelly, please share with Mom.

Pre-Vacation Ramblings

Ever met one of those all-or-nothing-kids? Usually a phase, they focus on one item of clothing, food, or action. For instance, they can't go out without their scarf -- even if it's 90 degrees. Or they must have peanut butter for breakfast every day.

I don't recall being that fixated as a child. But I have grown into some peculiarities as an adult.

Like an artist in his blue period, I have had months of PBJ starts to my day. Lately, I've started the mornings with the ritual -- Facebook Scrabble, email check, enter two online sweepstakes, check the job openings. Every day, the same.

Even this blog comes in phases.

Not sure if there's a direct correlation but a good therapist might point out that my tendency to dwell and then move on explains my relational tendencies. If you are in my life, you are central, critical, foremost. But when you're not, you're not. No worries. No anger, No pain. Just here and then gone. Perhaps it's why I understand the news of a 40 year marriage in the public eye now ending. Life goes on and sometimes in different directions.

Sometimes balance is better and striving for more would be advisable. But the ebb and flow have taken me to some pretty radical places (both figuratively and literally) through the years. However, I'm pretty excited about a bit of change coming my way. I KNOW that the feeling of being trapped has caused me to make some pretty unhealthy choices in the last year. So I'm ready to breakaway, to startle myself, to redeem the childlike wonder.

Now ... where did I put my scarf?

Puttin On the RRRRITZ

Do good and good comes back to you. Most days I live that. Now, mind you, I don't do good things ONLY because I want good returned to me. I simply have seen the truth of the statement over and over again.

Last night is an example. I volunteered with the Bayou City Arts Festival a couple of months ago. Previously, I was a "day-of volunteer" but this year I upped the ante and dedicated a few vacation days to learning what the Artist Support Committee was all about. I had an incredible experience and met some very nice folks.

One of those hard-working individuals was a staffer. Kelly is in charge of many things -- including my committee. Last week she asked if I wanted to be her guest at a performance of Young Frankenstein. They had gotten some tickets and were sharing the bounty.

Of course, I said yes. Not so much because I'm all about the musical but it sounded like a fun night and it included an after party with the cast.

The musical is pure Mel Brooks. That being said, if you like him, you'll like the musical. If burlesque isn't your thing, don't go. The fun part for me was remembering all the great performances from the movie. 'Cause, really, everything is just a caricature when the original nailed it the first time.

I spent the whole night feeling like I was in the middle of a series of jokes where the teller keeps saying, "Wait for it... wait for it" and then the payoff came time and time again. Frankestein's dance with the top hat and the shouted line, the big knockers, the moving hump on the back, and of course ... Oh sweet mystery of life.

Perhaps it's not such a mystery but I'm glad I found that positive things we do with good intentions can surprise us with their results. I didn't expect a night on the town when I offered a weekend of my time. I didn't know that good friends and interesting new stories would introduce themselves. I just did what needed doing.

That's the good life.

Still learning ....

Once the line in the sand was "Where were you when Kennedy was assassinated?" I was in my 20s then and the women with whom I worked would speak of the 60s and early 70s as formative years for their youth/young adulthood. I knew I was but a child and had much to learn because the answer to the question for me was "in a crib."

Now I've become the woman on the other side of the new timeline (though the question varies and is not nearly as dramatic, there's still some point in history that reminds me, "OMG, they don't remember _________" .... and maybe it's when we didn't speak in OMGscript). I spent today with some incredible young adults and I smiled when I realized they were listening to me and working alongside me just as I had my mentors almost 25 years ago. In fact, most of the people in the office today weren't born when I first got into the professional realm.

I thought that when my turn to be the "sage" came due, I'd be bothered by my age. I'm not. I celebrate it. I've managed to do a lot of living and pack in an incredible variety of experiences in a little over two decades. I might wish my curves weren't multiplying and my skin wasn't sagging but other than that ... I'm all good.

So I'm wondering what lessons I've learned that I'd like to pass on to my newest recruits in the "I have to work with Karen so I might as well make the best of it" team. I'm thinking . . .

- When you suspect that life sucks, realize you've got your hand on the air valve. Change is always possible; maybe not practical but definitely possible.
- Go somewhere where they don't eat like you do and chow down. Then, if you must know, ask what you just ate. You'll be a better person for culinary adventures outside your culture. And if getting to that table involved a plane ticket, you get extra points.
- Don't commit to a career; find a path. I am so glad that one day I realized I was more than my resume.
- Grace isn't just a word in an amazing song. Grace offered on a regular basis will forge friendships that feed your own soul. Hard thing is releasing the right to judge quickly and hold grudges. Reward is that grace can be both given and received.
- Keep laughing.

Don't know if I should start making t-shirts or cross-stitching on pillows or if maybe that's not a bad start to some lessons I need to capture in some form. But since countdown-to-the-next-version-of-me has now begun I thought I would at least remind myself of why I like me.

Sweet Notion

Last night I attended an event focusing on "up-cycling" rather than recycling with proceeds going to social change. The group -- Sweet Notions -- is on to something. They do what they do with high quality, even though some of the donations don't always look that way when first received. They also have a conscience and a plan to ethically make an impact on lives and the environment. (Here's their link ... http://www.sweetnotions.org/)

I'm having a sweet notion moment in my own life. I will soon be upcycling my skill set and embarking on a new career path. I want to pursue development at a non-profit. Trouble is ... just as some of the potential guests I tried to explain the evening to only heard "donated jewelry", thought "chains-a-la-Madonna, circa 1985" and couldn't fathom the beautiful art old broaches and belts can become in the right artist's hands ... so goes it with trying to translate the two decades of experience I've had in the church world to execs and HR folks in my new targeted work realm.

My new notion is to start offering my services on a trial run. "Satisfaction guaranteed in 60 days" with no commitment required. Seems to me I could show my stuff in 60 days.

The irony in much of my hunting to date ... and I've been out there, believe me, is that most of the groups I'm applying with make specific mention of faith communities as being part of their target audience. Wouldn't a former communications consultant TO churches make sense then?

So if anyone is out there still reading this from time to time, and if you are so inclined to pray/think positive thoughts/pitch my plea out to the Universe, then I think that is a very sweet notion and thank you in advance.

And by the way ... once I'm no longer tied to the very public realm as I am now (i.e. when I no longer work for the state's best representative but in a job that is not quite right for me) I will return to a more frequent updating of this blog.

New Vision to Pull Me Forward

I want to open up a place in a community frequented by travelers and call it "The State of Grace." All who enter will know that they are welcome and will be heard and well fed.

I'm now contemplating the decor. License plates come to mind. Wonder what our State plates could look like? Hmmmm . . .

More to come.

Dream Dies but Hope Remains

The dream home will not be mine.

I visualized it. Meditated on it. Imagined it for the greater good. But alas, if the New Mexico prize HGTV is giving away were mine, I would have had a call by now. The reveal of the new owner is this week and since no camera crew is at my door to tape my astonished expression upon hearing the news, the news, for me, is not good.

Still, the hope generated by living within the dream remains. I hope for something better. This morning I probably went so far as fantasizing when I read of an artist who, because of a spouse's income, was able to give up a paying position to stay at home with her child and in so doing discovered the artist within herself and now has a different, self-prioritizing career. I must confess that there are times when the fact that there is no socially acceptable or financially viable reason/way for me to quit my job, stay home, and create is just a bit tedious for me. But then I recall the number of parents I know who are ready to trade in their teens for a new model and the number of husbands/wives who feel trapped and I know that my life is my life and I'll find my way.

If folklore is based in some reality, the "in between" places are filled with trolls and darkness that can easily overwhelm. Doorways, window sills, and the midnight hour are those locations and times in between where the unseen can cause havoc. But there is invisible good at play as well says the story books -- fairies and light ready to provide a glimmer of hope. I choose to focus on the fairy dust possibilities as I live in my "in between" state at the moment. Some days I battle with the trollish babble of "you're stuck," "you've lost your edge," "you can't always enjoy what you do to make a living, but you have to do something." But for the most part, I keep pushing toward the light and the call of "you have much to offer," "you can make a difference," "listen to your drum and keep marching."

So here I sit in a home I love because of what's inside it, ready to share with any friend in need, and take a moment to remember that every day of life, love, and laughter is a day when I can easily declare myself a winner.

Confessions of a Confused Mourner

My friend called me late one night this week to tell me that the young woman in the news who was killed in an early morning collision was the waitress that took care of him and his buddies on their semi-regular breakfast gatherings at a local diner. She was in her 30s, he thought, and had just dropped off her two kids and was heading to work when the wreck occurred.

Tonight, while reading Facebook status updates, I learned that another mother of two small boys had passed away. She was an incredibly creative woman, volunteering untold hours to create photographic inspirational journals of mission trips, pouring her wisdom into her children, and supporting her equally gifted husband -- all from a wheelchair, or bed, or feeble stance because arthritis robbed her of ease of mobility.

I am not a mother. Never have been, never will be. But today I felt the incredible joy of having a three-year-old hold me tightly as we spun around until we were both so dizzy the world kept spinning even when we stopped. She loved every rotation and, even as she weaved and held my pants leg to steady herself, held up her hands to me, and demanded, "Do it again, KK. Do it again." Because I love her and the giggles our merry-go-rounding produced, I complied, and complied, and complied.

Later, I was overwhelmed with emotion as this precious bundle laid her head on my shoulder when she was momentarily overtaken by a coughing spurt and I comforted and quieted her. She held on that time with no doubt that I would be there for her and, secure in that knowledge ,she raised her head up, took my face in her small hands, and kissed me.

My brief experience today made the news of the loss of these two women even more confusing.

Children surrounded by love are fearless in their expectations. Children expect mothers to drop them off and be back to pick them up, to be behind the camera and in the photos, to comfort their ills and cause their laughter.

These are not unrealistic expectations.

Things that Made Me Smile Today

-- From someone's Facebook status: Women are angels. And when someone breaks our wings...we simply... continue to fly... on a broomstick. We are flexible.

--Saw a sign at the neighborhood supermarket indicating "pork shoulder butts" were on sale and wondered why I had never before wondered about that particular anatomical perversion.

--My friend texting me after she heard my sqeaky voice (due to cold) and the two of us deciding my Muppet name should be Snotty Spice

--Everyone's reaction to calls from the District Director for the State Representative (that would be me) calling on official business today and sounding like a Muppet or Munchkin or

I'm a Sap ... but I've also been sick so forgive me

I cried.

Booth and Bones were expecting nothing less than a horrible Christmas. Booth's son was heading to the mountains with his ex. Bones' dad is in prison. Even though she arranges for the "conjugal" trailer to be used by her brother, his wife, their kids, and her dad, she was going to Peru for an anthropological study. But even the trailer is a bust because they can have it but no decorations.

There's also a body and a killer and blah, blah, blah.

But the last scene got me. Booth's son doesn't go to the mountains and they get Christmas day together with "two trees." We don't know what that means. Cut to Bones who doesn't go to Peru and is in the trailer with the fam. Bones calls and tells her he and his son want to give her present to her. She says, "Later." And he says, "Look out the window."

There Booth and his son stand beside a Christmas tree with multicolored lights plugged into the car battery.

I cried.

Some day some one is going to know me well enough to know that that simple act would have made it the best Christmas ever for someone like me.

Until then ... I cry. Sappy, I know.

Lost and Found

I'm not sure why Evangelicals get so upset with Dan Brown. (Then again, I'm not sure why most ardent believers get upset with anything that upsets them. If they truly believe God is in control, then maybe chilling out a bit would be an act of faith.) If anything, they and the Masons should thank the author of The Da Vinci Code and The Lost Symbol. He's made belief seem kinda cool.

The Masons should especially write him a thank you note. They couldn't have produced a better recruitment flyer than Brown's most recent work of fiction. Sure the bad guy infiltrates the ranks of the highest order but all the other secret-holding, fear-defying followers are successful, stoic, and seemingly brilliant. Since I only know of one Mason in my sphere of friends and he has held up his end of the bargain by remaining mum on the subject, I'm here to tell you that I was intrigued by what few insights I was offered. I'd think about joining ... oh wait, I can't. That whole "fraternal" deal and all. (Hmmm....guess that's a blog for another day.)

So back to the pros of the book. Early on in its pages, we're introduced to the idea that one can scientifically prove the power of prayer exists. Karen's translation is as follows: Like sands on a beach, each one having mass and therefore gravitational pull, so can thoughts have mass and if the collective is large enough can affect a gravitational pull or cause an action to occur. At one point (and seemingly for no point other than to make this point), they even measure the weight of a soul! So making old Dan out to be the big bad seems silly to me. He's saying, "Hey folks, there might be something here! And wait, I can prove it!" Of course, that just plays havoc with faith and believing in that which you cannot see IF you measure the importance of it all in how much faith you have rather than in what you put your faith in.

Ok, so it is a work of fiction ... something all the naysayers seemed to have a hard time coming to terms with when the Code was released. But frankly, in the Symbol, when we get the lowdown on the number 33 and the fact that we have 33 vertebrae linked to the sacrum (or sacred bone) well, my first thought was that will preach! Hello? Your body as a temple? How come I've never heard that in a sermon before?

I think the answer to that and to the underlying issue here rests partially on our great desire to want to believe in something bigger than what we can imagine and our utter fear that we won't ever get our heads around it. I love symbols and rituals and the suggestion that there is more here than meets the eye. And I gave up trying to be the smartest person in the class a long time ago. I'm deeply satisfied with not having answers. I'm even happier when I hear someone ask a question I would never have thought to ask. All this "unknowing" makes me know that there exists something far beyond me and rather than feel lost, instead, I'm most definitely found.

Congested TV

I've been sick for three days. This post is not a complaint however. All I have to do is read the paper and see a photo from Haiti and I silence my cough and say a word of gratitude that there's a pharmacy nearby and soup in my fridge.

So what am I doing on a Friday night posting about not complaining about being sick?

I'm watching bad television. Actually, the shows haven't been that bad. Medium intrigues me and Numbers is pretty cool with geeky eye candy. But what's caught my eye today/tonight are the commercials.

--Michael Jackson in 3D at the Grammys. Really? I get having yet another tribute to him since he was a musical presence for so long, but his music isn't enough? We need 3D?
--Texas is promoting voter registration and they have a young woman in a school hallway saying, "My kids asked me if I was going to vote. Duh!? I'm a teacher ..." She lost me at Duh. She really lost me when she added that she didn't know if she was registered.
--Other than Eric Clapton looking really, really old, why should I look twice at the new Fender phone?
--The new McDonalds series featuring sexy people talking sexy to a sandwich, skinny models eyeing the male clothes horse because he's eating a wrap? That's the draw? He's cute and broke, girls! Or else he'd be eating at the Olive Garden!
--The attack of the Wheat Thins ... a male version and a female version ... both of them bite.

Many commercials are movie shorts -- creative and enticing. Others are like the phlegm in my chest I can't get rid of.

Chop It Up, Spit It Out

Ostrich, black-eyed peas, small bananas.

Open up a basket and those are the ingredients waiting to become a main course. Excuse me?! And then three "chefs" get to judge what some non-celebrity (i.e. they've never been in front of a camera) cooks whip up in 20 minutes. If not all goes well, the cook is Chopped.

Please ... really?

I hurt every time host Tom utters the word as condemnation, "You have been chopped." Partially, I'm cringing at his over annunciation. And the other part of me, just cringes that a non-chef is suffering from such over inflation of ego.

And don't get me started on the judges. They are glib, rude, and arrogant.

Yet, most Tuesdays, the show is on and I'm half watching it, glad there's a mute button, and waiting for grace to come forth from someone's mouth. Since this is supposedly reality television, I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen.

Family Vacations

A dear friend is nearing the end of her Texas stay. She's going to graduate a daughter in May and then pack her kids and Texas memories and relocate north where snow comes more often than once a decade and a husband who has already picked up stakes awaits her.

This weekend we added to her photo album with a trip to Austin. Though she's been a resident for eight years and seen some great Texas sights, she had yet to experience the capital city. Another buddy had a birthday this week so we loaded up the car on Friday afternoon and the three of us made our way there to commemorate and celebrate . Home base was at the place of yet another member of this chosen family. He was host, tour guide and general champion of all things fun.

South Congress shops amused us with funky pins, posters, magnets and toys for grown ups. We experienced great food (including the best pork chop I've ever consumed at a place called The Woodland) at venues cheap and upscale. A tour of UT and a women's basketball game (that they somehow lost until the last minutes of overtime when Iowa State took the lead and kept it), music, walks around the lake, climbing the hills to take in the vistas and some of the most incredible sunsets -- these were all captured on film and in our hearts.

I took one very memorable photo of the three of them. The idea was that I was going to get this incredible wide shot with them in the foreground and the hills behind. Instead, I zoomed in. Each one smiled for their own reason. One because one more year was being recognized by those who loved him. Another because he knew he'd made another convert to the city that claimed his passion years ago. But hers was the widest, the most compelling. Her eyes were bright and the moment of perfect clarity was there for all to see. Her face conveyed what we all knew ... these moments are rare and few and while the future is bright, "now" is to be cherished.

I'm glad the viewfinder on these digital cameras work so well. My tears made it really hard to focus.

Riddle Me This, Batman

I stood in line today so that I could be told which line to go stand in. Arriving at the front of the line, I received a slip of paper ensuring me I had a place in line saved just for me as I sat to wait. When my number was called, I was pointed to the next and last line. Where I paid up, smiled, and it was over.

What government agency was I visiting?

MLK Day -- A Day Off and A Day for Remembering

"In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force." -- Martin Luther King, Jr.

I read again King's "I Have a Dream" and sought to be moved by the words in a fresh way rather than just focusing on the parts that have become a part of my oral history with its singsong cadence and rising vitality. I wanted to see, not just hear, what he had to say that day. Just as with any good writing, returning to the text regularly will offer you new insights based on where you are in your own journey. This MLK Day proved no exception.

How many times, I wondered, as the quote above stung me, have I been so driven by my own sense of righteousness that I gulped greedily from the cup of bitterness. Sarcasm and snide remarks, dismissal of another's thoughts merely because of the "side" they represented was not my own -- these have more frequently than I care to admit, been my weapons of choice. No matter the injustice that I want righted and how important or critical I think immediate attention should be paid, my cause is not helped when the fury of my emotion drowns out my point.

MLK knew that. To read his text is to be educated. To hear his words spoken that day is to be lifted up, but not to the place of an "eye for an eye". Instead, he shouts to us a lullaby, soothing our anxious spirits with the comfort of knowing that we are not alone, painting a picture that is impossible to see without standing on the shoulders of those who have gone before us but with a bit of effort, is visible.

The day is coming when I once again will feel passionate about a cause to the point of indignation, when my blood runs hot with the desire to shut "them up", shout "them" down, stop "their" stupidity. When that day comes, I pray I will I have the soul force to satisfy my thirst with the cup of overflowing grace so frequently offered to me.

Quote that Made Me Stop and Think

"Our politicians seem to be at least as sinful as their electorate, with professions of religiosity just adding a layer of hypocrisy." -- Rick Casey in Houston Chronicle

Choo Choo

For those of you who already think I have a permanent ticket on the crazy train, you're going to do little more than shake your head at this one. . .

I'm dreaming the dream of the HGTV Dream Home. Every day I enter to win.

The significance of this ritual is that I don't do it thinking I'm going to win a house. I do it and dream I will. Years ago when I worked with organizations encouraging them to develop vision statements, I did so with amusement because I really didn't have one for my life. The closest I could get to such a thing was, "I see myself in my 50s on a mountain in New Mexico, wearing colorful blouses and skirts that flow in the wind, walking out to greet the numerous guests who come to me for rest and restoration."

The new dream home is in New Mexico . . . on Campbell Ranch. (But I just learned that last part.)

Since the Rose Bowl Parade when I first saw the ad and went online to see what was happening, I've begun to tell myself a story:

I own the home. Situated between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, it makes for a great bed and breakfast. I live in the casasita that is attached to the main house via a walkway. Writers, pastors, priests and folks who just need to breathe visit regularly. I work with local artisans, chefs, and community leaders to provide a creative environment for retreats or events. Whatever is earned goes back into maintenance and then a foundation is established to handle the rest and begin to establish something that focuses on young women and either writing or cooking or leadership or all of the above. With the $500,000 that's part of the package, I have the funds to do the start up and possibly keep a place in Houston since home is where your people are and many of mine are here. At first I thought, I might convert the office to another bedroom for more income but now I'm thinking that the book I've wondered if I had in me could be birthed there.

The vision grows every day. Will I be disappointed if the call never comes? No. Because what this exercise has done for me is remind me that I can't stop dreaming, that the creative exile I've imposed on myself was my own doing, and that the gorgeous vistas of the world are open to all -- rich, poor, or dreamers with tickets on the crazy train.

Perspective . . .

This week I dropped my wallet at a restaurant. The wallet was retrieved as was my insurance cards. My license and credit cards were not. Still, as soon as I had the leather pouch back in my hand and I had steeled myself for what was ahead, a wave of absolute ok-ness washed over me. Hours have now been spent canceling, arranging for new, transferring direct monthly payments, etc. but people have been great to work with, I actually have a $50 check coming to me that I would have never redeemed from points collected on one card, and . . .

I don't live in Haiti.

The news of the devastation that just a few seconds of the earth's fury can cause leaves me in tears and speechless. Having stood in the midst of ruin when Tropical Storm Allison sent 5 feet of water through my offices, I can recall the utter sense of helplessness of being surrounded by what had once meant so much to me and now was literally a pile of crap (and I truly mean crap) at my feet. And having said that, I also know that my experience doesn't compare in the slightest. When I left the stuffy, stinking confines of that condemned building, I still had a bed to go home to. I had a means of knowing -- without a doubt -- that there was light at the end of my tunnel. The Haitians didn't have much light before the quake.

I don't usually compare my circumstances to others to make me feel superior but I do sometimes reflect on others so I can remember to be grateful. Maybe my job is sometimes frustrating, but the paycheck comes, I have insurance, and every day I get to work with interns and volunteers who inspire me with their dedication and passion. Maybe I'm overweight and facing more physical nuisances than I did ten years ago, but I can walk those pounds off and do so without the use of a cane and with the knowledge that nothing is eating away inside of me. Maybe I don't have a man in my life to say "I love you as you are" but I have friends and family who will answer my calls, eat my food, laugh at my stories, share their children and dogs, and challenge me to take that walk, see that film, write, laugh, play, LIVE!

Gratitude isn't a big enough word to capture how I feel when I get it all in perspective.

A Day in the Life ...

The air was crisp and unusually cold for Houston. The sun demanded squinting or shades. I was on a mission and the environ seemed right for action.

Saturdays are not always that full for me. I play on Friday nights and some Saturday evenings but the weekend daytime hours are my protected zone. Saturday is not quite as sacred as Sunday but nevertheless, I don't always find that I'm quite as driven as I was this weekend.

The morning rituals complete -- newspaper, a breakfast that requires some creativity in the kitchen, checking in with some of my Food Network favorites -- I headed to lunch with a friend. We caught up and I heard how holistic medicine was possibly changing her life for the better. Since it's been pretty rough for several years, I was equal parts celebrating and keeping my fingers crossed that this wouldn't be another disappointment. Next there was shopping for clothes, dropping off winterwear for the homeless, shopping for groceries and then ...

I called my walking buddy to see if she was up for a last minute walk. We'd have to bundle up -- still only about 40 degrees when we determined we'd do it -- but the beauty of the day simply called to us as well as any siren.

We took in my neighborhood. Runny noses, gloved hands, jackets zipped up to our necks, but it was invigorating.

I came home and soaked my chapped skin in the moisturizing bubbles of my tub and bit down hard on the washcloth so as not to scream at the needles digging into my skin. But afterwards, I was pleased with myself and my day.

I rewarded my productivity with a dinner party at yet another friend's house. I went over early to get creative with appetizers. We wound up with an olive tampenade and a mushroom/tomato/onion concoction for bruschetta. Then I cleaned the shrimp for the lemon fetuccine. When our other buddy arrived before the guests of honor we enjoyed a toast and I reveled in the bounty that flowed from the countertop and my life.

Thoroughly enjoyed the conversation -- though the children kept shushing us because our laughter was drowning out their movie -- and even felt somehow complimented when the married guest of honor decided he would investigate my love life (or lack thereof) and declared it impossible for me not to be taken. His words, "You're awesome!"

And on this day, and this night, I agreed.

Keeping Christmas in My Heart

Friday I hosted the staff and volunteers at my house -- cranberry/pomegranate punch, stuffed mushrooms, sweet peppers with mozarella, pulled pork with bbq sauce, chicken with veggies in wine sauce, roasted potatoes with rosemary, roasted cauliflower and carrots with a curry dusting, and peppermint ice cream with chocolate cookies. I woke up at 4 a.m. to put the slow cooking stuff on.

Friday night my buds and I ate leftovers and then piled in the VW with the top down to look at Christmas lights around the city.

Saturday was my day at Omega House. Spent most of it cleaning. Then Cyndi and I shopped for my nephews and she was a most excellent elf! The evening found me tired and not too eager to attend the birthday party I had said yes to but when Brittany said she would chauffeur Shane and me, I went for it anyway. Made it to two parties and met neat people and still was in bed by 11.

Sunday I woke up refreshed and glad that my offer to let someone take my place at the annual Goldwing Children's Christmas Party had been declined. I've done this event sponsored by a motorcycle club for three years now. My fellow rodeo clowns and I entertain foster kids and their parents as they munch on burgers and hot dogs, watch cloggers and listen to singers, and then lead the group outside to watch the Goldwings, Harleys, and more parade by in their Christmas best with Santa in tow. This year I held a 2 month old as her foster mom got a rare quiet meal. We danced with the cloggers and she held on tight. Her mom said she doesn't usually go to strangers. Don't know if that was just her way of saying thanks to me, but you would have had to convince me the world was in danger of no longer turning on its axis to get that precious bundle in pink out of my arms. After we led singing and cheers waiting for Santa, we went back inside and I followed up my dance with a 12 year old blind girl who was on some sort of portable oxygen tank with a dance with a 15 year old boy in a wheelchair. I swear I felt like Cinderella at the ball when we made our way around the dance floor.

After shedding the clown wardrobe and donning my own gay apparel, I helped a friend get his grandchildren's Christmas morning started. He's helping out his daughter's family and she has a baby boy and a preschooler. I'm now quite the informed one regarding Fisher Price and Play Doh.

This diary type entry is not a pat on my own back. Instead, it serves as a Christmas card to myself, a reminder of sorts. My life is so very, very good. I am so very, very fortunate. There's food in my fridge, friends to call on in need and in fun, and opportunities to give back everywhere I turn. Nothing beats the "good tired" I'm feeling at this moment.

I missed seeing Scrooge this year because I couldn't make my usher date. Somehow though I feel I lived it . . . by truly keeping Christmas in my heart. No matter your beliefs, this time of year should be about something beyond ourselves and looking within helps make that possible.

I thank my God for every remembrance of my grandmother, mother, sister, and brothers who made my Christmas heart what it is today.

Amen, Ms. Parker, Amen

Last night, news reporters announced that our newly elected mayor's plans for today -- her first post-campaign day -- were to go to church and then begin the task of selecting a transition team.

Not exactly big news but nonetheless significant, and for many reasons.

Church and state may not get to cavort with one another when it comes to governance but plenty of folks from the church world have plenty of influence. And lots of folks want Christians in office. What's interesting is when the Christians get what they want -- one of their own behind a mayoral desk for instance -- but she also happens to be a lesbian.

I received one of the mailers that featured a photo of her previous swearing in as City Comptroller with her partner by her side that pleaded with me to ensure that hers did not become the face to represent Houston. As a matter of Christian principle, I was asked to vote for someone other than her.

I could have easily gotten on my own soapbox but I learned a long time ago that we Americans are rarely ever "we Americans." We're individuals and rarely will you find one of us in total agreement with another. We are just not a collective society. So I wasn't surprised when I was told by a friend who has frequently consulted with our new mayor and who is much more conservative in her faith than me that she had the great opportunity in the last two weeks to experience the following.

Tired and a bit leery of being accosted when she was with some of her even more conservative friends who knew she was backing The Lesbian, my friend was attending to some church duties when a woman approached. The woman verified that indeed my friend was helping with the campaign and then said, "I just want you to know that I pray every day for this city and from the beginning of the mayoral race, I prayed for every candidate. After we needed a runoff I continued to pray for the two who were left. But this week (two weeks before the runoff), I realized I was no longer praying for him ... that I knew she was going to win and so I continued to focus all my prayers on her. . . "

My friend was thrown and not quite sure if the woman was going to drop a bombshell or not, when the woman continued and said, "I think she'll make a great mayor."

Believers come in all shapes and sizes. Some have small little boxes they try to fit God and Creation into. Some have larger ones. But, to me, the best ones don't just throw words around, they act on their beliefs.

I have no doubt that Mayor Parker will both make me proud and irritate the hell out of me. That's government. But I'm glad to know that she's pretty well aware of her need to make a strong start and she did so by looking up.

Doing the Peanuts Dance

Just watched Linus' rendition of Luke in answer to the real meaning of Christmas.

Nobody does it better.

Scary Tactics

Yesterday at the AIDS hospice, several new volunteers showed up at once. As a result the "usual" had a bit of an unusual feel to it. Perhaps that's why no one acted on the first red flag.

Nurse: "And the resident in Room C is actively dying. . . "
Volunteer in Cap: (interrupting and with a degree of shock) "What is that?"
Nurse: "His body is worn out. It's giving one last try at surviving but every breath is laborious. He's in the last stages and will probably die sometime this week. He's pretty bad . . . Karsi Sarcoma is covering his lower body and his legs are swollen."
Vol in Cap: "Can we see?" (moving in direction of room)
Nurse: (somewhat taken aback): "Not until after report."
Nurse continues with report and gets a call which he takes.
Vol in Cap: (to woman standing beside him) "Interesting shoes."

Ok, so in hindsight the situation is clearly strange. The Vol in Cap is not only color coordinated wearing pressed khakis and a somewhat expensive windbreaker type jacket -- something you just don't do in the bleach-based environment that is hospice life, but his tone is off, the delivery of his comments strikes me. After we break from report, I mention it to the nurse.

"I think this guy is autistic," I said. "And, by the way, he's not a part of our group."

He acknowledged that he too felt the man was a bit off by a quick smile but in the crowded hallway, could only respond. "He came in with the new guy," and then walked to Room C to introduce the Vol in Cap to the situation.

The other newbies and I went down to Room A to strip the beds and assess the cleaning needs. Most of the residents were heading to church with a pastor who regularly picks them up on Saturdays and fills a few hours of their day with worship, food, and much-needed time away from the house.

Then it happened. The nurse came to check again that indeed the Vol in Cap wasn't with any other volunteers. Seems that he had asked to wash the resident's feet. The nurse thought he meant to help clean him for his family who was coming. Instead, the water was being used for prayer, anointing, and healing. The nurse tried to explain about hospice (that it is actually for the dying) and the concerns of trying to force spiritual beliefs on someone who had not asked. The Vol in Cap ignored the nurse and just prayed louder and started calling for a resurrection.

What he got was the other nurse in charge of training -- who asked the Vol in Cap if he had received any type of orientation. When the Vol said a few minutes ago, the situation was clear. This was no true volunteer. He was asked to leave, then told to leave, then ordered to leave.

His reaction was to drop to his knees in the hallway, rebuke those who would exorcise him from the house, and then call them out as evil . . . though he did add that he was still supposed to love them.

One nurse responded, "I love you too but you're still leaving."

When our unwelcome guest made it outside I had the strangest visual juxtaposition before me. The pastor who regularly ministers to people who don't make it easy to do so (many of the residents are from the streets, some have mental problems, and lots are demanding) was loading up his van.

So before me were two ministers -- one answered the question of what would Jesus do with judgment, unsolicited ministrations, and obligation rather than compassion. The other expresses his faith with his continuing presence.

Supposedly both represented the religious world -- but they were worlds apart. And as for me and my house? ... We're going with the guy in the van,

Sabbath

I've said before and will most likely continue to repeat myself, "I love Sundays."

As a committed extrovert, I tend to fill every day with work and play. I'm out there living life to the max and usually sharing the experience with family or friends. But Sunday is a different matter. Quiet walks, the paper, something warm and delicious concocted in the kitchen as I'm mindful of every cut of the blade and stir of the pot, some writing, maybe a bad Lifetime movie or a good book -- these fill my hours until the Sabbath ends. By that time, the Food Network has my attention and my hours of self-imposed solitude conclude.

I never understood the power of pausing until I practiced it. Took me a few attempts before I got it right but now ...

I love Sundays.

Thanksgiving Eve

We sit around a table
laden with pre-turkey day indulgences
and each say our words of gratitude

for friends
safe travel
family
school being on hold for the holiday
and life

While my prayers are silently offered to a familiar name and unknown face,
he limits his thanks to those around the table,
she to that which can be scientifically explained,
and yet another speaks to the Universe.

The holding of hands, the common smiles, the warmth coming more from our hearts than the food . . .
Assures us all, that we've each been heard.

And we remain grateful.

Four Stars

Last night I watched a young woman -- who at our first meeting was mommy-ing her little brother and sister with a seriousness of responsibility that belied her preteen years -- own a theatrical stage.

She's a dancer, so the majestic quality of each step, each movement was no surprise. I've seen her perform in ballets, modern dance, a couple of musicals and once, she even held her own above the crowd in a cirque de soliel type of acrobatic display using ribbon-like ropes. Every time I've seen her with stage lights shining in her face, she glows. The artificially induced wattage has nothing to do with it. She simply has a smile that brightens people's day and has a an energy of its own. Add that to the sparkle she can manifest in her eyes -- on cue ... and well, she is, as they say, a natural.

The beauty of the performance last evening was that her role -- though very substantial since she served as narrator -- was a balancing act. The other high school performers were playing over the top caricatures of middle school stereotypes -- the Eagle Scout, the Forgotten Child, the Sloppy Fat Kid (which in a delightful turn became the romantic lead), the Over Achieving Depressive, the Airhead Creative, etc. While they twisted, twitched and agonized as part of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, she played the mature long-ago winner, still dedicated to introducing children to the power of the bee.

Even though a few were outstanding in their solos, what made my young friend command the stage was her understanding of it. She knew the power of a smile over a guffaw, a slight touch over a hearty slap on the back, a raised eyebrow over an glaring sneer. She performed as though this were her birthright.

I pray that's true. That her desire becomes her destiny. That's the plan -- an education where her love of the arts can be nurtured as it has been here. And I want it for her. I want the dream to be a reality, and practicalities like rent, insurance, and paychecks to be delayed for just a little longer. Because the world needs artists like my friend Audrey, who believe ... and for a few moments can make you believe as well.

I've been "cationing"

My vacation/staycation is coming to an end. I must admit that this week off was needed and appreciated. I must also admit that life continues to surprise.

For instance, on the cruise (cheap one that was within my budget and didn't take the whole week to enjoy) . . .

-the couple my friend and I ate dinner with each night were actually kind of interesting. We took our chances with assigned seating and the guy is a prison guard and the woman does real estate. They were in the beginning days of a reconnected (from high school) relationship. The cruise was fun for them but according to asides I got from the woman, it also marked the ending days of their relationship!
- when you are open to chatting, you learn lots. Watching football in one of the lounge areas on Sunday netted me a companion for the wine tasting later that afternoon and a new friend who looked out for me at fun times like bad karaoke. She made it better by alerting me to when to plug my ears and by giving me the lowdown on all the folks she'd met. A retired school teacher who was widowed young, remarried a principal/athletic director, and now lives part of the time at the bay and part of the time on ships traveling here and yon, she was the kind of woman I aspire to be.
-cooking on excursion is more fun than you might think. We ate well and met more fun folks and still had time to hang out on the beach.
- the ruins of Mexico, Peru, and Cambodia have way too much in common to be coincidence. Fascinating to now have seen them all.

On my staycation, I enjoyed Houston. One night at the House of Blues, the next at the Mucky Duck and last night at Miller Outdoor Theater means I got plenty of music. Yesterday I walked for two hours hunting alligators at the local state park. By the time, my buddy and I had packed a picnic dinner and made our place on the hill on Miller's hillside, the night had descended and so had our tiredness. But the air was cool, the blanket was warm, the R&B was perfection and I ended the night with a sigh of pure contentment.

I haven't said this in a while, but it bears repeating and remembering ... I love my life.