Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Experience the grace you do not deserve this Christmas...



And then I found myself humming...


Amazing Grace...
Amazing, unexplainable, overwhelming, brings unexpected tears to our eyes, constricts our throats, fills our hearts with unexplainable joy. Grace ain't the stuff you can create by repeating, by meditating, by swallowing pills or alcohol. It's uncontrollable. It takes us by surprise ... It reaches into our souls ... and often changes our lives... 


Grace changes our lives forever. 


Grace is friends that show up when you thought you had none. It's a sudden check in the mail when you've just spent your last dollar on food for your family. It's warmth in the cold. It's a problem being miraculously solved by unexplainable means, or zero consequences when we least deserve it ... Grace has nothing to do with rights. It's not about doing right. It's grace, glorious selfless grace...


How sweet the sound...
Grace is something, actually, only our hearts can hear. It causes us to lower our gaze, to bow our heads in shame, to draw slow, heavy sighs of gratefulness and humility ... and freedom ... No sweeter sound ... than grace touching our hearts when we least expect it, when we least deserve it. The sound fills our very being and lifts us to the places reserved for angels and saints 



- and sinners like me.


That saved a wretch like me...
And we are a wretched people indeed, wretched with pity and blame and unkindness to strangers who are carrying even heavier loads than ours. Insensitive to loved ones with whom we bark and snap over misperceived deeds. Wretched with ungratefulness for all that we have, the blessing we've been given, the utter love we have been shown. Even the best of us are wretched indeed...


I once was lost but now am found...
Grace supernaturally reveals our falsehoods, those we live, those we tell others and ourselves, those that fill us with pride when what we should feel is shame. Grace is a mirror, a pathway, a beacon on a hill. It's a north star that provides the only true peace. Grace finds us. It tackles us to the ground. It's charms cannot be stopped. 



Grace has found me.


Was blind, but now, I see...
Grace rips the scales from our hearts, from our minds, from our eyes. Grace moves mountains. Grace calms a raging sea. Grace burns away everything that stands in its way. Ahh to see, to truly see...

T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear...
In the wake of grace, we discover that from which we are saved. Grace reveals that which we deserve - and from which we were spared. Having tasted, having heard, having felt grace, we fear its loss from our lives because now without grace, we can never truly go on.


And Grace, my fears relieved...
No more fears that one day we will be given what our actions, our thoughts and our hearts deserve. Grace, merciful, unexplainable grace, takes away our every fear.



How precious did that Grace appear the hour I first believed.
Grace is pure. It is forever spotless, forever clean, beautiful beyond words. At first and always, at every occurrence along the way.

Through many dangers, toils and snares we have already come...
This is our truth. Life, daily life, is filled with the unexpected, twists and turns that take us by surprise. We lose our way. We lose our joy. We lose our peace. We strive to get it back, toil to have a good life, good relationships. We become ensnared by our thoughts, our actions, our choices, and too many wrong responses that ultimately darken our hearts and our souls.



Because of grace, still we are here.


T'was Grace that brought us safe thus far...
Despite all that we cannot understand about life, the confusion ... We have grace - we are still alive and blessed beyond ... so beyond ... what we could ever deserve.



And Grace will lead us home.
May we cling to grace. May we be grace. May we give grace. It will be a faithful companion. Grace will lead us home.

When we've been here ten thousand years bright shining as the sun...
Grace allows us to be champions, standing strong not in our own right, but shining, glowing, as grateful recipients of grace. By no effort on our own, we shine ... brightly ... as brightly as the brightest star.


We've no less days to sing God's praise then when we've first begun...
My our hearts and our souls be mindful of the grace - any grace - bestowed upon us, from loved ones, from strangers, from ourselves. It is as powerful as it has ever been - as powerful as it will ever be...




"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me....
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see."



May you experience the grace you do not deserve this Christmas.



Wednesday, December 02, 2009

I feel betrayed...

Truth be told, I slept very little last night - and I prayed that President Obama slept very little as well - and frankly, I don't spend a lot of time praying these days. But I did last night, that President Obama would toss and turn at least as frequently as I did.

While the news of President Obama's decision about escalating the war in Afghanistan did not flood the trending topics on the most contemporary gauge of current news (twitter), there is no doubt that thousands of people in this country are dragging themselves out of bed with an all too familiar feeling of hopelessness and disillusionment about our country and the leader of our country.

I am one of those people. When I first heard the news from White House officials yesterday morning, I fluctuated between shock, anger and disbelief at what would be officially announced later that evening. I found myself hoping he would hear of the outrage and change his mind. He could, I kept telling myself. THIS President could.

Please understand, it was his stance on THE war that was my deciding factor in strongly supporting him as a candidate. His consistent language and stance was anti-war with only an occasional tip towards the real war Afghanistan, and usually a dig or taunt at Bush and his considerably bad decision making. Let's face it, much of the campaign was about the war. Obama very frequently repeated claims of being the only candidate to vote against the war, etc., etc.

To those who today say that his criticism was for Iraq not Afghanistan - those who believe he told Americans he would continue fighting in Afghanistan - I say ok, technically, you are right: I did find a quote where he said, in fact, that he wanted to end to the war in Afghanistan. That quote did not say he wanted to escalate it - nor did it say the escalation of 30,000 more soldiers would be announced three weeks before Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza, a time most Americans reserve for reflection, for hope, for thanksgiving and good will.

President Obama's escalation will bring the total number of our people in Afghanistan to 100,000. That's nearly the entire population of Flint, MI, the fourth largest city in Michigan. Afghanistan is a country where conflict has reigned supreme since the late 1970s. We've been there in full force since the 2001 US-led invasion toppled the Taliban government.

And we are still there.

I voted for Barack Obama because he gave me hope that real change could happen - that real change would happen. I firmly believed he would do things differently than W regarding the travesty of ALL the wars. It's no longer about 9-11 to me. The horrible truth is that more than 250 times as many people have been killed in Afghanistan and Iraq than in the ghastly attacks of September 11, 2001. More than 20,000 people have died in Afghanistan alone including more than 700 of our own troops. Another 50,000 people have been injured.

That's too many people - way too many people. How many people is enough?

Since the election of Barack Obama, I have felt a freedom from fear. I have felt that decision were being made with intelligence and accurate information from good-hearted people. I have been proud that we no longer lived by the whim of a cowboy president spoiling for a fight based upon his whim or any of his hawkish advisors.

President Obama invited that fear-based decision-making back into my life last night.

Finally, as I tossed and turned last night, I kept envisioning a somber President Roosevelt on that black and white tube television telling the country that America was at war with Japan. I remember hearing and seeing footage of how the country gathered around the television sets to hear what the President would tell his people. He delivered the news - from the White House - perhaps even from his office. It was not a show. He didn't fly anywhere to get the perfect backdrop. He showed us - true or not - that he was taking time from his very serious work at the White House to deliver news that would forvever change the world.

I am troubled that President Obama used the members of his administration to leak/provide HIS troubling news many hours prior to his speech that night. He had members of administration deliver the news. I believe he should have shown the leadership and responsibility in providing news of this magnitude to his country - if not the world. Instead, like W, he chose to float it to test public sentiment, to gauge support, to determine what should be said rather than speak from his own heart.

I expected more.

I have always considered Barack Obama to be a man of intellectual courage and integrity, fearless in the face of his enemies, hopeful even when the days were dark - a protector of the dreams for our country. He should have been the one to deliver the news to our country. No leaks. No embargos. No one but himself facing the cameras as he told the country his decision we all must now live with.

I am disappointed. I feel betrayed.

And I wish I didn't.

Monday, November 02, 2009

What is Right With This Wronged City

The following was created and originally posted on the blogsite of the Flint Institute of Music (http://www.flintinstituteofmusic.org/fim-blog), 11.2.09. It was great fun to be asked to submit a piece for the site. I love FIM and the whole Cultural Center. If you haven't experienced it lately, make it a point to do so over the holidays!



Having lived in the Flint area most of my life, I can recall with uncanny clarity conversations with a number of transplants, all who came here due to a job transfer or married someone from this apparently shrinking quasi-metropolis. Each time, I was feeling rather sheepish as they described their circumstances. I nodded reluctantly, ready to begin my apology for their unfortunate circumstances.

Granted, I was young, and had spent a great deal of time humming Tracy Chapman’s song about climbing into “a fast car … We leave tonight or live and die this way.” After all, who would want to stay in Flint?
To my surprise – shock the first couple of times – those transplants weren’t hanging their head. In fact, they looked me square in the eye, smile on their face, and shared utter elation about having moved to a city that the world clearly misunderstood. A former colleague moved from Toronto – Toronto! – and explained that he liked living in Flint so much more than his life in the cultural, entertainment and financial capital of Canada. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. What he and another transplanted co-worker shared with me on separate occasions is their dismay of the negativity associated with the fourth largest city in Michigan.

In both cases, and all the other similar transplant conversations I have had since, the Cultural Center tops the list of what is right with this wronged city. From the landscaped pristine presence to the truly vast residential offerings of the Sloan Museum, Buick Gallery & Research Center, Longway Planetarium, The Whiting, Flint Youth Theatre, Flint Institute of Arts and Flint Institute of Music. What’s not to like, the happily transplanted ask?

It’s in those conversations that my mind wanders back to Flint’s reality – a long line of celebrities who have graced the stage at Whiting, from Joan Rivers to Capt. Stubing (sidenote: The Captain - Gavin MacLeod – gave me his pin from the Great Wall of China! I had admired it on his hat, he took it off and gave it to me! Ya can’t get that in Toronto!!) The beloved field trips to Sloan and the Planetarium, my own children performing ballet and on instruments on the stages of the FIM. The lines aren’t New York City long nor is the instruction inferior to the Famed School of the Performing Arts.

It’s all right here.

It reminds me of the old television episodes of Mork calling Orson (Come in Orson…). A seemingly normal creature – ok, somewhat normal! – lands on earth and begins walking among the humans, learning their ways, studying their habits. The creature interacts with all sorts of characters – be it grumpy old men, a hip old lady or a young woman wishing for something more for her life. The expectation is that Mork will discover that earth is an inferior world to neighboring Orc. His reports to his boss, however, describe just the opposite. Mork, in fact, likes earth more than he likes his own home planet – and he doesn’t want to leave – much to the chagrin of Mindy who really would like nothing more – at least until Mork lands on the scene.

Daryl Hannah once said, “It's not necessary to go far and wide. I mean, you can really find exciting and inspiring things within your hometown.” And while it seems strange we would take to heart something from someone who once played a mermaid, sometimes the Good Lord uses what He’s got in his medicine bag to heal blind eyes to the truth.

Thank God for the mermaids, the aliens, and in my case, the transplants who just may have been sent here to slap the blinders from our eyes and teach us something about ourselves!

Thursday, October 15, 2009

And then it hit me...

Gotta get off, gonna get
Have to get off from this ride
Gotta get hold, gonna get
Need to get hold of my pride

When did I get, where did I
How was I caught in this game
When will I know, where will I
How will I think of my name

When did I stop feeling sure, feeling safe
And start wondering why, wondering why
Is this a dream, am I here, where are you
What's in back of the sky, why do we cry

Gotta get off, gonna get
Out of this merry-go-round
Gotta get off, gonna get
Need to get on where I'm bound

When did I get, where did I
Why am I lost as a lamb
When will I know, where will I
How will I learn who I am

Is this a dream, am I here, where are you
Tell me, when will I know, how will I know
When will I know why?

                 --- Lyrics, Valley of the Dolls

Monday, October 05, 2009

Who knew?

Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.
- Willa Cather
Isabella's interview on TV5

Friday, October 02, 2009

Feuding on Facebook

I just finished reading a private message from now a former Facebook friend who cease and desisted me due to an apparent feud he had over political views posted on his wall and the wall of at least one other. He was thoughtful in his shut-off notice, citing the all-too-common position we all find ourselves in when getting requests for friendship from folks we don't really know, have rarely if ever spoken with, and may not recognize when passed on the street. Do we confirm or ignore?

We don't want to be rude.
Confirm or ignore??
We truly don't want to hurt anyone's feelings.
Confirm or ignore??? C'mon, make a decision!
How can we ignore a request for friendship??

It's really all about high school, isn't it? I mean this whole idea of accepting or ignoring friendship, of counting how many friends another person might have listed on their profile page, of fishing their list of 5 - 300 friends to catch someone not listed on ours.

I'm not dissin' my high school days, mind you. LOVED them - no, I mean, I LOVED THEM and anyone associated with them. I am quite confident that heaven for me will include that large and wonderful cast of characters walking the high path and the low path between the two Grand Blanc High Schools.

But I digress...

My initial entry into Facebook came with great enthusiasm. I suddenly found people I have not seen nor heard from in many, many years. I found family members. I found former colleagues. I found parents of my kids' friends. I found old crushes. I found my kids' teachers. I told people Facebook was like a great big party where you could dip into conversations at any time on the homepage or slide off into a more private conversation from your profile page. Shoot you could have completely private conversations on the balcony of Facebook by sending a direct message from the inbox!!

Nothing but love, and more love... Love, love, love ... What a great world... Thank God for Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg, YOU ROCK!

What I failed to consider while hangin' 10 on the love wave was that people are people, even in this wonderful love bubble of Facebook. After all the virtual huggin, poking and looking at family photos, we settle back into the unfinished business that sometimes separated us in the first place. Family members ask questions of those that may have unknowingly hurt them years ago. Old high school friends finally tell how ignored they felt as others passed them in the halls. Former crushes of days gone by become dangerous flames that can threaten the stablility of our day-to-day lives.

And that is just the unfinished business!

What of politics and our passionate support of issues that sometimes spark just as passionate responses from others attending the party on the Home page?? What of issues of faith, and religion and morality? Yes, we have been taught to avoid discussions of such in public; should the same rules of civility apply to this sub-reality of fb? (I think the power users simply use fb for Facebook!)

I am beginning to realize that perhaps Mark Zuckerberg has not so much created a utopian cyberworld as much as a cybermirror of life and the souls of those of us who use it. Of course there is going to be hurt feelings. Of course there is going to be anger and disrespect. Of course there is going to be friends deleting friends over something someone posted on someone else's wall.

Of course.

So why do I feel so hopeless for mankind?

In the fb world where we very actively pick and choose to accept or ignore our friends, where we publicly engage in discussions for those accepted friends to see and read...where we can literally surround ourselves with handchosen friends and family ...

In the same fb world where we can literally ignore those who might hold opposing or troubling views that are different from our own...

there remains fighting and bitterness and division...

We needn't wonder of the wars being fought in other countries...

Dark as it may seem, I suspect the problem won't go away with a more judicious use of the ignore button on fb.

We. Just. Can't. Get. Rid. Of. Everyone. Who. Disagrees.

DANG IT!!
Believe me, I've tried!

But we can - but I can - become more tolerant of those who don't agree with my "obvious wisdom." (joke, it's funny, laugh. Please laugh.) Why can't we let Crazy Aunt Sue be crazy, act crazy, say crazy, write crazy without risk of being cease and desisted? Why must we shut off the voices that are different from our own? So what if it gets a little personal? Who doesn't like a little spice with their Chimichanga? (def: dish typically prepared by filling a flour tortilla with a wide range of ingredients, most commonly beans, rice, cheese, ground beef.)

It was the spice that made me love high school. It's the spice that makes me still love living in Flint, MI. It's the spice of my 10 friends left on fb that keeps me coming back to the party, dippin into conversations where I learn more about my friends and family, to be sure,

...but also about life.

Party on, Wayne!

Monday, September 28, 2009

What's it really like growing up in Flint, MI?

My daughter has started her own blog. She's 12 and spends most of her time writing anyway - no, seriously. We have three or four computers in this house and in total, she probably has 100 unfinished stories - and that is not counting the many, many spirals she has filled with her thoughts, her opinions, her fan fiction, her teen romance marvels. It's incredible. I keep pushing for her to get even ONE of them finished so we can sell it. There is little doubt in my mind that she will earn FAR more money as a writer than her mother ever did.

Her blog, "Growing up in Flint, Michigan," will likely feature many thoughts very normal for a soon-to-be teen in any city in America. I suspect she'll mention Glee and the brothers Jonas; she'll likely yap about school though keeping location unidentifiable.

And friends.

And love.

And maybe that will be the most telling thing about her blog, that kids growing up in Flint aren't necessarily experiencing the shootings, the crime, the drugs - the fear that too many adults have come to accept after hearing the news or the gossip at the Rite Aid down the street.

Not that she or any of her friends are unaware of the dangers. They can't help but hear the sirens throughout the night, learn of the double shootings just 10 miles from their homes. My daughter doesn't exactly live in the war zone of some of her friends; some of her friends undoubtedly hear gun shots regularly at night. In fact, it's fairly certain that some have suffered some form of emotional and/or physical abuse in homes where families are losing medical insurance, jobs and homes. At her young age, she already has learned of two others her age who have taken their own lives.

Living in Flint, Michigan, ain't your Father's Oldsmobile!

I guess that's why I think she has something to say that is quite likely different from what Michael Moore has said, as an adult, drawing from the memories of when he was 12 instead of being 12. I don't fault his memory, mind you, I just think the potential for a new fresh perspective from the mind(s) of our youth could be telling, if not interesting, if not helpful ... if not fun.

I'm looking forward to reading her thoughts - and helping her spend her money if she ever finishes even one of those blasted stories eating up space on my computer!

Friday, July 17, 2009

Just who is Sam Riddle anyway?

I have Sam Riddle’s phone number stored in my cell phone. I just double-checked after reading the Free Press story about him being arraigned on multiple felony charges in connection with a corruption probe in Detroit.

I have never met anyone like Sam Riddle. But I did meet him.

In fact, I talked to him at least once on his cell phone.

There is no doubt that Flint has a cast of characters, especially in political circles. It isn’t long before even a novice can name the players and the wanna-be players. Don’t ever forget, Flint’s a small town. Anyone who is someone knows everyone. Kevin Bacon’s six degrees is too many in this made-for-tv reality.

And Sam Riddle is in the cast, frequently sauntering in as if he was the lead actor.

Apparently, Sam grew up in Flint, though no one could ever tell me where he lived or what school Sam attended. When I asked why he left Flint, no one knew. No one knew where he moved, where he worked, if he worked, if he was married, if he had any kids. They didn’t know how he made enough money to make regular returns to his alleged hometown, though someone did tell me once they thought he lived in Vegas. I then wondered if he was a professional gambler!

After every single conversation I would have about Sam Riddle, I always had more questions than answers – and I always seemed to be the only one who was interested, or curious, or perhaps stupid enough to care. Everyone else just seemed to accept his presence as an actor in our reality show.

I have to tell you, there is something unmistakably alluring about Sam Riddle, and maybe the interest was fed because of the air of mystery that seemed to surround him. He is tall, good looking, certain to draw attention whenever he entered a room. People always listened to him as he spoke, not because he is necessarily charismatic, but he exuded a confidence, a relaxed style that seemed to put people at ease.

One day, I just stopped asking questions about Sam Riddle.

I was surprised when the always-logical Sam joined the always illogical Williamson camp; horribly disappointed as well. It was then that I considered that Sam’s Flint appearances may have more to do with the color green than warm feelings for his hometown. Regardless, knowing Sam, his political acumen undoubtedly led Williamson to victory.

Sam Riddle apparently is the leading character of many different reality shows, a fete unto itself. The man obviously gets around – and not in an old beat up Buick either. His associations and influence goes well beyond the now cancelled Flint series. Yes, he has close ties with state reps and the Detroit City Council, if not a direct link to Kwame.

There is no doubt that Sam Riddle knows a lot about a lot of people. He won’t go down without a fight, without dragging others down with him.

I’m starting to think the Detroit show may soon turn into a blockbuster movie with none other than Sam Riddle starring in the leading role.

I still don’t know who Sam Riddle is!

But I have his cell number … maybe I should call him and ask…

Monday, July 13, 2009

Dear Julia Cameron; first entry

I read a book – The Artist’s Way, The Writer’s Way (or was it the Way Artist Write?). I didn’t get very far frankly. Yes, well, I read past the first chapter anyway … Julia Cameron wrote about the importance of journaling … Every morning, before I get out of bed, I should write at least a page of free association – whatever is on my mind. I remember committing myself to the exercise but coming up short since I had picked a not-so-great-time to begin. Try as I might, waking up before the cries of the cribbed beings in the next room thwarted
Every.
Single.
Effort.

Today, no cribbed beings and I have some time. The Mother’s Way is giving way to at least that first chapter of Cameron’s admonishments … Well, sorta… I’ve been up for hours. And I am not hand writing in a journal as she suggests. I have to tell you, I can no longer hand-write anything of meaning. Sit me down with a pencil and a clean paper and I … go blank. Even when I push through, I get distracted by the way the pen loops my l’s or end up disliking where I dotted my i. I cannot get past the way the individual letters or words or paragraphs actually look on paper. So forget about what I might have wanted to write (Please note: you should read that last sentence with that Godfatherish accent “Forget about it…) It is ONLY when I sit down with a computer that I can honestly put any thought in sentence form. (No distractions with the letters since they all look exactly the same!) My J-school profs would be proud … as would all my editors from every writing job I have ever had (Though they wouldn’t like me ending that sentence that way!) For years I have merely pounded it out on the computer screen … me, the keys, the thoughts – well, you get the picture.

So Julia, I apologize. I am not the best student, but at least I am trying…

I feel funny doing this ... I just write anything?? ... Hollister is crying. I should let him in. (Lame-O!) Hollister is my dog. His actual name is Samwise Hollister aka Snoop Dog. No, I am not joking. While I am a little embarrassed about the long disjointed name, my embarrassment is quickly replaced with good feelings that everyone in the family got to name him something. David wanted Samwise from the movie Ring Lords (that’s funny!). Isi wanted Hollister, for obvious reasons. Wait, Colt didn’t get a say?? I think DAVID picked the last name also - Snoop Dog though the dog’s rap sounds more like a whine (haha, another funny!!) And, I’m just now realizing, I had no say either. I just wanted everyone to be happy…

Happy … *pauses to feel the breeze, look at the lake*


Happy… Why is that italics coming on??? See, I get distracted by the letters!!! DANG!


Happy … Nothing… I got nothing…

Why is the floorlamp on the table? Oh yes, unfinished puzzle. Wonder if Colt has hurt himself yet at camp? He will … or at least he likely will… He may be a bit more careful or aware now that he was in that ATV accident in Pennsylvania. I knew that ATV accident was going to happen. I hated letting him ride that thing alone. Of course, the last day, I begin to let my guard down, every so slightly, and the kid barrel rolls it! I heard the crash, the screaming, saw him rolling on the ground, ran down to find him completely FREAKED OUT. He was stammering that the wheel rolled over his head. I wasn’t sure I could believe him SINCE HE WASN'T DEAD! Looking closely, the red marks across his face did look a bit like those knobby tires. It was the worst moment of my life … it still scares the be-Jesus out of me to think about it… (What is be-Jesus??) I remember looking in his eyes wondering, honestly wondering, if he would soon be dying of internal injuries or that if he slept, he would never wake up … like that actress who died after falling while skiing on the bunny hill or Billie Mays who hit his head during a rough landing! Neither of those two had an ATV roll over their head!!! (I guess since then they discovered that Billie had a heart attack?) I told Colt to get up – I needed to see if he could, desperately needed to see if he could. He did. And he walked with a limp – no dizziness – to the cabin. David’s brother John is a doctor. He checked him over – and rechecked him over – and said he would be fine. I sat on the couch all night with Colton. I got up in the middle of the night to make sure he was breathing. I would never want to live without him… I hope he is ok now… Should I go look??

No, he’s ok. I bet he is fine…

I’m hungry … what time is it? Do I trust the kitchen clock? It has said 11:20 all day… No, of course not, I trust the computer clock. I love computers. I am so glad I live in this century.

I hate ATVs though.

* Ah, what a beautiful breeze *

Amish people aren’t suppose to have computers, at least I don’t think so. I saw a lot of Amish in Lancaster last week. Fascinating in many ways: they must be continually hot in the summer with their long clothes. Everything is covered. I was thinking that the young girls had it especially bad since they were always in dresses. But then I thought of the boys in the dark pants and long sleeved shirts and black hats...

I don’t think I would make a good Amish ...

We went to an Amish bookstore. The lamps were gas-powered. We stopped at a bake sale. The little girls wouldn’t speak to me – very shy. Food was good. Simple. Maybe the best simple Suzy-Q dessert I've ever had.

David was thinking we should take an Amish buggy ride. After looking around a bit, I decided I would rather stay with our mode of transportation. I couldn't get past the idea that if we crawled up in that box, without windows, and was trotted around Amishville, the Amishers would stand around gawking at the good fortune of the family who caught the not-so-bright "progressives" who paid a handsome fee to be driven around in their buggy. I couldn't shake the image of us being paraded around like circus animals - caged monkeys or the world's tallest white dude, or the fat lady who looks like she has been stuck in the car all day.

I said I think the Amish aren’t suppose to have computers because I saw many interesting things I think they weren't suppose to have. I don't want to be a narc, but one Amish dude was using a cell phone, and it looked like a nice one. As a buggy turned the corner next to us, rather fast I might add, the Amish boy driver was swatting a Monster drink.

I'm just saying!

I’m thinking they have computers stashed. Nice, bright shiny 17-inch MacBook Pros. And that they download songs from iTunes. Better yet, they hit Limewire! (What would an Amish listen to?? Gangster’s Paradise??? Fergie's Glamorous?

(... Ok, not so funny.)

What is funny … funny…?

Camp kids are jumping on the blob, this big air-filled mattress on the lake. I saw Isi out there earlier. Wonder if this is Colton’s group … I hope he doesn’t do it. I don't think he will ... He might ...

Good Lord, I have to go check and see…

I don't think I like journaling...

Sunday, June 28, 2009

This blog post is not about Michael...

"Do You Remember
Those Special Times
They'll Just Go On And On
In The Back Of My Mind"
-Michael Jackson

Ok, straight up, this post isn't about Michael ... Though, given the last few days, everything seems to come back to Michael.

This post is about life, my life - and fears, and death and life, and the passage of time. In a strange discordant of time, I left Flint on Thursday having valiantly outrun one or two storms that pushed through town. Within 15 minutes on the road, I was flippin on my headlights and hitting maximum wipe with the windshield blades. All that avoiding and I still ran smack dab into the mother of all storms.

I was heading to Diane's birthday weekend, celebrating 50 years, as hard it is to believe. I met Diane when I was 16, maybe 17, making her and Shari my longest, closest friends. On the way, I was stopping to pick up Shari, with barely enough time to make it to the first event. However, Mama Storm had other plans. The black clouds and accompanied downpour followed me the whole darn way.

I don't like storms. I don't like driving in storms. But this storm seemed different. I wasn't afraid. Rather than concern myself with something I could do nothing about - the high winds, the flash floods sweeping over US23 - I thought a lot about the friends I was about to see, our histories, the so-many laughs, and the too-many cries. Despite the rain, the thunder, the lightening, the flash floods, the vehicles stopped all along the road - I was at peace, a strange warm peace that seemed full of reflection and anticipation of truly good things to come.

For the record, I always get a little melancholy at the end of a school year. It seems I'm always pushing to get there - as if it is some glorious finish line - but once I cross over, I quickly turn around and see all the wonderful things now behind me. So much seems to happen on the path between September and June, between toddlers and teenagers, between 1959 and 2009...

And, frankly, at each bend in the journey, I look back and fear the ride will never, ever be that great again...

But I digress...

Shari says she "lives in the moment" and resents it when I check my txt messages, especially when I am driving. For the record, I do not think it is dangerous to check your txt messages while stopped for a train. She does apparently, and grabbed my phone. She looked at it and queried, "What is this anyway? CNNBRK?" And the phone goes dark. I ask her to give it to me and I will tell her - she says no and hides it. (As if THAT isn't dangerous considering my "attachment" to my phone!) In my mind, of course, I know I received a tweet about some national breaking news. As a worried mother whose two children were left in Flint, I immediately ponder if it could possibly involve my only daughter or my only son.

When Shari steps out of the car to check into the hotel, I grab the phone to discover the breaking news was Michael Jackson's cardiac arrest. At the time, it was unclear if he had passed. Great! Now I had to tell Shari who just happens to be the most loyal MJ fan you can imagine. She stuck with him through every allegation, through every marriage, through every even-stranger story. Now I had to tell her that he might not be sticking with us...

By the time we arrived at Diane's, the breaking news had gone from bad to worse. We rushed into her house, barely hugging the birthday girl, her two beautiful daughters and/or husband. We flipped on CNN and sat glued to it for the next hour (or was it two?). At one point, I glanced up at my longest, closest friend and apologized. It wasn't exactly the way I had planned to acknowledge her 50th birthday, especially since Jackson was 50.

Gulp.

The passing of Michael Jackson has raised many different emotions in me. It's difficult to watch the clips of him as a youngster, full of life, growing to be a man with throngs of people following his every move. His fall. The allegations. I remember living through all of that. We all did. I sat glued to MTV time and time again to watch "Thriller." A boyfriend teased me all the time with "Gotta be Startin Something." My cousin and I loved to sing about the rat named "Ben." I remember watching "Do you remember the time" and being fascinated.

While Farrah Fawcett may be upset with the timing of Michael's death, Diane has showed no signs of disappointment in having to share the spotlight with a same-aged icon who happened to die on her birthday weekend. For me, when all is said and done, I think his passing added even more meaning to Diane's celebration. We are reminded our lives pass quickly - so quickly. That life is truly a gift. That when we think the world has turned against us - like Michael most likely believed - they probably haven't.

I hope he is able to see that he made his comeback after all...

Ok, so I guess this post was about Michael...

"Those Sweet Memories
Will Always Be Dear To Me"

Thursday, April 09, 2009

What Frances taught me...

I keep thinking about Frances. Frances Bean.

Her Dad, Kurt Cobain, committed suicide 15 years ago (April 5th to be exact). While I was not a huge or even semi-huge Nirvana fan, I remember the waves of grief that shot across the media in the wake of his death. When I first heard the news, I immediately thought of the rowdy Young Life kid who use to sing his songs during Club with an unmistakable admiration. Cobain touched lives and captured imaginations like few others.

It was that cultlike following that really drew me to look more closely at Cobain. Here was a man at the peak of his international success, the founder and frontman of a group with nothing but potential. At 27 years old, he takes a shotgun and kills himself in a room above the garage of his Seattle home. Many believe, paradoxically, that he was unable to reconcile his inner demons and fear of "compromise" with Nirvana's massive success. He played music, people responded oh-so-favorably, yet it drove him to depression, drugs, and ultimately, suicide.

He left behind a larger-than-life train-wreck-waiting-to-happen wife, Courtney Love. I don't mean for my description to sound disrespectful - I meant it in the nicest way. In fact, I am truly intrigued by Cobain's widow who herself was thrown into the unbelievable glare of Cobain's success and resulting grief. Would she ever have achieved such notoriety without him? Probably not, except for her role in producing the only living embodiment of Kurt.

Frances Bean. Frances Bean Cobain.

How does a kid grow up successfully in the wake of Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love?

Frances Bean told the world last year, "I'm Not My Parents."

Then 15, she was absolutely beautiful and headlining as the star of Evita, Grease and Beauty and the Beast – all for a fashion spread in the March issue of Harper's Bazaar.

Proud mom was quoted as saying it wasn't unusual that the only offspring of an anti-establishment-grunge-guru would be doing musicals. "She's a gay man trapped in a woman's body, like me," Love said.

And that explains so much ABOUT Love... I suspect very little about Frances Bean.

Frances Bean said while she understands people's fascination with her, it's "creepy ... I haven't done anything ... People need to wait until I've done something valid with my life."

Her old-soul reasonableness likely comes from her paternal grandmother, who lives in Olympia, Washington. Frances Bean called her "the most constant thing I've ever had. I'm really lucky because I've been able to go places and meet people you can only dream of, but she's probably the person I respect most out of anybody in the world."

Ultimately, Frances Bean inspires me, reminds me that something truly beautiful can survive chaos. She reminds me that today as I begin my own journey, without my own father, in an economy that jolts my reality on a daily basis, life can turn out good with the support of "constant" family and friends. Perhaps it's one of the greatest Easter stories of all time.

"And I forget
Just what it takes
And yet I guess it makes me smile
I found it hard
Its hard to find
Oh well, whatever, nevermind"