'Be anxious for nothing..." ~Philippians 4:6

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

DO YOU?

As the year comes to a close, I've seen more than a handful of comments about the way people intend to radically change their lives. Most of them involve getting rid of some of the people with whom they associate ( as if people are just disposable like that). People are talking about clearing their cell phone and email contact lists; blocking and deleting on social networking sites. Maybe the real task should be examining their OWN brains to determine how people, who are suddenly so undesirable, disgusting, draining, and dispensable NOW, got into their lives in the first place.

Is it possible that the problem is in the mirror, and it's not a job for Windex? God knows, sometimes it IS, but it can't ALWAYS be the infamous THEM. Sometimes, it's straight up YOU, and the time designated for fixing and arranging, dismissing, reorganizing and correcting should be spent alone with oneself. One must own one's own part in every situation. In every aspect of your life, the common denominator is YOU. You can't fix or change other people, but you darn sure can take a good, honest look at yourself, your choices, your decisions, your behavior, your words---unless that's just too difficult a thing to bear. Is it easier to put the blame on everybody else than to admit your schemes failed, your secrets and lies were exposed, your stories didn't add up, your judgment was flawed, your discernment was weak, you talked more than you listened, you rejected wisdom, and you have some jacked-up stuff going on in yourself, too? Failing to look inward means the finger pointing, blaming, puffed-up attitude, selfishness, and denial will simply continue...Why not give "do you" a new, less arrogant, self-centered connotation, and objectively work on yourself. Acknowledge, and tackle your own fixable issues as diligently as you criticize, ridicule and condemn others. Be true to yourself in those less attractive areas that you think no one sees. Address those areas that people talk about when you're not in the room, but are too intimidated or afraid to bring to your attention. Sincerely ask God to show you yourself. It might cause you to look at others in a different, more understanding, and forgiving light when you seriously consider how God may be--no--how God IS looking at you.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

WE ATTEMPTED...


I didn't feel like answering the phone.
Lately, the still cherished and celebrated caller ID has given way to being able to actually hear who's calling. Somehow the old fashioned land line seems to trump the cordless phone when it comes to clarity. The caller ID-less landline is reminiscent of a time when you just answered the phone because it rang. There was no debating, screening, or scrutinizing. You just answered and the sound of the callers voice ID'd them---or not.

When my phone stopped ringing, it suddenly occurred to me that I was still waiting for another delivery--the last one. Maybe I SHOULD have answered the phone! (How many times do we complain that we were at home all day and don't know HOW we missed the UPS or FedEx driver?) It's sad when you have to find time go out of your way to retrieve something that someone was attempting to place into your hands at your own doorstep.
I ran to the windows facing the front of my building. I didn't see UPS, FedEx or USPS trucks so I assumed the call I missed was a telemarketer. I also assumed that if the caller had been someone I knew, my cell phone would have rung shortly thereafter. I went back to what I was doing, then heard a bit of a commotion in the stairwell. Then the knock came. It WAS UPS! The last of the gifts had arrived in time for Christmas--just like Amazon.com promised! I would have been so disappointed if I had missed the delivery. Further disappointment in my decision to let the phone ring would have come courtesy of the door tag that had already been prepared. The truth of the door tag would have smacked me in the face because the driver DID make an attempt.
"Good afternoon. Your call box isn't working, Ma'am." I didn't bother to tell him that it was. Perhaps I should have. I signed for the package, said an enthusiastic "Merry Christmas", and closed the door. I looked out of the window again. Where had he come from lugging all of those packages? He had my large box and 2 more destined for other last minute shoppers. There were few cars parked on the street, but none making it impossible for the van to have space right in front of the gate. Where was it? I watched as the deliveryman exited the gate and headed down the street. I went to another window to see where he was going. He went to the corner and crossed the street. There was the truck, running, with a driver waiting inside.
Looks like they're traveling in two's during this holiday season. "Smart move, not leaving the truck unattended", I thought. I wondered if that's just an east-of-the-river DC practice, or a general rule anywhere in the city as Christmas day approaches? Either way, I do so appreciate the effort to get the package to me in spite of my failure to answer the phone. Frankly, UPS has been on the ball, lately.

I also appreciate the convenience of shopping via the internet. Crowded malls during this time of year don't appeal to me at all, and anything I've forgotten--tape, wrapping paper, batteries, etc. can be easily scooped up at the neighborhood Rite-Aid...: )
Now I can get to wrapping...: )

JUST DO IT


Perhaps it WON'T get done unless you do it, but isn't it going undone or getting worse while you're waiting, pouting, nagging, questioning and complaining? Are YOUR two hands broken? Are you sick? Don't know how? Think you're too good? Feeling a sense of entitlement? Just plain lazy? If your answer to any of those questions is a reluctant, "No", then why not do it yourself? Don't exaggerate. If it never gets done unless you do it, it would be in a lot worse condition, wouldn't it? Maybe YOU don't particularly like the job you think others should do, or should assist you in getting done. Maybe you've started something you wish you could finish by passing it off to someone else. Maybe there's no glory in it unless others see the task being carried out.
If you're so pleased with the outcome of your effort, and it's the way you think it should be done, then why not continue and stop lamenting and broadcasting that no one else is doing it? Further, stop making yourself out to be a martyr because it got done. Perhaps you finally noticed it,(or are looking for a pat on the back). Forget about what other people ought to do, or what you think they should be doing. Examine your own motives. Are you looking for brownie points, or are you just passionate about doing things well? Are you seeking approval or are you just grateful to be able to lend a hand? If there is no impediment to you doing it yourself, stop yapping. Skip the fanfare and drama, and get to work.
What's important to you may not be on another person's radar or schedule. Don't assume you know what is in another person's heart, on another person's plate, what's in another person's wallet, or the scope of another person's ability.
If you see something that needs to be done, just do it.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

FREE INDEED


It is in some people's best interest to convince you that God is a bit of a snob; that He has very little to say to you. Don't buy it. Your lack of knowledge is key to their success.
Some people would have you to believe that THEY are your source--your last resort--spiritually, emotionally, financially, professionally, and/or socially. There are precious individuals, however, who, on the other hand, don't seek, expect, or demand that others to be indebted to them. They aren't seeking to boost their egos. They give God praise for what they're able to facilitate in the lives of others as a result of God's kindness and generosity to, and grace towards them.
Thank God for opening your eyes today. The worst thing the enemy could have done is allowed someone to teach you how to read, and not just call out words, but understand them as well. Then he messed around and let somebody put the Bible on tape. "Free indeed" means just that. Thank God for eloquent preachers, but read for yourself. (Think, now. At practically EVERY funeral you attend, somebody says, "To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord." and everybody shouts, "Amen"-- no matter how scarily hellish a life the deceased lived. It sounds comforting and encouraging to think that your loved one is in Heaven playing football or gardening with Jesus, but the Bible DOESN'T SAY THAT! Read it again.)
Ask for wisdom. Read for yourself. Have a mind of your own. Know that God is available to you, too, and doesn't play favorites. Check your behavior and speech and see if it lines up with the Word of God, or with someone's slick religious agenda to keep you ignorantly singing, dancing, AND picking the cotton on their plantation. Boldly exercise the liberty you have in Christ Jesus. When one knows better, one will do better, right?....Happy Saturday....: )

Thursday, December 15, 2011

AS CHRISTMAS DAY APPROACHES


After so many years of being a gumbo eater, this past Thanksgiving proved I can be a gumbo maker, too. Armed with my Mom's recipe and my big sister a phone call away, my daughter and I got it done.
I'm really looking forward to my sister and her family visiting during the Christmas holiday. I'm looking forward to her gumbo, too. She's already thinking about the Christmas day menu. It's times like these that I really miss my Mom. She had special Christmas dishes and glasses, and table linen. She adored the holidays. Her shopping would have been done and the house decorated. There would be homemade tea cakes and egg nog, too. Her egg nog was the only egg nog I ever wanted to drink.

Sometimes I wonder what else my Mom would have achieved in life; what greater professional heights she would have attained, had she not sacrificed for my sisters and me. Then I remember my late Auntee Lillian's dramatic retelling of Mommy's birth. The persistence of a midwife, who refused to accept that baby Myrtle was dead, is the reason a 1 pound, 1 ounce premature baby survived that October day back in 1936 in Addis, Louisiana. That Mommy lived 1 day, let alone 66 years, was a miracle.
She was meticulous, and detail oriented, well-groomed and so very neat.
"If it's supposed to be white, let it be white. If it's supposed to shine, make it shine". "Take care of your things. If you do, they will last a long time".
"Never leave your house and you're looking better than what you left behind. You never know how you're going to have to come back home".

She was a brilliant woman--quick-witted, well read, articulate, poised and always learning. To her, knowing things was just as important as the ability to find information. She was a master teacher, a disciplinarian, mentor and guide, whose dedication to her students meant sure success for them. Her generous endeavors to see them succeed never translated into lack of attention and failure at home. She cherished being a teacher, but I have a feeling she could have been the CEO of some major corporation. Obtaining a good education was so important to her. Attached to that was the ability to be self-sufficient. I never sensed that she regretted being a wife and mother, but she made sure to communicate how the consequences of the choices one makes most certainly determined the road on which one would remain. "You have to think about the future." "You have be able to take care of yourself; stand on your own two feet", she would say.
As traditional as she was where roles between women and men were concerned, our independence meant a lot to her. "You have to get that piece of paper. You have to be twice as good". A woman who couldn't "do anything" puzzled her, though. A lazy "nasty" woman was someone she couldn't understand. As academically savvy and professional as she was, one could eat off of her floor. She could clean, iron, wash, sew, scrub, garden, and still hold an intellectually stimulating conversation with anyone. She was responsible, dedicated and resourceful. She was a committed wife, mother, grandmother, aunt, and friend--and Lord, could she cook. Daddy said she couldn't always "burn" like she did, and one of the first gifts he bought her was a cookbook. That cookbook is dog-eared, today; its pages out of order; its cover hanging on for dear life, and spruced up with green contact paper. That cookbook was one gift that didn't go to waste. Mommy was a master in the kitchen and the bearer of an incredible sense of smell. "Somebody check the oven! Is something burning?" If she asked, something was. "You can't walk away when you're cooking."
When she passed away early in the morning on February 4, 2003, I was there. She'd fought so hard to stay. It seemed unfair for cancer to have wracked the body of someone who wasn't abusive to herself. She'd survived rounds of radiation and chemotherapy, only to be stricken by a pulmonary embolism. Even in death, she was teaching. "Don't put off anything. Enjoy your life while you can. Don't let anybody hold you back, or tell you what you can't do. For God's sake, be happy".
I know there were so many things that she wanted to do. Writing a book was one of them. She told me in our last conversation. I'm so glad that my little sister found the recipes my Mom had written. (Her penmanship was beautiful, too). Perhaps Mommy knew we'd need them one cold day when "sandwiches wouldn't be enough." Perhaps she knew that one day we'd embrace all of the delicious fuss that holidays bring.
I used to hate passing by McDonald's, as a child, and wonder why we couldn't always stop. "We have food at home", Mommy would say. I know, now, what a blessing that is.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

NO JOKE


One's tacky attempt at humor, criticism or judgment could just as easily be applied to one's own dear family member's notoriously shady past--or one's own. People really should mind making childish, cowardly swipes at others. I wonder if people forget? You don't have to chime in to every conversation to fit in. It's okay to exercise discretion and even compassion. You don't have to say everything you think. Yeah, this is America; we have free speech, blah, blah, blah...Don't let your thoughtless words, today, cause someone to publicly remind you precisely why YOU are THE last person on Earth who should be uttering them. Even if you think you're saying them in jest, ask yourself what purpose they serve, what damage they could do. A good way to ensure your dirt is exposed is to publicly criticize/ ridicule someone for doing the same thing you did. Some folks aren't going to get it until they are cold cocked by their own boomeranging words. They won't understand until they are slammed by the unwelcome words of someone who is fed up of listening to hypocrisy and insensitive drivel. Chances are they'll have the nerve to be offended.
Sometimes it's best to shut up and thank God--and the people who really know you-- for the ability to show mercy.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

WORLD AIDS DAY: GETTING TO ZERO


I celebrated my 51st birthday on Monday. I was 28 years old when the first World Aids Day was observed. I remember when AIDS was considered a terrifying Old Testament-like, modern plague. Folks had embraced forgiving, loving meek-and-humble-lamb Jesus, and conveniently forgot all about the God of Exodus, whose wrath and judgment hadn't evolved with time and trends the way they'd hoped. AIDS was widely considered an indictment sent from an angry God whose patience with mankind's choices had worn painfully thin. Due to His hatred of, and our tolerance of homosexuality, the world would witness the puzzling effects of a mysterious form of pneumonia. For a long time, it was deemed a gay man's disease, and everyone who wasn't a gay man felt weirdly safe and spared. AIDS was the problem of someone else, in another place, that only visited some households courtesy of nightly newscasts, and talk shows.

Then, people who were idolized AND familiar started losing much too much weight, and dying much too young.

I remember being fascinated as a 20 year-old college student at Howard University, hearing my sculpture instructor, Ed Love's sister in-law, Dr. Frances Cress Welsing, lecture with conviction on the speculated, vicious, man made origin of the disease (which didn't seem so far fetched in light of the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment). 
I saw first-hand how AIDS wasted my talented, ambitious family member, who was active military and stationed at USAMRIID. 
I remember driving him to the hospital one night and watching how the emergency room staff attended to patient after patient, even those who came in after us. The doctors and nurses seemed to be uncaring and indifferent toward us. A nice nurse brought him a blanket when he complained of being cold, but we still waited for hours until he finally fell asleep in the waiting room chair. As he slept, I was finally told that his condition wasn't considered an emergency, since they already knew he had AIDS. It was the first time I knew. AIDS had visited my family. He never uttered the word concerning himself. Besides, he was Black and he had girlfriends, right? So much for my ignorance. As we waited into the wee hours of the next day, I asked him if he wanted anything from me. He simply asked me to hold his hand and pray. When his illness progressed and he was discharged from the military, and no longer able to care for himself, he went back to the childhood home he'd worked so diligently to escape, and died in his childhood room while in the care of his mother. He was buried in the colors of his fraternity of which he was very proud. His strikingly handsome lover died soon after.

AIDS has outed couples, exposed husbands on the DL, pronounced death sentences on wives, orphaned children, ravaged artistic communities, revolutionized how our nation manages its blood supply, welcomed innocent babies into the world, and rocked numerous religious establishments from pulpits to doors. It has challenged how we think and what we believe; who we trust and how much. It has driven us to our knees, deeper into our wallets, aggressively to the polls, and frequently to funerals.
Embarrassed, shame-filled families have tried to tactfully word their loved ones' obituaries, using terms like "long illness", "sudden affliction", and "brief sickness". Grieving loved ones have been relieved to be able to evoke the name of a disease, ANY disease as a cause of death, or defensively cry "blood transfusion", than to name the actual killer. If we were secretive before, we multiplied our privacy requirement exponentially.
After all these years, people are still living dangerously, living in denial, believing lies, testing the grace of God, ignoring or abridging His Word, and counting on--even demanding-- the help, understanding, compassion and so-called enlightenment, or open mindedness of others. Some people still press their luck and live by the adage, "You have to die from something." They still think "It could never happen to me."

Have we become lax and complacent as we often do after the novelty of tragedy begins to wane? The stigma of HIV/AIDS may seem to be gone due to greater access to information, celebrity input, medical breakthroughs, and patient longevity as a result of more effective medicines, but is it really? Do our private conversations with ourselves and others prove it's still there right alongside fear and several chilling, attention-getting Bible verses? Some people don't care if you call them ignorant, closed-minded, Bible-thumping religious fanatics if they emphatically believe that it is your own fault, and due to your own choices and darkened, godless mind that you are in your present situation. AIDS affecting the elderly, heterosexuals, hemophiliacs, women, children, sexually inactive, and drug free people of all age groups, nationalities, professions and socioeconomic levels, threw a monkey wrench into so many philosophies. Pandemic is not a word to ignore.

Are we doing all we can, with our ribbons and marches and quilts, and concerts, and commemorative days, and speeches, or are we quietly still viewing the AIDS pandemic as a deadly lesson in sowing and reaping? Is it still looked upon as a deserved consequence of sin?

No matter where AIDS originated, be it Heaven, Africa, Los Angeles, Haiti, affected monkeys, the military, vaccines, racist governments, or a strategically planned, controlled top-secret science lab, it is a horrible, devastating, lingering fact of life that has, no doubt, directly or indirectly affected us one and all. 

"Zero new HIV infections. Zero discrimination. Zero AIDS-related deaths".
That would be more than wonderful.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

TALES AFTER THANKSGIVING















I don't know what it is about gumbo that causes it to taste progressively better each day. 
Yesterday, I had the obligatory turkey sandwich, but today, the gumbo made it's first appearance since Thanksgiving. 
My daughter added the crab meat we'd decided against on Wednesday night. 

I honestly don't know why I don't prepare gumbo more often. It was nice to have my mother's recipe and my big sister (whose gumbo is fantastic) only a phone call away. 
Yeah, it's an expensive dish, but it's the kind of thing you don't tire of eating. My big sister was right. Just a few hot sausages in addition to the smoked and andouille sausage were perfect.

On another foodie note, when a friend announced her college bound daughter's fundraiser, I didn't hesitate to order. I figured it would take care of Thanksgiving Day dessert. When the products came, I gladly accepted a Joe Corbi Brownie Bottom French Vanilla Cream Pie as a substitute for the brownies that, for whatever reason, didn't make it. 
If you order one, don't think you're going to dig into an actual brownie of substance. When they say "bottom", that's just what the heck they mean--a very thin, barely detectable layer of brownie crumbs. 
The rest is some pudding-y kind of stuff and whipped cream, piled high. It's really pretty, but you may as well buy a couple of cans of Cool Whip. 
Now, that Joe Corbi New York cheesecake? 
Yes, Lawd. It's a winner...

Thursday, November 24, 2011

WE GOT COMPANY!

I hate being annoyed, especially by someone who is being deliberately annoying. When people don't respect boundaries, and feel entitled to do whatever they want in spite of the impact, it only compounds your disapproval of them. They don't care how you feel, so you wonder why you should care about what you say to them concerning their inconsideration, and intrusiveness. Sometimes it's hard when you've been taught to be a polite Christian. The lesson works it's way into your DNA and sends a signal that arrests your entire throat, silences you and prevents you from exercising free speech. If people only knew what was forming in your brain that the Lord won't allow you convert into audible sentences, they would think long and hard before they decided to try your patience, or take a chance on finding out whether your niceness has a limit. If they only knew what you knew, their conversation wouldn't be so deliberately informative. They wouldn't keep trying to push your buttons. Just because you've been diligently projecting sweet-meek-and-mild baby Jesus all your life doesn't mean you haven't cultivated whip-wielding-turning-over-tables-in-the-temple Jesus, too.

Some people spend far too much time trying to convince you that they are a welcomed member of your family. You know, however, that your mother did not birth them and their presence is merely tolerated, so I suppose instead of being annoyed, you should be amused by their behavior. They really don't want to know what you know.

When it's not your house, you have no say about who is welcome on ANY day, still you wonder about an individual who would leave their wife and children on Thanksgiving day and show up at someone else's home, and sit around and ask personal questions, and gossip about everybody from the pulpit to the door. You wonder why it's allowed to go on. Did it ever occur to some people that MAYBE, just MAYBE, on Thanksgiving Day, people might want to spend some time with their own family members? Even when you're an adult, you remember the rules established in your parent's house. "Be considerate of others"; "Think before you speak"; "Don't embarrass yourself"; "Always conduct yourself properly"; "Don't ever allow an ignorant person to cause you to stoop to their level"; "Ignore a fool".

If I had said something; if I had unleashed what I wanted to say, I would have been wrong, the conversation and visit would have abruptly ended, and Thanksgiving would have been officially over. It may very well be home, but it's not my house. Still, I was livid that once again, we had a Thanksgiving crasher. I promptly took out my frustration on the pots and pans. That really wasn't fair to them. They did nothing except be conduits for a great meal. Now, they're sparkling clean and my hands are wrinkled and white as a sheet. I tried to make as much noise as I could, run as much water and occasionally turn on the garbage disposal to avoid hearing the gossip-filled conversation. Anything to keep from blurting out what was trying its best to spill out of my mouth. "Excuse me, you messy, inconsiderate jerk, WHERE IS YOUR FAMILY, AND WHY AREN'T YOU WITH THEM? IT'S THANKSGIVING DAY, YOU CREEPY, STRIFE-LOVING, TALE-BEARING MORON! "But that wouldn't have been nice.

I hate the devil.

I really hate to think I lost the battle today, but when that car pulled up, my whole attitude plummeted. Sometimes you don't WANT to mature or nice. Nothing I would have said to the individual would have been good, so I clammed up after "hello" and got to scrubbing. Did he just stop by to talk about people? Why? My grandmother always said, "A dog that will bring a bone will carry one." I have come to believe that conversations with some people should be restricted to subjects like time of day and the weather--period.

When he left, it was as if a contrary spirit left with him. It was like a cloud was lifted and the sunshine returned. Thanksgiving got some of it's happy back, but it was tarnished. Darn. Fact is that friendship with your parent(s) doesn't not necessarily guarantee friendship with you, and some folk try waaaay too hard.

Some people are up to no good and they know that you know it. They know that you have no intention to entertain them, or even pretend that you approve of their words or actions. They try to engage you and make it seem as if you're the one with the problem--and you ARE. You have to figure out how to forget about what you know about them, and endure being in the same room with a lewd, too familiar, inconsiderate gossip, and, for the sake of the occasion, and out of respect for your host(s), keep your mouth shut.

I hope he got a good laugh at my expense, because there simply was no hiding my displeasure. I need to figure this out before Christmas. I don't know how long I'm going to be able to keep quiet.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

GUMBO

I spent part of the day looking at photos from Thanksgivings past. My Mom was the holiday bunny and I really miss her, especially on days like today. It was helpful to look at the photos from Upsal Street, and read the recipes she'd written. Right now she'd be cleaning greens, or making dressing, or macaroni and cheese, or peeling sweet potatoes---or all of the above. Special pots and plates and platters would be out. She was so organized, and clean about it all, too. "If you clean as you go, you'll have less to do when you're done."
Thanksgiving Day was a two-parter. Start with gumbo, then the turkey dinner. It just wouldn't be Thanksgiving without gumbo, and we're going to make some.
I had a great conversation with my big sister this morning. She shared her gumbo tips, and I listened attentively, writing down everything she said. "Don't burn the rue.", "Use the powders--onion, garlic."; "A whole cut up chicken will do."; "Add a hot smoked sausage--not the red hot kind."
This is going to be good.
Thanks Mommy.

UH...OKAY. THANKS?

You could be a lot more grateful if you didn't know that the supposed gift/act was a part of a grand scheme borne out of guilt and/or a critical, demeaning spirit. Saying, "Thank you" would only make you complicit in the scheme, and confirm that you, too, feel better believing that you are inept, lacking, irresponsible, inattentive or incompetent. How do you respond when what others do isn't truly designed to help, or make things easier for everyone involved, but to add feathers to their own caps?
A self-centered individual's actions reek of control freakiness. Whether close up or from afar, their hands have to be in and over everything. Their intent is easy to discern. Some people don't think to ask, they just DO. They singularly decide what's best for others, thereby demonstrating not only a lack of respect, but a need to manipulate. God forbid that others have minds of their own. God forbid, someone else does something with excellence, let alone satisfactorily. A selfish individual strives to make sure the opportunity to demonstrate it never comes--especially in an arena they sincerely feel is theirs.
Their brand of generosity is flawed. Even when they're nowhere to be found, their giving still demands immediate credit, praise and attention. The kindness of their hearts is blanketed by their need to broadcast what they do, how much trouble it was to carry out in addition to everything else on their plates, and especially, how much it cost. There's always a catch involved in their sudden spirit of giving, as if what they do is supposed to scramble your opinion of their real motive. They need to make sure things are done to THEIR satisfaction, and according to their wishes, as if others simply aren't capable, have no preferences, can't, or won't devise a plan of their own.
Your response? Don't argue, complain, or try to make them see the grandeur of their selfishness. They won't. They can't. They're too busy reveling in the notion that they've done a great thing. Remember now, you TOO are supposed to be grateful for the fantastic, helpful thing they did in an effort to bring attention to themselves. Just nod and smile and proceed with YOUR plan. You need not pat them on the back, besides, there's no room for your hand. They've managed to get their own hand back there to do it themselves. Relax. Let them think they've saved the day--especially if it means less work for you, and proceed to enjoy your day--the way YOU planned.

Friday, November 18, 2011

SEASONED ARTISTS





Ever since our first meeting in September, I've looked forward to working with the delightful artists at Congress Heights Senior Wellness Center. I admit it. I missed teaching, and was happy for the opportunity even though it was presented as a temporary one.

There's a certain satisfaction in teaching people who actually want to learn, and are respectful and polite. It certainly helps not having to stop every ten minutes to address a behavioral problem, threaten to phone a parent, or take a trip to the principal's office! 
The seniors so attentive, and eager to try new materials. They're awfully wise, gracious, and witty, too. I learn so much from them. There was something special about being in a place that is just a little more than a city block from the house where I grew up. It's nice to have some way to give back in your own neighborhood. It's also nice to be referred to as "just a kid", or "still a baby". That really cracks me up as I see my shiny new AARP card that arrived the other day, and near my 51st birthday.

It's great that the seniors have a place to go that is uniquely theirs--a place that caters to their physical, spiritual, mental, educational, and social well being. Listening them speak with pride about their youth, former vocations, their children and grandchildren, and their current plans, is like experiencing a live documentary. These are the stories that young people should hear. The stories of people whose beliefs and values are part of the reason they're still here today.
I always lose track of time when I work with them. It's good to watch them as they create. They share, and compliment each other. They laugh, reminisce, and even sing. They have the capacity to see beauty all around them. They're honest and refreshing. They don't think there's an age limit on expressing themselves artistically. I love that. They definitely epitomize the challenge to never put down one's crayons.
None of them had ever used oil pastels before. I couldn't tell.
They've told me how much they appreciate me for coming to work with them. 
I honestly think I'm the fortunate one...: )

Thursday, November 17, 2011

FAMILY TIME



The scene was beautiful, and diverse. Evergreen tree, dying, reddish-gold leaves, sunshine, and icy dew on the ground. It was so peaceful, too. I'm glad I decided to go on the impromptu weekend road trip to Williamsburg. I still didn't finish reading "The Help", like I'd planned, but I spent some quality time with my little nephew, whom I adore. For some reason he thinks I'm a good playmate. Bless his little heart. He thinks I'm fast and agile. "Nessa! Let's play baseball!" So we played baseball with a neck roll pillow and a some tightly balled up paper towels. He enjoyed running around the room to the imaginary bases and I always called "Safe!" when he slid into the imaginary home plate. He knows his shapes, colors and numbers. He can read and spell a little, too. He pointed out geometric shapes and colors around the room and challenged me to do the same. We watched umteen episodes of "Thomas the Tank Engine" on Youtube, drew pictures, danced, and sang (and he can really sing!). Yeah. I was exhausted, but it was worth every minute of hearing his infectious, hearty laugh. It had been a long time since I heard my name being yelled first thing in the morning by a wee voice. When he was up, it just meant one thing. Get up, too. It's time to play. He has so much energy!

It's nice when a little kid wants to be bothered with you. They grow up so quickly. Let the children in your life know they're loved, keep them safe, and take advantage of teachable moments. Learning doesn't have to wait until they cross the threshold of a classroom..: )

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

TOO HOT TO HANDLE

First thing that Monday morning, I told myself, "That's it. No more late night Tostitos...or black beans doused with hot sauce...mixed with dirty rice." I didn't realize how violently I had been awakened from my sleep, until I went back into my room. The covers were practically on the floor. My spicy choices of food apparently didn't like the living arrangements in my stomach as I slept. They assaulted my poor little esophagus, and caused me to bolt out of bed a lot faster than even I thought I could move. I'm grateful that my body is working the way it's supposed to. It showed me just who is in charge, and reminded me that I am no longer in 5th grade. I totally enjoyed the hint of lime Tostitos that I chased down with Rock Creek ginger ale. Problem was, I enjoyed way too many of them at THE wrong time of day. Gonna make changes. Gotta make changes-- including cutting back on the atomic fireballs and red hot jawbreakers that I love so much. Fact is, that you can scare yourself to death while brushing your teeth when you see the bright red spit coming out of your mouth as a result of eating too many fireballs. I know. I'll tell myself. Grow up. I love my Frito-Lay, occasional shakes of hot sauce, and my old school candies, (Lemonheads, Hot Tamales), but do they love ME any longer? Sure they do. Just like anything else--in moderation...: )

WEDNESDAY THOUGHTS: THERE'S HOPE

It was a little after 10:30 PM. 
High and/or drunk, she knocked on their doors--again.
Even in her impaired state, she remembers being handed cash, and hearing, "Don't worry about it."

It doesn't matter now if she knocks every other day, or every other week. She knows everyone is hip to her now, after years of being suckers. 

One hates to see someone in need and not do what one can. 
She, however, is a perfect example of why some people don't give, or lend a hand at all--not to churches, charities, family, friends, panhandlers, or people with neatly printed cardboard signs. 

Sincere desperation, actual need, or a warped sense of entitlement, borne out of an abandonment of ambition or hope, convinces them that some sympathetic person will come to their aid. 
What they don't tell themselves, is that even nice, religious, or generous people have a limit. 
When there is never appreciation, gratitude, or change in behavior, people harden their hearts, close their hands, and their purses.
Her addiction has turned her into a con--and not even a good one--just a bitter, confused, defensive one.

Her own mother apparently didn't answer her screaming or knocking. Regularly, the peace of their homes is disturbed by harsh cries of, "Ma! Ma! Ma!" 
Her yelling grows in volume and intensity, and goes on for several minutes. She yanks on the door; the rattling of metal against metal clashing with her screaming, until something breaks. 
Everyone says to themselves, "If I can hear her, surely her mother can--as well as the rest of the neighborhood." 
Who doesn't answer their own child? She, however, is no crying baby. She is not the daughter her mother once knew. 
Her mother cannot handle her anymore, and now she is everyone's problem.

It was chilly outside this night. 
She was wearing a thin, dingy white tee shirt and sweat pants. 
The shorter hair that didn't make it into her scrunchied ponytail, had formed a spiky black halo around her swollen face. 
Even through their peepholes, they could see her eyes were glassy and red. 
She wiped her face from the chin up, and her hand continued up to smooth down her hair, as if somewhere deep inside, she remembered wanting to be neat. 
She suddenly walked away from their doors and sat on a step, leaning her head against the railings. 
After a few minutes, she pulled herself up again, and began knocking again. Exasperated, they all ignored her. They probably all have stories that they've never shared with each other. 
Some village, huh? What if something worse was going on? What if this time, it wasn't just a case of a drug addict looking for money? She's cried wolf so many times, she's exhausted her audience--an audience that used to gladly help. 
Now the audience doesn't even bother saying, "No." 
Fed up, it just doesn't respond at all.

Her knocking turned to banging, as if she was trying to break down the doors. When people want what they want, they don't consider how their behavior impacts others. When they want what they want, in their selfishness, they actually think there's a polite way to bother people. When people stop acknowledging them for whatever reason, they think they can shame them into it generosity, by making their own irresponsibility the fault of someone else. 

When she approached each door, she placed her ear to them to listen for movement. If anyone had opened their doors suddenly, she would have landed face-first at their feet. She stared into the peepholes as if she could see through them. The whole thing was unsettling. She was like a wild animal on the scent of money. She wanted what was on the other side of the doors as if it was hers. 
They weren't her neighbors, they were potential victims. 
Their own hardships never factored into her repeated demands of them. 
She went back and sat on the stairs, and scanned each closed door...waiting.

Why did anyone wrestle with the prospect of opening their doors? 
No one liked the idea of her just being in the stairwell. They used to open their doors freely to her. She was a young, single mother. 
No one minded a few dollars here or there, but it soon became a habit. Every time, before a "Hi" or "Hello", a well rehearsed, syrupy sweet, "Do you have two dollars?", "Can you lend me 10 dollars?", "I need 5 dollars.", "You have any extra quarters?" was heard. 
With two other adults in her home, she either didn't, or couldn't ask them for money. The reason is obvious to them, now. 
Food, clothing and shelter? Yes. Drug habit? No.

The police came to take her away a few years ago. High on something, she sat in the stairwell striking matches, and set a small fire to the carpet. She laughed as the policeman cuffed her. She appeared evil. Her whole countenance changed as if she were possessed. She laughed all the way out of the door, muttering how no one had ever given her anything. "Don't try to reason with her, Ma'am. She won't hear you", the policeman said. 
A neighbor didn't give her the money she asked for, so her aim was to burn down the building. 
When she came back home so soon, everyone was shocked, and have been leery about her presence ever since.

When she was taken to church, she loud talked over a group of people as they prayed, cursed them out, told them they couldn't help her, walked out, and left her crying, preteen son sitting on a pew, embarrassed. 
Years ago, her baby girl, wearing a urine soaked diaper was found sitting alone on the top step of the first floor landing. She heard her name, and came to the door wearing a sheer gown. 
Her eyelids were heavy as if she'd just gotten out of bed. She stank. She was inside with some man, and hadn't noticed that the door was open. Her excuse was that she'd been in the bathroom. Suddenly she was alert and apologetic when asked if her mother was at home. When her mother found out, she was furious, but thankful that no one phoned CPS. She said out loud what everyone thought. "What if the baby had fallen down the stairs?" What if it hadn't been a neighbor who came home for lunch? What if some demented person had taken the baby? No one would have ever known it." 
Her mother said she would handle it.

Today, many honestly wish the call to CPS had been made years ago. Maybe her life and her children's lives would have been different. Maybe she would have learned a little about accountability, responsibility, motherhood with the help of a purposely intrusive government agency. Maybe it would have taken her circumstance in a different direction. Nothing seems to have been handled except that the baby has grown into a teen and is now, fortunately, living somewhere else.

Her mother is exhausted. Her often drunken uncle hasn't exactly been a role model in the home. Every now and then he breaks out old records and sings and yells out at the top of his lungs. Everyone smokes like chimneys, and it's a wonder there's a healthy lung in the house.
Her mother has carried the weight of her daughter, grandchildren, brother and other family members. What has her mother's own life become? She can't even enjoy her retirement. Embarrassed and disgusted, her mother doesn't defend her anymore, and doesn't expect others to defend or support her either. As if she's referring to someone else, she says, "If you give her your money, you're a fool."

She started banging on doors again. 
Were people fearful and angry with themselves for allowing someone on the other side of a locked door to have that much control? What were their conversations with themselves?
"You're a Christian! Open the door!"
"Don't be stupid. This woman cannot be trusted, and you already know what she wants."
"Stop staring at her and open the door!"
"What if this fool has a gun or knife? Don't you dare open this door. Just watch her."
"Call her mother. Wait. Do you even have her phone number?"
"What if you had to go out right this minute? I know you are not letting a drunk person turn you into a prisoner in your own home."
"Get the phone. Call 911!"

Were they fearful for themselves if they opened their doors, and more fearful for her if they didn't? She lives in the building, so she has a right to be in it. She doesn't have the right to be a nuisance. She doesn't have the right to endanger everyone in the building by welcoming people involved in illegal activities. 
If anyone DID call 911, what would they say? 
There's a drunk/high woman in the hall banging on doors?
How many times have they dialed 911 to report people breaking into cars, fights, escalating arguments, domestic violence, car accidents, peace disturbances, people passed out on the sidewalk, robberies or loiterers? How many times did they get the feeling that the 911 dispatchers and the police were sick and tired of answering their kind of call? How many have concluded that the police feel less and less compassion for those who spend their days slowly killing themselves, and their nights being neighborhood terrorists? How many feel that a plan is in place to just let the criminals kill each other off one gunshot or drug at a time, then all will be well?

She banged on their doors again. She wanted money and they knew it. They don't know how much money they've given her over the years. The thought they used to have, "At least she knows there's someone she can go to", has faded. 
They were not opening their doors. 
The kind of help she really needs, whether she believes it or not, is not in their wallets. 
They decided there's no reasoning with an impaired person. Had rehab failed her again, or did she refuse to comply with the recommendations, and accept the help she was given? 

They decided to just watch her for a while, just in case they DID need to call 911. Part of them argued, "She just wants money. She ALWAYS wants money, and has no problem asking for it. She feels she is entitled to it, and she knows just who to ask, and how. She has reasoned that if she only asks for a small amount, she should get it. It shouldn't be a hardship. She never considers that she has been asking for money for years". 
Part of them just felt so sorry for her.

She's never too drunk or high to have a lie to explain what she needs the money for. About a month ago, she must have thought that if she told them the truth, that her honesty would be rewarded. "My mother gave me money, but I used it for cigarettes. I just need 5 dollars." 
She actually thought that was convincing. 

Her son briefly adopted her MO. He needed a haircut, needed to get to school, needed to get to his group session after school, needed something to eat. 
That went on for a while, until her mother told them that he has adopted his mother's ways of lying and conning people to get money. "Don't let him play on your sympathy. See, you just too nice. Why didn't you tell me? He HAS money. I give him what he needs every day. He just doesn't do what he's supposed to do with it--and that haircut he got with all them lines in his head? I can't stand it." 

Since his grandmother confronted him, he hasn't knocked on their doors since. When they see him now, he lowers his head.

Her dealer waits in the dark like a predator, or she calls him from a cell phone. HE has access because she consistently breaks the door or the gate so that SHE can have access. 
Now, no bother will be made to fix EITHER anymore. 
Waste of money, they say. Now, no one is secure in a once advertised "secure" condo community.

She stumbles out in her nightgown to get her drugs with the money she's suckered out of unsuspecting strangers. She wanders from the park across the street in the wee hours of the morning looking haggard and dirty. She gathers with others whose lives have come to be found in a bottle, needle, plant, or pill. She walks aimlessly, preying on the kindness of strangers. She lurks like a wild animal. She is someone's mother; someone's daughter.

She got tired of knocking, finally, and left in a huff. They watch her walk down the sidewalk, open the gate and cross the street. They watched until she was out of sight, then wondered if they should have opened their doors after all.

Is there no hope? Does Christian duty give way to common sense, sometimes? When does helping stop
When do you forget about the prospect of getting someone into more trouble, and just turn them over to authorities? 
When do you admit there's nothing you can do except pray for someone- and remain sincerely confident that prayer works? 
When does compassion give way to just being pissed off and fed up? 

When do you give up hope for a person? Do you ever?

WEDNESDAY THOUGHTS: JUSTICE


Yesterday, I watched the documentary "Elusive Justice" on PBS. 
It was riveting. 
People have spent the greater part of their lives searching for perpetrators of the Holocaust. 

I've seen a few excellent Good vs. Evil/Fight for Justice-type films lately, including "Man In The Dark", "The Train" and "Time Limit". 
In the latter, a line by one of the characters struck me. While arguing with a superior officer, accused officer Major Harry Cargill shouted, "His life? Do you think that's the most a man can lose?"

Our systems and missions to see people experiencing our choice of punishment or suffering, are what often fail, and make it seem as if justice is elusive. 
We think people deserve a certain penalty for what they have done, and if they don't pay, sometimes our own lives are spent in anger, bitterness and frustration. 
We desperately crave grace, when we are the wrongdoers, but demand the most strict, and highest price from others, with no hope of redemption for them.
 
We can get a certain satisfaction in knowing that our mothers were right when they taught us that our actions have consequences. We can't make exceptions when it applies to our own misdeeds. 
When harsh consequences skip over the lives of certain people, we feel betrayed. 
Some things don't seem right or fair but we have to know, as believers in a righteous God, that justice NEVER fails. 
While we assign degrees to sin, He sees it all as unrighteousness. 
He declares that "the wages of sin is death", but for many people, when it comes to bringing criminals to justice for what they've done, even death isn't good enough.
What kind of life is it, when one is constantly looking over one's shoulder; ducking, hiding, lying, relocating, and deceiving everyone with whom they come in contact? 
That doesn't seem like getting away with murder, to me. 
A person living every day, hoping they'll die before their secrets are revealed, can't be healthy in mind nor body. 
Praying that the people who DO know the truth will give up hunting, threatening, intending to expose, or die first, is an awfully stressful way to live. 

No one ever truly gets away with anything.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

SUNDAY THOUGHTS: NOTE FROM THE WARDROBE COMMITTEE



































I've been invited to sing lots of places over the years. 
It's not unusual to get driving directions, contact information, a tentative order of the program, event themes, and selected attire colors. 
I don't think I've EVER received a protocols note concerning clothing.
 
In an age of "Come as you are", people, who actually HAVE suitable clothes in their closets, have clearly taken the concept overboard, and are showing up in churches looking as if they just left Hoochie Beach, or simply rolled out of bed after working in a ditch. 

Frankly, I admire people who aren't afraid to say "This is what is expected here". 
I do wonder why certain expectations and rules don't apply to the entire week, though. The same God who is portrayed as a stern clothing inspector on the Sabbath day, certainly doesn't turn a blind eye and say, "Do you" on Monday morning or Thursday afternoon, does He?

I did laugh a few times, as I read the note. It's not that it was funny in and of itself, but I had an inkling as to WHY a note like that was ever written in the first place. 
I could imagine the stunned faces; the appalled people whispering and shaking their holier-than-thou heads; the pointing; the frantic searching for extra lap scarves; the sheer disgust of some woman showing up at church looking like--well--a woman
Can't you just see her strutting in? She had the nerve to have gone to a beautician to give traffic-stopping power to her hair; her earrings, bracelet, and necklace catching the sunlight filtering through the stained glass, blinding the whole left side of the church, and burning a hole in the carpet; her knees peeping out from under her dress, and sending some poor, frustrated married soul into a frenzy; her shoes adding a little more swish and sway to her walk. 
Whole rows of people totally missed the sermon for staring at her, rebuking her girly-ness, and damning her to hell as she sang. 
SHE did it. 
SHE prompted the note.

Heavy with do's and don'ts for women, I assumed the note was written BY a woman, but I don't know. 
I wasn't personally offended by it, just amused and fascinated. Something in the past obviously prompted the writer to send it. 
If he/she really knew ME, he/she would have known it wasn't necessary, considering that I am the plainest Jane among my friends, family and acquaintances, and I think I was blessed with adequate home training. 
I've often been told I should consult a stylist, because, for me, "comfortable black attire" and "singing engagement" go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly. You simply can't go wrong with black. Say "black", and you get a greater degree of compliance and uniformity within a group than you would if you said "red". 
Say "red", and somebody is going to show up in pink, orange, brown, or burgundy. Say "white" and you're going to get tan, beige, or even yellow.

When they know they are going to be seen, photographed, or potentially land on Youtube, some people DO want to stand out. 
They DO want to be different, and display their own individuality. 
When you leave people to their own tastes and devices, they are going to do what's appealing to them. 

In some groups, the clothing coordinator's job is to make sure people with vastly different body types, personalities, hair textures and colors, look like cookie cutters. Sadly, it ain't gonna happen. 
One person's style is not always going to be suitable for another person. Someone is not going to be happy. The person who is making the decisions, however, will ALWAYS be comfortable and pleased with the choice of attire by virtue of the fact that THEY made it based upon their own likes, tastes, beliefs and preferences. Whatever THEY wear will ALWAYS be the standard. The rightness of what everyone else chooses to wear, will always be judged by the person who believes THEY know what is best.

The list's emphasis on the attire of women, tells me there may have been, or may STILL be a problem. 
Somebody apparently forgot they were going to a particular church. 
It tells me that someone has not been cooperating, and sees nothing wrong with their choice of attire. 
Someone is butting heads with the wardrobe coordinator. 
Maybe someone showed up and caused the other women to rethink why they've conceded to dressing like dry oatmeal with no raisins, while the men among them, regularly sparkle and shine. 
Maybe someone showed up and attracted the attention of the wrong man. Someone showed up and challenged women to recheck their Bibles to see whether or not the rules under which they were oppressed and stripped of their femininity, were actually biblical. Someone, sans-Spanx, wiggled and jiggled to the delight of someone with no self control, but not to the glory of God.

If it's come down to instructing adults about what to wear and how to wear it, perhaps it's time for a shopping trip, on which you foot the entire bill. 
Maybe a modesty class is in order, or a fashion show. 
Perhaps it's time for a call to a good choir robe manufacturer. YEAH! A robe will solve everything. It will take care of cleavage, knees, ankles, bare arms, bare backs, hanging slips, exposed legs, trendy shoes, pantyhose runs, less than perfect bodies--EVERYTHING. 
Until the robes are delivered, maybe the choir should sing from the back of the church...in a loft...under their seats...behind a curtain...in the dark. 
Maybe the choir should only consist of men. 
Maybe the repeat offenders who haven't figured out what "too tight" means, need to be addressed INDIVIDUALLY; face to face.
 
Maybe an organization should vet their guests first, and not invite anyone who sings or plays well, but doesn't honor God, or who might disrespect or totally disregard its tenets concerning clothing. That would eliminate the need for notes like the one I received:

"Guest Singer and Artist Participation Protocols
Dress Code

•All attire for males and females should be modest and appropriate for entering the Throne Room of God. Clothing should not be a distraction to the congregation.

•No jewelry should be worn while ministering (except wedding bands).

•No pants are to be worn by any female guest while ministering.

•Even in more relaxed venues (like concerts) be mindful that you are entering into the Throne Room of a Holy God. Therefore dress appropriately!

Rules for all female ministers:

1)Skirts should be no shorter than reaching below the kneecap.
2)No T-strap shirts, strapless or thin sleeveless tops (cap sleeves are recommended)
3)Stockings should be worn however; if they are not (due to excessive heat) skirts should be longer than below the knee (calf-length).
4)Do not wear tight clothing while ministering (this also applies to the men).
5)Be mindful that you are above the crowd, clothing that looks appropriate in your mirror at home will look different from a higher angle.
6)Please wear make up modestly.

All male and female ministers:

1)Be mindful that you are entering the Presence of a Holy God please act and dress accordingly.
2)Be modest and tasteful with hair dos.
3)Do not wear tight clothing while ministering.
4)Refrain from ultra trendy attire that draws too much personal attention.
5)Dress church or casual church attire is appropriate.

Make sure that clothing or hairdos never makes YOU the focus of worship… GOD must always be the focus of our praise."

Well, alrightee, then.

#churchattire

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

WEDNESDAY THOUGHTS: A MIND OF YOUR OWN




















Don't fall for that "You're supposed to be my friend" jazz--especially if it actually means "Blindly endorse my wrongdoing and flawed thinking". 
If you're going to have enemies, let it be because of something that occurred between you and them--NOT them and someone else. 
Stop being mad just because someone else is mad! What is it with this madness transferring business, as if you don't have a mind of your own? 

Some people have a habit of tossing your name in a situation, as if it makes their opinion, plan, or action more legitimate. 
You just can't hop on every bandwagon just because you know the driver. Sometimes, you have to let people know you DON'T agree, and give them the reasons why. If they get mad, well....

What IS it that keeps us silent when we should speak up? Sometimes it is necessary to say, even to oneself, "You are wrong, you messed up, your behavior was inappropriate, and your estimation of that individual/situation is way off. You need to examine yourself and apologize". 

When truth triggers fear of losing a relationship, is the relationship even worth having? People who are rude, abusive, or inconsiderate to others leave me with an eerie feeling that my turn is coming--even if they have been generally nice to me. 

Who's keeping you bound to them with an expectation that you support their jacked up behavior towards others--others who have done NOTHING wrong to you? What relationships and opportunities are YOU missing out on because you choose to believe a liar, pal around with a bully, or assume the role of Yes Man to some self-absorbed twit who has a habit of speaking for you, or telling you what you're supposed to think? 

It’s a shame to be in possession of the greatest supercomputer known to man, and allow someone else to program it to benefit themselves , and make you appear inept and weak. 
Have a mind of your own.

Monday, November 7, 2011

MONDAY THOUGHTS: WITHIN EARSHOT




























Sound travels. 
In many settings no amplification is needed. 
Restaurants. 
Buses. 
Trains. 
Planes. 
Store aisles. 
Public restrooms. 

People have to care about who's being accidentally invited into their conversations. 
Seems silly to wonder how information was disseminated if you're in the habit of talking loudly and indiscreetly--in public places. 

I, indirectly, heard something very personal about two acquaintances. 
It literally knocked the wind out of me. 
Sometimes, you have to stop people in mid sentence, and hip them to the levels to which they take inappropriate speech when they think no one is listening. 
All of the time, you have to choose your friends and acquaintances wisely. 
Truth is a great friend, but there are some things that I don't want, or need to know about people, whether a gossip thinks I SHOULD know or not. 
I've found that minding my own business takes considerable time. 
In this day and age, that line from the kiddie song is frighteningly true: "For your friends are my friends, and my friends are your friends." 

Some of your friends, however, can't keep wet in water. They're hanging around you, and have access to your business, but there's not a discreet or loyal bone in their bodies. They actually delight in telling others what they know, as a result of spending time with you or handling your affairs. Perhaps it makes them feel important or powerful to be able to take you down a peg in the eyes of people who admire what you do, but don't know you personally.
That feeling of importance diminishes, however, when they’re the topic of messy conversation.

VOTE FOR ME


Once upon a time the first Academy, Grammy, and Tony awards were given to honor artistic excellence. Once upon a time somebody was heard to say, "So what. I never heard of them." Anyone who utters those words today would confirm that their residence has been under a rock in some remote corner of the globe.
How does an award become coveted? What is the criteria? How does one identify an awards organization founded to compete with/protest/retaliate against existing ones? What are the tell-tale signs of an awards organization designed to lure the desperate, ambitious, or gullible? Should hopefuls pay to play? In order to be recognized, should YOU be responsible for soliciting your own nominations/votes? Shouldn't that be the job of those who admire/support your effort? If you get too tired of waiting to be recognized by a long-standing, respected organization, do you find a way to recognize yourself or succumb to the empty promises and limited arena of some rinky-dink, fly-by-night con game? What does having a particular award or honor do for you, or say about you? When does it become sadly obvious that ANY award will do?

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

WEDNESDAY THOUGHTS: SINGING IN THE BACKGROUND






Once again, I had the opportunity to participate in the Capital Jazz Super Cruise. 
This year, I had the honor of working with George Duke, Patti Austin, and Phil Perry. 
To say I had a wonderful time would be an understatement. 

Captain Orazio D'Aita kept an eye on Hurricane Rina, and the bands played on.

October 22, the day we flew from DC to Ft. Lauderdale would have been my Mom's 75th birthday. 
My sisters, my daughter and I were together. 
Mommy would have loved it.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

THURSDAY THOUGHTS: SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY





































It just seemed odd. 
Why was the guy just sitting on the ground in the rain? 
He seemed fidgety. 
He'd taken off his hood, then just as quickly, put it back on. 
Was he waiting for a ride? 
Had he locked himself out? 
Did he even live here? 
Was he a stalker? 
Was he homeless? 
Why did his actions seem so suspicious? 
Every now and then he'd reach into his pocket, and take a drink. 
It could have been liquor the way he was swigging it. It could have just as well been orange juice. 

Who was he? 
People passed by on the sidewalk, and he'd turn in the opposite direction. 
The mailman came, but the guy never moved. 
No one seemed to acknowledge him.
 
I left the window, and went back to my work. 
Almost an hour later, the guy was still sitting there on the cold, hard ground.

I dialed 911 not knowing whether to ask for the police or an ambulance. 
The last time, it was an easy choice. 
A young woman had passed out on the sidewalk outside the gate. She was so drunk, she was unresponsive. It was raining that time, too--no. 
It was pouring. I grabbed a blanket and went outside. The ambulance came, and they took her away. 
How many people had simply passed her by? 
I wish I knew if she was okay.

Last night a noise prompted me to go to the door. 
A man in tan clothing was staggering up the stairs to the 3rd floor. He stopped, stumbled, and coughed as if his lungs were in serious trouble. 
I never heard keys, or a door opening or closing. 
I opened the door, and heard a loud moan. 
I didn't call 911. 
A brave neighbor came out of her home, and told him he had to leave. 
He said he was sorry, and even in his drunkenness, told her he loved her. 
The door was open, he said, so he just walked on in. Maybe he thought he was at his own home. 
He had planned to sleep in the hallway on the landing. 
He reeked of urine and alcohol, but he made his way down the stairs and out into the drizzle.

I wondered if I had done the right thing last night. Maybe the drunk man needed medical attention even though he said he didn't. 
Maybe he needed a place to sleep. 
Maybe wandering aimlessly into places where he didn't live was his MO. 
Maybe he'd done it before, and had just been a little quieter. I don't know.

Early in the morning, weary looking people can be seen emerging from the park across the street, disheveled, disoriented, unbalanced, eyes blazing. Park benches are gathering places--or beds.

So much happens in the lives of men and women that cause them to turn on themselves; to stop caring; to check out temporarily.
I wondered if my hesitation to call 911 last night caused me to overreact this morning? 
When the ambulance came, the EMS worker got out and asked something of the guy who'd been sitting in the rain. Apparently the answer was satisfactory, because the ambulance left as quickly as it came. False alarm.
I suppose, your suspicious may be someone's normal.