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The Sky is Falling

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My maternal grandmother was a gentile southern woman. Quiet. I admired her spirit and spirituality. We shared a birthday and a love of cooking. There were only two places I’d spend the night when I was a child: Mama’s and my friend Leslie’s. For the past several months one of Mama’s stories has been with me……it’s time to let go.

ONE day Henny-Penny was picking up corn in the cornyard when–whack!–something hit her upon the head. ‘Goodness gracious me!’ said Henny-penny; ‘the sky’s a-going to fall; I must go and tell the king.’

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2016 called us to a place of soul-searching. What it meant to be family and neighbor. Ultimately, asking a moral question of who is my neighbor?

When the sky really is falling, a helping hand, a compassionate voice, a casserole….a boat….a sledge hammer, a bottle of water. It was a record-setting year….one that shaped characters and cities. For some, the sky fell when a ceiling might have been shattered conjuring images of a dystopian world: Lines drawn. Another piece of the sky fell. Fearful.

good-men

In these days of twenty-four hour news cycles and social media addiction have we forgotten intelligent discourse? Have we forgotten that the sky will not fall if we agree to disagree? That drawing lines in the sand is not always necessary…and that neighbors are not always next door.

2016 was tough, no doubt…..but if you asked my grandmother, who was born in 1901, so was 1917, 1929, 1941, 1959 and any number of other years, although she would never have talked about the difficulties.

The take-away is the sky didn’t fall because her generation figured it out without falling apart. While holding the sky up…they held each other.

“Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.” —Cecil Beaton

Scavenger Hunt

Creativity is a scavenger hunt. Elizabeth Gilbert

I dictated this installment in my head numerous times over the last weeks: driving to the theater, driving to my hometown, to my son’s house, on the return trip to Baton Rouge. With each drive I reworked the story. I knew once I sat at the computer the story, the music and photos would change. I like to drive, especially in the spring…new life, hope. The journey this month has been, as Elizabeth Gilbert so eloquently states, a scavenger hunt.

For years I had each holiday planned down to ‘soup and nuts’. Looking back, it was an occupational hazard working for a church and wanting a nice holiday for my two children. Passion for both. Loved both. Until I walked away and I realized that only people love back—for some, unconditional love is difficult. Rules, stipulations. SPARKLE

On Good Friday I ran into my long-time colleague and friend. After being a part of ‘the club’ do I miss it? In the four years since I’ve left we’ve returned to the support we had for one another in the beginning of our professional life. I had missed that. We had both become so passionate about what we were doing neither could see the forest for the trees. It happens in work. It happens in life.

One of my favorite high school teachers, Mr. Russ Harding, taught American History. He was a challenging teacher. I sat on the front row absorbing every word, imaging I would major in history then go to law school. He said that history was an insight into the future. We can’t change it, but it can change us. I believe that. Music was always my first love but rarely a week goes by that I don’t quote Mr. Harding: you can’t change history but you can learn from it.

Boyfriend Band Two weeks ago I was preparing for warm-up before a performance, playing with the Timehop app on my phone and saw a picture of myself from five years ago compared to today. History. Thinking about what has transpired over these years, my head started spinning.

Five years ago I was very comfortable but not necessarily content. In the rearview mirror comfort was beginning to feel complacent. Yes, I had a circle of friends and family. Five years ago I was planning to travel to a foreign country alone…in fact, I’ve traveled a lot in these years. I’ve seen both of my children settle in as adults. I’ve reconnect with old friends, resigned from a job I had for over two decades. Interviewed. Rediscover photography. Sang new songs and rediscovered old ones. I conducted an orchestra again. I embraced theater again and she embraced me. I developed a young musicians program for the local theater, collaborated and helped form a Composer’s Residency. . . and finally started finding a healthier me. Timehop

A few years back, when my kids were younger, when I was younger, there were confusing days….ones of discernment: financial…professional…personal… I found myself alone in a dark church one evening. One of the dear Sisters came walking through, sat behind me, put her hand on my shoulder, with her thick Spanish accent said: “Beth, you are a creative person. God has so much in store for you. Listen. Look. Find the creativity within you.” Then she added her signature. God is crazy about you. . .That conversation stuck with me. Frankly, I was embarrassed to be found there crying. In my mind, I was supposed to have the answers. Mothers and teachers always do. That night I realized that the kingdom is bigger than Stuart Avenue and that a scavenger hunt might be possible. My enthusiasm and courage had gotten me through…it wasn’t going to leave me when I needed it most.

Velveteen Rabbit

Last Saturday I texted my oldest friend Leslie before heading to north Louisiana. “You got a hot second”? Monroe had a terrible flood March 9th. She’s been packing up her mother’s house. Her son’s house flooded too. So many houses flooded the streets reminded me of post-Katrina. Monroe High Water I helped for a few hours to pack her mom’s house so they could begin the sheet rock and mildew removal. On the way out of town I was heading to the cemetery to visit the family plot but stopped. . . the water on the Ouachita River was so high.

I decided to stop at the River and skip the cemetery this trip then drove on to Ruston to start the holiday with my son. My parents and grandparents were masters at scavenger hunts. Like the women on Easter morning, I would be looking for something that “wasn’t there”. They have risen! Easter 2016 Paschal Lamb

History. Present. Future.

The Velveteen Rabbit was a childhood favorite. He ‘became real’ by going on his own scavenger hunt.

Boyfriend Angel Happy hunting!

Gurgle

The house is quiet again but echos with the laughter and talking that filled it a few days ago. Not unlike others, our family gathered to celebrate.

Celebrate a birth. Celebrate our love for each other.

The last week has been a whirlwind of cooking, eating, visiting with loved ones far and near. Their presence, whether by walking in the door or a phone call or card was a gift in itself.

On Christmas Day a wave of sentimentality hit me, a brief moment of melancholy.

Call it desire, wanting a little more, instead of being satisfied with what we have. Missing those who are absent is human nature. My son’s words grounded me. The sentiment was fleeting. Generations, family and friends gathered at our table….some present, some in spirit. The days spent together were as splendid as the feast.

This year there was a new addition at our table: a whimsical fish pitcher from my childhood best friend, Leslie. At each meal we giggled as we poured water. It wasn’t until a few days after Christmas that I discovered the story.

The ‘gurgle pot’ was the creation of artist Matthew Ellison inspired by his travel to a small French village for his brother’s wedding. There were no hotels so all of the guests stayed with host families. His spoke no English and he spoke no French so conversation was awkward and challenging. A saving grace at meals was a fish-shaped pitcher that gurgled with each pour. …what a wonderful connection. Laughter. Listening. Whimsy. Trusting communication in all it’s forms on the journey.

In retrospect, 2015 has been a year of similar connections: lightbulbs in deep grace and dark journeys on long days. Listening for a gurgle.

Blessings. Births. Graduations. Weddings. Illness. Deaths.

Maneuvering day-to-day living. Connecting to the gurgle of those we hold dear. Finding the way to connect to them in a meaningful way. Not our way, but the best way.

Gratitude for it all.

In this coming new year, may your connections gurgle…simply with love, and abundantly.

These Are That Day

And how could we endure to live and let time pass if we were always crying for one day or one year to come back–if we did not know that every day in a life fills the whole life with expectation and memory and that these are that day?
C. S. Lewis

I’ve started this one more than once. Some in my head, in traffic. Some lying in bed—early morning, late at night. Walking to work. In the shower. Finally at the computer.

Like the proverbial light bulb, something hit me.

Expecting. Anticipating. Waiting Counting days. Whether we use candles, games or in the silence of our hearts.

Waiting for….a miracle.

Fifty-six years ago tonight my parents had been playing a waiting game. The eight years between my brother’s birth and my adoption. My uncle’s untimely death. Ordinary days. Extraordinary days. Wondering, waiting, hoping and praying. ….every day in a life fills the whole life with expectation….My family were such people.

A drive to Shreveport, a family is changed. I was changed. Everything is changed…

by love….

by the gift of patient waiting.

Over these December weeks I’ve focused on giving of self rather than something that can be wrapped and tied with a bow. My parents’ ninety mile journey that December was such a selfless act….

but others also show such acts…..parents, children, friends, strangers.

Last weekend, the A Capella caroling group I sing with had the opportunity to sing for the residents of one of our local retirement communities. It was a lovely morning singing carols and Hanukkah songs as well as celebrating the 97th birthday of one of the long-time arts supporters. As we were wrapping up someone tapped me on the shoulder, asking if one of us could sing a carol in his mother’s room. We all went.

Voices of all ages filling a room. A son gently holding and caressing a hand that had once cradled him…

Silent Night. Holy Night. Sleep in heavenly peace.

…..every day in a life fills the whole life with expectation and memory and that these are that day……

Connection. Gift. Selfless……Love’s pure light.

My take-away is this: miracles aren’t the same as magic.

Miracles are found in ordinary things like oil or a baby, a song you’ve sung thousands of times, sharing time with family and friends. The gift, at least for me this year, is to remember how extraordinary ordinary is….then to wait for it…

in gratitude….. for each day…

The “Always”

Friendship is such a holy gift but we give so little attention. It is so easy to let what needs to be done take priority over what needs to be lived.

Henri Nouwen~The Road to Daybreak

There has been unrest these last weeks. I found myself quiet, not because I had no opinion but because my voice in the fray seemed inconsequential. The people who truly know me also know my mind and heart on such matters of the world. Others, as my grandfather always said, don’t matter. “We can’t change their hard heads or harder hearts. We will never all agree, Baby Doll. Don’t expect them….accept them….”

Last week I was out-of-town: business, recreational, adventure. After a meeting I fell asleep with the television on for several hours. A hard sleep, June was a long busy month; I was much more weary than I cared to admit. I woke up to a familiar voice. In another life these words from Olivia Walton would’ve produced an eye-roll “….what I don’t like is the always… ” I understood she had built her life and the life of her family on tradition….but was willing to embrace change. In fact, she was restless for it, unafraid of it.

We become smug, dancing in the shadows of complacency, thinking our way is the only way.

We expect others….friends, family to believe as we do…the always….

On the drive home I made a short stop at the Beaumont, Texas Visitors Center which also houses the Babe Didrikson Zaharias Museum. For years I’ve wanted to stop, check it out but never took the time. Her life has always fascinated me. She along with Amelia Earhart, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Eleanor Roosevelt, Katharine Hepburn and countless others who explored the world in a time when it wasn’t fashionable for women to take those risks. My mother was a risk-taker, working and volunteering for the civil rights movement in the 1960s. Visiting Mrs. Zaharias’ museum reminded me of the sacrifice that we all make for a life well lived….. On the walls and in the case hung the expected sports memorabilia from high school to the Olympics but also place settings of china and displays of her favorite recipes. Not content with “the always”, after her track and field career ended she became a world-class golfer. She learned to live in the world. Certainly in those days, one could apply all sorts of labels….but she was a woman of many talents and was successful doing what she loved. She didn’t let the world define her. She defined her world. Always.

When I took the shot of her golf portrait the museum docent was telling me that “Babe” was an expert knitter. The story was so good I didn’t check the shot.

Like Olivia Walton, Babe’s always was the unexpected. Looking for the end of the rainbow. Some people want to complicate or agitate…..Me? I’m grateful for the lesson….always…..looking for the rainbow

A letter home…

Spring has been opera performances, conducting musicals, organizing a cabaret, teaching. A last minute trip to visit my son for Easter. Preparations for my daughter’s Masters degree graduation in Boston. My hesitation in blogging has something to do with all of that activity but also with tomorrow. April 19. Thirty years.

A letter that’s long in coming but has been formulated in my heart and mind for quite some time. A letting go.

It seems odd to write. Over these decades you have been a part of the journey. Some days, like today, it’s a fleeting flashback, almost relegated to a hashtag. How you visited with women in the Monroe A&P. We’d get animal crackers. Now, I understand the significance of those grocery store chats. What is said in those whispers on the aisles. I understand a lot more than I did thirty, forty, fifty years ago.

You’d be proud of your grandchildren. They are creative, generous, intelligent, funny people. There has never been a time I haven’t enjoyed their company —-from the first moment I held them to the last moment we spoke. I hope they can say the same of me. You were right. Children grow up very quickly. It’s hard to believe that Sarah (named for your grandmother) is the same age I was the last time I saw you. Patrick (named for your great-grandfather) is now the age I was when I had Sarah. I remembered what you said… to spend time with them. . . the dishes and everything else did keep.

During most of my life I had a clearly marked ‘road map’. About four or five years ago things seemed very murky. Hormones and a redefined self-image…. I recalled one of our last conversations: about middle-aged women – – – a complicated conversation that I didn’t understand at the time. Now I understand the aging process: physical and spiritual. You prepared me for those steps just as you prepared me for so many others. It’s hasn’t escaped me that like many women, you found passion in your 50’s—-yours was public service and education. It’s not that you weren’t interested in public service before, after fifty you just had time to dedicate. Freedom and independence are exhilarating. That was our last conversation April 17, 1985.

You and Daddy taught by example that each day is enough. I hope Patrick and Sarah know that too. Finding the ‘simple’, in themselves and in others; Sifting through life’s concerns with style and grace. Keeping their ducks in a row….sometimes alone, sometimes with others. Always remembering….Family. Friends. Respect. Love. Laughter and fun along the way.

Yeah…it’s more than enough….and the conversation continues….

An Elephant’s Eye

One day I will find the right words and they will be simple.

Jack Kerouac~The Dharma Burns

Almost midnight. I’ve just returned from the theater. A preview for the musical Oklahoma that’s opening tomorrow night. Between performances of Madama Butterfly and music directing this show there have been a lot of late nights this month. Tonight the right words came to me watching this cast capture the simplicity of these characters.

Life is pretty simple. We complicate it. We create drama. Sometimes operatic….hiding behind masks.

Don’t get me wrong…music, opera, theater is glorious. But at the end of the very long day drama belongs on the stage. There’s plenty enough pathos and comedy in our lives without creating more.

Growing up Oklahoma would come on television every Thanksgiving evening. It was part of our family tradition to watch it. “Family picnic” in the living room my mother would call it. A happy memory. Watching the video monitor at tonight’s final dress rehearsal I looked down to find a text from my brother just about the time my favorite childhood scene was happening. Newlywed Laurey discusses the problems facing her with Aunt Eller. Upset, she says: “I don’t see why this had to happen when everything was so fine.” Aunt Eller’s response: “That’s alright, Laurey baby. You can’t forget, just don’t try to. Oh, lots of things happen to folks. Sickness or being poor and hungry, being old and a feared to die. That’s the way it is, cradle to grave, and you can stand it. There’s just one way: you gotta be hardy. You gotta be. You can’t deserve the sweet and tender in life unless’n you’re tough.”

Laurey’s wish is to be like Aunt Eller. When I was younger my dreams were of Laurey. The trappings. The things that fade. What did I know about hardships. Now I think Laurey had it right. Aunt Eller is a pretty wise bird.

Sure, it’s fun to play…but at the end of the long day. Or the long month it’s going to be just as nice to discover the simplicity in a nice shot with my camera again.

That message I got from brother Foley…..

Measuring

Since Christmas life has been going at fever pitch. These last few days there has been quiet time to reflect…rest and relax. Not as much time with the camera as I would’ve liked but those days will return. Images of this last year flashed before me….one song stuck in my head.

Signs and symbols measure our lives. Often they speak louder than words…fill us with gratitude…grace Measuring in love……

Choices in the “Woods”

The great challenge is living your wounds through instead of thinking them through. It is better to cry than to worry, better to feel your wounds than to understand them, better to let them enter into your silence than to talk about them. The choice you face constantly is whether you are taking your wounds to your head or your heart.

Henri Nouwen

I have this tongue-in-cheek theory that composer Stephen Sondheim has the secret to all of life’s situations. “The Gospel According to Stephen” has guided me along the path of life. My mantra: “Intelligent people are always on the road, growing”. However, on that path we sometimes hide our heads in the sand. We convince ourselves it’s safer but the scenery isn’t near as nice. Then, one day, something happens, either wonderful or not so wonderful and the head pops out of the sand….and we move along the road a little further.

The last few weeks have been a journey of heart and mind. I had plenty of shots for the blog but the stories seemed either too mundane or too personal. Then I re-read this quote from writer and philosopher Henri Nouwen.

Sometimes silence is the only language… Listening is the best option.

Prayerful reflection…. both “head” and “heart”. Balance.

Ron Rolheiser explains: “There’s a place in us that doesn’t want to feel our hurt, doesn’t want to take our pain to a place of silence, and doesn’t want to take our wounds to our heart. And so instead, in our heartaches and wounds, we grow anxious and obsessive, we struggle to understand, we talk endlessly to others, and we try to sort things out with our heads rather than letting ourselves simply feel them with our hearts.”

Centenniel Camellia — Burden Plantation-Camellia from a bush planted over one hundred years ago

Funny thing, more often than not people don’t take the time to know when we’re anxious or hurt….or filled with joy…. During the last three or four years I’ve purposefully had a conversation with myself walking to work…I call it checking the ‘barometer’. Delighting in all that surrounds me, not the window dressing of life. Everyday beauty. People. Places. Staying aware of each moment. I admit to my own resistance with living at a place of dis-ease. I’ve never cared for it but I’ve come to understand it is as much a part of life as a beautiful sunset or my children’s laughter….the voice of a friend….

Music. Dissonance resolves.

Moving forward doesn’t mean leaving behind. Moving forward is finding peace in the moment, taking stock of what was, deciding what is…. then discerning the possible. Discovering grace in all.

Stephen and Henri are both right….adventures change in the woods…..we sort through feelings rationally…heart and head…and I’ll add spirit.

I’ve discovered in the last two weeks I’m not one to leave anyone behind. . .

If life were only moments, then you’d never know you had one….

Another Voice–for “Auld Lang Syne”

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language And next year’s words await another voice.

T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Last year, as appreciation to my son for his insightful gift I began this blog journey. Searching for words, images. Days blur during holidays. Some years are like that.