In The Waiting Room

a young couple
re-entered after their visit
with two feet of
black and white shadows
on a strip of paper.
They sat close in chairs,
heads together,
smiling, giggling,
glancing at each other
then back to the
sonogram images,
pointing at their favorites.

Then they sat quietly,
her hand on the
small mound
of her belly,
waiting,
as if they already loved
this baby,
as if they already knew
this child.

Prone to Wander

This morning I sang a solo in church. It was an arrangement of one of my very favorite hymns - "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing". Besides the lovely melody I sing it for these lyrics:

Prone to wander Lord I feel it.
Prone to leave the God I love.
Here's my heart, O take and seal it.
Seal it for Your courts above.

That's the life of faith in a nutshell. We are prone to leaving, prone to messing it up, imperfect and human, but God still loves us and is able to seal our hearts for Him in eternity.

Michael Jackson

Being a blogger, I have to say something about Michael Jackson today. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for him - for the little boy looking for his lost childhood and the man looking for love that wasn't predicated on his bizarre fame and fortune. My own opinion is that his parents did not protect him, but used him as a moneymaker when he was a child. Michael Jackson, in fact, was a child prodigy in his musical talent and style. He was born to perform, but I do not believe that human beings are born to be idolized and worshipped. It is not normal and it is not something that the human spirit knows how to handle. We've seen it time and time again. No human is God - and yet how many child celebrities have gone on to lead weird and dysfunctional lives and early deaths.

Michael Jackson was close to my age and I remember watching the little boy on TV singing his heart out with joy and style. I thought he was adorable. I actually remember the Mowtown 25th anniversary show in the early 80's when he danced the moonwalk and blew the crowd away. I always admire originality. Lots of us thought he was odd, but I don't think you could say he was stupid. He knew exactly how to make himself a star - and he did. But being a star of that magnitude stresses the body and spirit to the breaking point - and that is probably why he is dead at age 50. I think Elvis was 42.

It's a sad story of American pop culture and one full of pathos for me. I pray that he rests in real peace and won't know about all the future sightings and rumors of him not being dead that will surely crop up in the near future.

A (Hopeful) Writer's Life

I don't know why I've written a second novel. I have worked and reworked it for several summers. It's much different than my first one and I truly love the characters that came from some mysterious place in my brain. I remember sitting on my deck one July afternoon and the voice of a young girl started speaking through my pen. Then came her mother's story of having her as a teenager and the voice of the gay man that becomes the third member of their loving little family. But the reality is - is it just another novel. The publishing industry has taken a hit just like all the other institutions in this country. I do not think I'm being pessimistic in saying the chances of someone publishing this novel is miniscule. Even before the recession of the American economy it was next to impossible. A writer will get dozens of rejection letters that state that the publisher or literary agency receives something like 12,000 query letters a year and they publish 10 books in that year. You do the math.

I am not a celebrity that can draw attention to a book cover and I do not know anyone in the publishing industry so I am screwed just like thousands of other sincere and hard-working writers of fiction.

Yet, today I spent another entire day of my life printing out query letters with specifications for each publisher or agent. Each one - if you do your "homework" as you are required to do - is different. One agent wants the first 10 pages, one wants the first 3 chapters, another wants a short synopsis, another wants a long synopsis. You must type the cover letter, or query, directly to a specific person who would be extremely interested in your type of book (again, homework ahead of time is key). I have had three agents express interest this past year. One asked me to send her the entire manuscript. I spent about $20 on copying it and another $5 mailing it. I lovingly sent my precious work off to California - and never heard from her. That was a year ago. Another agent actually called me and spent about 45 minutes discussing my first chapter with me. She liked it but required some rewriting. Of course, I immediately got to work. (Ask my writing group - I HATE rewriting!) I sent it off and - you guessed - never heard from her again. Another agent asked to read more, I sent more, but it was a no-go. (At least she responded.)

What is the point of all this whining? I constantly ponder this desire to write and tell stories. This crazy notion that I have something to say in a unique way. Why? When it will probably never amount to anything, compared to the countless hours of work I have put into it. A writer can spend years writing a book and then more years doing what I did today. Now I've discovered that it takes $30 to copy my complete novel. I spent $30 copying chapters to send out to 11 agents/publishers today and another $20 mailing them.

This is my third round for this novel. I've read time and again that PERSEVERENCE is the key to success - but I've done all this so many times - how long is long enough??? I think that if nothing comes of this day of effort I may just suck it up and self-publish again. Of course then there is the problem of marketing your own work, which I suck at. Maybe I'll just order 10 copies and hand them out to passing strangers on the street.

My daughter read my new book and names it as her favorite book. Maybe that's enough.

Thought for Today

Evil is like a shadow - it has no real substance of its own, it is simply a lack of light. You cannot cause a shadow to disappear by trying to fight it, stamp on it, by railing against it, or any other form of emotional or physical resistance. In order to cause a shadow to disappear, you must shine light on it.

Shakti Gawain

An Oddity of Nature

This morning, while leaving on my 7am walk, I noticed that these little webs were all over my front yard. They were not there yesterday or now. They look like spider webs, but when I searched the Internet for a name I couldn't find anything that looked the same. My hubby said they were tent caterpillars, but (he's almost always right) the description I read did not fit. Can anyone out there solve the mystery?

Daddy's Girl

This poem was published in "The Storyteller" in 2006. Happy Father's Day to my Dad.

You will never again trust
as you did

when Daddy was twice your size
his arms the greatest you knew

they could straighten a baton
or chop down a tree in the front yard

he won every game
and you were his best partner.

Driving home in the Fourth of July storm
your dread of thunder and lightning

abated with Daddy's hands
on the wheel

fearless, you traveled the country
with the deepest knowledge

that Daddy
would bring you safely home.

He never told you he'd give is life
for you, you were born knowing,

you never felt doubt until the day
he held your hands and let them go.

National Flip-Flop Day!

Happy National Flip-Flop Day! Wear them all day. Wear them everywhere! Happy Friday!

Written at Walden Pond

One of my lofty goals this summer is to read some classic books that either I have never read or read many moons ago in high school. I began with "Walden" by Henry David Thoreau. What strikes me the most about Thoreau's observations is that so many of them are completely relevant 150 years later. Get this one on fashion and trends:

The childish and savage taste of men and women for new patterns keeps how many shaking and squinting through kaleidoscopes that they may discover the particular figure which this generation requires day to-day. The manufacturers have learned that this taste is merely whimsical. Of course, two patterns which differ only by a few threads more or less of a particular color, the one will be sold readily;the other lie on the shelf, though it frequently happens that after the lapse of a season the latter becomes the most fashionable. Comparatively, tattooing is not the hideous custom which it is called. It is not barbarous merely because the printing is skin-deep and unalterable.

Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will not refuse them. (I'm reading something published in 1854, am I not?)

The life which men praise and regard as successful is but one kind. why should we exaggerate any one kind at the expense of the others?

Coexist XXIII - Romans 14

In rereading these familiar passages the other day I found them to be an excellent description of COEXISTING, which to me, includes tolerance and respect for differing viewpoints, lifestyles and beliefs without anger and judgment. The following are excerpts from the 14th chapter of Romans (NIV):

Accept him whose faith is weak without passing judgment on disputable matters. One man's faith allows him to eat everything, but another man, whose faith is weak eats only vegetables. The man who eats everything must not look down on him who does not, and the man who does not eat everything must not condemn the man who does, for God has accepted him.

One man considers one day more sacred than another; another man considers every day alike. Each one should be fully convinced of his own mind.

Therefore let us stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in your brother's way.... if your brother is distressed because of what you eat, you are no longer acting in love.

For the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, (or replace these words with politics, religion, lifestyles etc) but of righteousness, peace and joy ...

Who Says a Rainbow Has To Be Arched?

Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting convenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth.

Genesis 9:16

Good Advice

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Coexist XXII - With Canadian Geese???

Flocked and gaggled
around ponded neighborhoods
squawking at our presence
laughing - haw - haw- haw
at our inability
to frighten them away
leaving soft green cylinders
to decorate our streets
clustered around the brand
new retention basin
and its grassy banks
we all have a way of showing up
for what we need.

My Mother's Art - Harp of Love

Here is my beautiful mother and amazing artist, Martha Vogel with her latest painting entitled "Harp of Love". I am constantly inspired by her originality and awed by her talent. If you want to read a poem about her click HERE.

The Words of Paulo Coelho

I just finished reading The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. It's a philosophical tale about a shepherd boy setting off to find himself and his dreams and all the life lessons he learns along the way. There is a bit of wisdom on just about every page. But I found that I contemplated a piece from the introduction of the book by the author more than the story:

There are four obstacles. First, we are told from childhood onward that everything we want to do is impossible. We grow up with this idea, and as the years accumulate, so too do the layers of prejudice, fear and guilt. There comes a time when our personal calling is so deeply buried in our soul as ti be invisible. But it's still there.

If we have the courage to disinter dream, we are then faced by the second obstacle: love. We know what we want to do, but are afraid of hurting those around us by abandoning everything in order to pursue our dream. We do not realize that love is just a further impetus, not something that will prevent us going forward. We do not realize that those who genuinely wish us well want us to be happy and are prepared to accompany us on that journey.

Once we have accepted that love is a stimulus, we come up against the third obstacle: fear of the defeats we will meet on the path. We who fight for our dream suffer far more when it doesn't work out, because we cannot fall back on the old excuse: "Oh well, I didn't really want it anyway." We do want it and know that we have staked everything on it and that the path of the personal calling is no easier that any other path, except that out whole heart is in this journey. Then, we warriors of light must be prepared to have patience in difficult times and to know that the Universe is conspiring in our favor, even though was may not understand how.

. . . .Then comes the fourth obstacle: the fear of realizing the dream for which we fought all our lives. Oscar Wilde said: "Each man kills the thing he loves." And it's true. The mere possibility of getting what we want fills the soul of the ordinary person with guilt. We look around at all those who have failed to get what they want and feel that we do not deserve to get what we want either. We forget about the obstacles we overcame, all the suffering we endured, all the things we had to give up in order to get this far. I have known a lot of people who, when their personal calling was within their grasp, went on to commit a series of stupid mistakes and never reached their goal - when it was only a step away.

This is the most dangerous of the obstacles because it has a kind of saintly aura about it: renouncing joy and conquest. But if you believe yourself worthy of the thing you fought so hard to get, then you become an instrument of God, you help the Soul of the World, and you understand why you are here.

In a Child's Words

The sixth graders were given bound journals to write in this year. To most of the students I teach (learning disabled or cognitively disabled) writing is something very similar to torture. I would give them the journals and ask them to write something, but most days I heard I don't know what to write or they would just sit there. I explained that journals were personal thoughts and I locked them up every day and promised that no one would read them, and I didn't.

One of my favorite students this year was a boy I had in fifth grade last year. He had a severe reading disability but a lot of leadership potential and he was way ahead of others in terms of maturity. I could glance his way when the others were being obnoxious and he knew how I felt. I knew he did not get much attention at home. He was being raised by a grandmother and no one ever came to school for any reason in the two years I knew him.

Sadly, he left in the spring and moved away without any notice and I did not have a chance to say goodbye.

While cleaning out materials for the end of the year I saw his journal and decided to look at it. I knew there wouldn't be much written and some of it only a teacher of kids with learning disabilities could interpret. This is what he wrote. I've corrected the spelling so it can be understood:

Dear Diary
When I was 4 years old my dad had passed. I was upset. My mom was upset. He was gunned down. The man who killed him was in jail for one day. I'm still not the same from the day it happened to this day.

To be honest, there's not a lot of hope for this kid. From the stories I heard, no one pays any attention to where he is or what he does day or night. He had street-smarts way beyond his twelve years. With a murdered father, an elderly woman for a parent and a severe learning disability - what will happen to him? He is now in his fourth school in four years. He'll be tough because he'll have to survive. Last year I talked to him about using his potential to make good choices and stay out of trouble - but is there anyone else in his life to tell him that?

A Potter's Field

As we were coming home last night from dinner, my husband suddenly pulled into a drive that we'd both been past hundreds of times. We'd heard about it, but never gone in. It is the Potter's Field for the City of Cleveland. The only thing to see is this memorial stone. There were a few plastic flowers and a makeshift wooden cross at its base.

I looked it up and discovered that it was established in 1904 for poor, homeless and unclaimed bodies. Older graves marked by wooden crosses have disappeared over the years, so it is just a lot of grassy area surrounded by trees. A peaceful resting place. It is part of Highland Park Cemetery in Highland Hills, but the records are kept by Cleveland.

It makes you wonder how many people rest there - and why? It makes you think how blessed you are if there are people in your life who love and care about you - who will miss you when you're gone.

Here lies the body of a man who died

Nobody mourned, nobody cried

How he lived, how he fared

Nobody knows, nobody cared.

John Starkwether

Ordinary Genius - A Guide for the Poet Within

Poet Kim Addonizio has a new book out entitled "Ordinary Genius - a Guide for the Poet Within". (She co-authored "The Poet's Companion" with Dorianne Laux in 1997. ) You get your money's worth of lessons in its 300 pages. I was a little disappointed at the beginning, reading ideas like keeping a journal or writing a poem with the first line of someone else's poem, but the book got meatier and more in-depth with every chapter. "Ordinary Genius" is dense with inspiration, poem starters and exercises as well as chapters like "Your Genius, Your Demons" that contain Addonizio's well thought-out philosophies on poets and poetry. She offers adoring insights on everyone from Shakespeare and Whitman to Cleveland's own George Bilgere.

She dares to have a chapter called "Love and Sex Poems" and somehow brings a fresh approach to those time-worn subjects. Addonizio is honest in her assessment of poets when she warns: "When you explore your own life in poetry, it's useful to remember that nobody really cares." And "If you want to be a poet the way some people want to be a rock star without actually learning the guitar, playing scales and practicing - then you are free to fantasize."

Addonizio teaches the sonnet and pantoum in understandable terms. Other chapters include such topics as race, class, addictions and fairy tales. All the regulars are there as well - metaphor, imagery, revising, meter, etc.

It's a comprehensive resource that I would recommend to a beginner or to any seasoned, war-wounded poet who is looking for his/her lost muse.

More Memorial Day Weekend

The beauty a surprise every spring.

My new swan planter.

I painted the bocce court yesterday and my back is remembering today.

Half the pile gone, half to go!

Memorial Day weekend is a time for homeowners to get the mulch down, rake out the leftover leaves of last fall from the gardens, paint decks, drag out hammocks and chairs - but in our hearts we're saying "thank you" to our veterans, old and young, with a prayer that someday there will be no more new veterans to thank.

Memorial Day

This is just a tiny section of the veterans area of Highland Park Cemetery in Cleveland. There is a flag for every veteran's gravemarker every Memorial Day.

Thank You. My Fate

by Anna Swir

Great humility fills me,
great purity fills me,
I make love with my dear
as if I made love dying
as if I made love praying,
tears pour
over my arms and his arms.
I don't know whether this is joy
or sadness, I don't understand
what I feel, I'm crying,
I'm crying, it's humility
as if I were dead,
gratitude, I thank you, my fate,
I'm unworthy, how beautiful
my life.

The Abundance of Talents

Yesterday I took my mom to a local arts center to see the opera "I Pagliacci". It was completely wonderful and professional. Every singer, every scene, every instrumental note. The theater held less than 200 people by my estimate. It was a Sunday afternoon in a relatively small town and the talent blew me away. The singers were, in fact, all professionals, all worthy of a professional opera company - but here they were in a tiny theater singing their hearts out. It made me think of all the talent that abounds everywhere and how we choose to pursue those gifts.

Most of us discovered something we could do - or at least wanted to do - in our youth. Then, depending on our life circumstances we may have been given lessons

or taught ourselves - we may have been encouraged or discouraged by the people in our lives at the time.

I have been compelled throughout my life to express myself through singing, art and now, at a much advanced age - writing. I still feel that I am new to writing poetry and yet, I can see that it's a perfect avocation for me to pursue through the rest of my life, and I have been fortunate to have been encouraged in my poetic pursuits along the way. I still love playing the guitar and make occasional attempts at reviving this love - and then I think - Aw heck, who wants to hear an old lady pretending to be a hippie playing her guitar and singing. And yet - hmmmm maybe you're never too old.

My point is that there is SO much talent in us all and of course we can't all make a living at the things we enjoy doing the most. There are only a few who get to do that - or get recognition for their abilities. The rest of us do it for the love of it - as we should.

I'm reading a book called Ordinary Genius by poet Kim Addonizio. She tells of how she tried to be a classical singer with no background knowledge of what that took. She failed and tried a couple other things, but in her thirties discovered poetry. She says that the premier poetry journal called Poetry has about ten thousand subscribers, but every year has ten times that amount of submissions. That could mean that ten times more people are writing poetry than actually reading it! There is so much talent! But should we stop using our gifts? If you've read this blog for any length of time you know that I firmly believe God gives us gifts to be used. I am glad that the opera singers yesterday shared their gifts whether there were 200 or 2000 people listening.

The Lives of Poems

When poems rain down
on my head like treasures
from heaven - I feast on them,
inhale them, rub them
all over me, lay down and roll
in their ineffable presence.

Each image is pondered,
prayed for, decided upon.
Once achieved - I speak my
well-birthed progeny into being.

Then, for a time, like children,
they forsake me, evacuate
the premises and leave me
marooned on a poemless island
of despair and concern.
I quietly wait and pray
for their safe return.

Poetic Inspirations

You must let your poems ride their luck
On the back of the sharp morning air
Touched with the fragrance of mint and thyme
And everything else is - Literature
Paul Verlaine

Many of my shortest and seemingly simple poems took years to get right. I tinker with most of my poems even after publication. I expect to be revising in my coffin as it is being lowered into the ground.
Charles Simic

If I were in solitary confinement, I'd never write another novel, and probably not keep a journal, but I'd write poetry, because poems, you see, are between God and me.

May Sarton

Removal

Removing your existence from this world must

be normal, seem acceptable in the Hughes family.

Nicholas existed in Alaska, a professor

of fisheries and ocean sciences, far removed

from London and the sealed off room he slept in

as his mother gassed herself in the kitchen,

far removed from the poetic lifestyle of his parents.

His father so beautifully wrote of his little son's eyes as

wet jewels - the hardest substance of the purest pain,

as I fed him in his white high chair.

Was the pain frozen on that childhood day?

Or was it the day his stepmother gassed herself

taking his four year-old stepsister with her?
Was the glorification of his mother's death

the deciding factor or the notion that his father's

infidelities caused her suicidal anguish?

What made Nicholas entertain the irrevocable

thoughts before he hanged himself at age forty-seven,

removing his existence from the earth,

just as his mother and stepmother had before him.

(Nicholas Hughes, son of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, died March 16, 2009)

Mother's Day

Of all the experiences in life I am most grateful for being a mother. My daughter and son have brought more joy to my life than they will ever know - and the big surprise now that they are grown - is that they continue to bring joy and laughter and love. It's an endless gift. The other day I was standing in the hallway at the school where I work. A young teacher I mentored brought her new baby in for all to oooh and ahhh over. Another pregnant teacher looked at the newborn and said "I can't believe something that big is growing inside of me." And I thought to myself - you never actually will quite believe it. It's a great miracle to see the newborn baby arrive, but the miracle doesn't end there - you get to watch her become a person and you get to see what a wonderful man he's turned into - and the gift goes on and on. I've written many poems, but one of my very favorites is called "One Good Thing". It's very personal so I am only going to share part of it here.

Here is a photograph, two decades gone, of me;
a child holding a child, nothing but desirous instinct,
unprepared for the challenges ahead.
I try to remember the ravaged body,
the day it blew, blood vessels bursting,
out of the desert came water,
the fleeting moment when earth connected to heaven
then it detached - and it was mine.

Only the irrevocable opened gift is remembered
my mother told me.
My sphere of consciousness grew
to places unknown, untried in me.
Love was all there was to the day,
each morning illuminated with a sense of rightness.
This must be my life I said to God,
and on my birthday I gave my mother flowers.

I am also grateful for the wonderful woman who taught me how to be a loving mother. She is beautiful and talented and my dear friend and confidant. Happy Mother's Day Mom. I love you.

Do You Really Want to Live in Pleasantville?

On April 28 I wrote a brief commentary on "The Shack" stating one of the messages it conveys is that God does not interfere in human free will - hence evil and wrongdoing are present in the world. A reader made this comment:

But whence the assumption that free will creates evil. I can't really make sense of the idea that baby birds - and little children - starve to death because human beings were purposefully made fallible and then went out and acted that way.

I'm no theologian, but here are my thoughts on this issue. People often blame God on the injustices in the world and use them as a reason not to believe in God at all. The injustices, I suppose, include the emotional pain brought on by death, prejudice, divorce, bigotry, war, hatred and the physical pain brought on my disease, injury, starvation etc.

Those of us who have developed some sort of spiritual life have, no doubt, pondered the notion of a loving God versus the evil in the world. But, for a moment, let's imagine a world with no free will to choose right or wrong - a world with no evil, pain, injustice etc. What if you had no freedom to choose and your life was decided for you to ensure that you never made a wrong choice that might lead to pain for someone else. Your days here on Earth would be acting out a script already written to the tiniest detail. For example you would not have the choice of what to eat or wear because we know that bad diets can lead to bad health and possible pain, and your daily decision to express yourself in what you wear would not be necessary because it might lead to someone elses's misjudgment of you and emotional distress.

You wouldn't get to choose to have a nice glass of wine with dinner because one could lead to several and you might drive drunk and kill an innocent person (or animal). Your mate would be chosen for you so there would be no chance of infidelity or abuse. I wouldn't have the option of writing on this blog because it might offend someone and you wouldn't be able to give your comment either.

With no free will there might not be war or famine, but there would also be no reason to get up in the morning, no motivation to live, nothing to work for, no opportunity to develop relationships with other fallible human beings - not even the chance to help someone less fortunate than you because no one would be less fortunate. Without pain there would be no joy.

It would be Pleasantville. (one of my favorite movies- see HERE) Everything in God's world would be black and white - no colors - that might bring on doubts, questions, human failings, or emotions. I love this movie because it reminds me how boring and useless our lives would be if they were perfect.

Free will causes pain and suffering every day in this world and we may not understand why those who inflict pain on others have chosen to do that. But out free will allows us to make the world a little bit better every day too. It allows us the choices that make us who we are as individuals. I'm sure God wouldn't have created a whole world just for robots. Our free will is what makes us human. It lets us choose beauty and truth. All the joy, generosity, love and goodness in the world is human choice as well. Does that make sense to you?

Wednesday Haiku

Spring sprang green and lush
shade shadows appeared on streets
baby leaves birthed


Coasting on my bike
down my childhood summer street
Look, Mom, no hands, look!


A haiku is small
it has a five seven five
prison to live in

Postscript to a Poem

Women who decide to embrace the maturity and intellectual attainment of middle age are far more attractive than the sad specimens clinging like desperate survivors to the sinking raft of youth.
Daniel Bell

Glory Days

One more fifty year-old female face
in the obituaries
prompted a decision -
prepare to die or
begin to live
a life unfettered
from the straightjackets of youth
she emptied the anger
from her ego-tattered brain
purged everything
from the vainglorious
to the inglorious
released those ten pounds
that unfashionable wardrobe
the stringy hair, the bitten nails
rubbed off concealing makeup
threw off shoes that run (away)
when she unplugged the ipod
she heard music
when she took off
her rose-colored sunglasses
she saw a face and a whole body
when she broke the mirror
she found beauty

To This May

by W.S. Merwin

They know so much more now about

the heart we are told but the world

still seems to come one at a time

one day one year one season and here

it is spring once more with its birds

nesting in the holes in the walls

its morning finding the first time

its light pretending not to move

always beginning as it goes

The Shack

I recently read "The Shack" by William Paul Young. It's the latest big-selling Christian novel. I will admit I am repelled by any maudlin, pie-in-the-sky sort of Christian stories and I began the book skeptically. I was suprised when the first half was quite realistic and did not paint all the characters as unflawed goody-two-shoes. The narrator is Mack, a father of four. He tells of his family being torn apart by the abduction and murder of his 4 year-old daughter. He descends into what he calls "the great sadness".

Then Mack gets a written invitation in the mailbox from God to meet him in a shack in the Oregon wilderness. God signs the note "Papa". The shack is where his daughter was murdered and her blood still stains the floor. There he also meets Jesus and the Holy Spirit who, of course, appear to him as a diverse group of human beings - probably to break down any silly stereotypes we may have about what the Trinity actually looks like. (Can you sense my deteriorating interest in the book?)

The rest of "The Shack" gives Young's interpretations of God and all His mysterious ways. Here's where I have a problem. A mere human who has decided that he has it all figured out or to, in effect, speak for God, not to mention Jesus and the Holy Spirit. The words of the Big Three are very straight forward in their explanations. I think we would all like to have a complete understanding of God, but I do not believe that is possible here on Earth and I am wary of a person who thinks they do.

You may be surprised when I say that I wouldn't necessarily discourage anyone from reading this book. There may be some nuggets of wisdom or inspiration that hit home with you. But when I started looking up articles on the Internet about this book I found the words "dangerous" and "subversive" time and again.

Without a doubt the author's primary message is that God loves us unconditionally and He does not interfere in the free will that creates evil in this world. I do have a problem though with all the answers to life wrapped up in a neat 250 pages, because if we knew it all we wouldn't need any faith, would we?

Those who oppose the book have found many biblical misinterpretations and disturbing explanations. Have you read it? I'd like to know what you think.

Weird

Two weird things:

On Easter we had 22 people to stuff with food. The oven was filled with turkey, ham and potatoes and was almost finished cooking when the six year-old oven just stopped. The digital read-out went blank and we all went, "what the. . .?" Then the fan in the microwave went on voluntarily and could not be turned off. Obviously they were overheated and were trying to tell us such in their own technological way. Later the oven came back on and it seemed okay. Then one day last week I went out to get the mail and when I came back in I heard an unfamiliar beeping. I looked around and found that it was the oven and there were some words running across the digital window. I went in and tapped my sleeping husband on the shoulder and said , "Honey, the oven is sending us a message."

This is even weirder!

Last night my daughter and I went to a concert venue to see Ani DiFranco (amazing :) ) We were stopped at the door for wristbands for the imbibing of alcohol. The young man looked me straight in the face and said, "Can I see your ID?" I looked incredulously towards my twenty-something daughter standing next to me and almost yelled, "But I'm her mother!" Didn't matter. He still insisted on seeing my ID. I proudly handed him my ID. Alas, I know in my heart he was just doing his job. He didn't really think. . . .

Book-Lovin'

Please Bury Me in the Library

Please bury me in the library

In the clean, well-lighted stacks

Of Novels, History, Poetry,

Right next to the Paperbacks.

Where the Kids' Books dance

With True Romance

And the Dictionary dozes.

Please bury me in the library

With a dozen long-stemmed proses.

Way back by a rack of Magazines,

I won't be sad too often

If they bury me in the library

With Book worms in my coffin.

J. Patrick Lewis

Lake Effect

One of the wondrous things about living in Cleveland is that there are two distinct sides - east and west. Everything is different about these two sides including the weather. The eastern suburbs, where I have lived all my life, are blessed with something we like to call "lake effect weather". Here is what happens: some sort of weather comes waltzing down from a northern state or country and dances its way across Lake Erie. While it is over the lake it gets thrown around like a chicken breast in a bag of Shake and Bake. Then the bag unceremoniously dumps its contents on the eastern suburbs, usually in what we like to call the Snow Belt. Here is a poem I wrote a few years back about such an event. If it's a warm sunny day where you are just get down on your knees and thank Someone.

It snowed all day on April 24, 2005

in spite of the fact that I was wearing

my flip-flops and would be doing so

straight through October, no matter what.

My feet literally free of

winter's ponderous burdens.

Easter was long gone and we

were wearing white again.

That day and the next

remains of daffodils did not peek

out of the snowdrifts with happy faces

reaching towards the sun

but were splattered and flattened into

soggy piles of mud and ice.

Hardwood boughs broke, pines and willows

were amputated of every appendage.

I saw the pink of magnolias in full bloom

fill the bed of a truck. The yellow forsythia

swooped to a ground view they had

never seen before.

Baby leaves were murdered and ripped

from their nourishing twigs.

Yards littered in wooden crisscrosses, like

giant toothpicks or as in a game of pick-up-sticks.

There was no electricity or school

as we waited for power lines

to be disentangled from leaning towers

and aberrant formations.

The next day is was 50 degrees and the melting music

of thumps and thuds and power saws played all day.

In a battle on the Northcoast

of Ohio, the trees lost.

Synecdoche

If you like movies that you think about for days afterward - you will love Synecdoche, New York. Written and directed by Charlie Kaufman (Adaptation, Being John Malkovich) and starring Philip Seymour Hoffman. It is filled with so much symbolism it makes your head spin. First of all, the word synecdoche is a figure of speech in which a part is used for the whole. For example using the word law for police officers. The main character is named Caden Cotard. Cotard's syndrome is one in which a person believes he is dead or does not exist. I will not pretend to be able to analyze the complexity of this film, but here is the bare bones plot: A theater director who's life is in shambles wins a huge grant, builds a life-size replica of Manhattan and spends 17 years staging his life story.

When the perplexing movie was over I simply thought it was a movie about LIFE, specifically about the futility of life and all of the seasons and trials that we move through - failed relationships and creative efforts, fear, loss, death, confusion, illness etc.

There are dopplegangers galore. Caden appears to be completely narcissistic as he imagines someone is always watching him and believes his life is worthy of a play that continues to be rehearsed year after year. He struggles with personality integration and possibly gender identification. One of the lines in the film is "there are 13 billion people in the world - none of those people is an extra; they're all leads in their own stories."

My favorite symbol is an eternally burning house. One of the characters, Hazel, says, "I like it, I do, but I'm concerned about dying in the fire." The realtor replies, "It's a big decision, how one chooses to die."

Some of our choices are fatal, some are harmful to ourselves or others. To me, the burning house is a reminder that everything is continually disintegrating and going away - everything material and our very lives. I don't see that as depressing, just reality.

I thought Synecdoche, New York was quite brilliant and I probably should have watched it more than once to get the complete idea, but if you are up for a kind of slow but challenging film - let me know what you think!

Dad Update

Lots of kind folks have asked about my dad. He just came home from a week at the hospital due to lung infections and pneumonia. He's doing great and I appreciate the thoughts and prayers.

Have we gone too far??

As I looked out at the view from my dad's hospital room I couldn't seem to find one natural creation beyond the one little tree on the right - I wondered - have we gone too far?

He who created the heavens, he is God; he who fashioned and made the earth, he founded it; he did not create it to be empty, but formed it to be inhabited. Isaiah 45:18

Blogweary

I've invented a new term for those of us who blog regularly, but then begin to feel a bit overwhelmed at the task of staying interesting and viable - blogweary. I read a lot of blogs and I have seen this expressed time and time again. We LOVE our blogging experience. It's inspiring and motivating. We love our readers' kind and insightful comments. There is something magical about the ability to make friends with people all over the world. So, none of us want to give it up - but sometimes we're just a little blogweary.

I am always afraid if I don't post regularly my readers will get bored and desert me. But I do not want to slap up some superficial crap just to have something to post either. There is a certain obligation one feels when you know that people are out there reading. Sometimes life just gets in the way, such as this week, my father has been in the hospital and the time I would usually come home and blog after work has been taken up visiting him, as it should be!

At the end of the work day I certainly have the physical ability to sit and type, but not always the mental energy. My day, as most people's is filled with data collection, data analysis, documentation and paperwork.I am constantly evaluating student behavior and social-emotional needs as well as the curriculum and testing. My brain gets tired and fuzzy. When I am at work I am constantly making lists of things to do when I leave work - and blog ideas is always on my list.

I have shared a lot of myself in these past 19 months and 405 posts. I love sharing my poems, but I am saving a large group of my better ones in hopes of another book. I don't want them all on the Internet to be read ahead of time. (Hence, my recent silly ones)

All of this yadda, yadda, yadda is to say that I may cut back, just a little, on the number of posts per week. I'm thinking 2-3, but who knows? I'd rather do that than write things unworthy of the time it takes for all of you to click on COEXIST and read.

So readers - will you stick by me? At least until the leisurely summer? Thanks for reading.

If I Had to Live My Life Over

I don't usually post items that can be found elsewhere on the Internet - but I received this one and it's worth reading. It's by the late Erma Bombeck. If you've never read any of her essays or books give them a try. She is still as funny and relevant as she ever was. She wrote this after she found out she was dying from cancer:

If I Had My Life to Live Over -
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for a day.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even it the carpet was stained or the sofa faded.
I would have eaten popcorn in the "good" living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have sat on the lawn with my grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.
I would never have bought something just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
When my kids kissed me impetuously I would never have said,"Later, now get washed up for dinner." There would have been more "I love you's" more "I'm sorrys."
But mostly, given another shot at life I would seize every minute, look at it and really see it. Live it and never give it back. Stop sweating the small stuff!

The Evil Scale

There is a horrifying number
between my feet.
It is one I have not seen before.

I have lightened myself
as much as I could so why
did I step up and look at the floor?

Denial, sacrifice, martyrdom, oh my!
I am adipose, apoplexic
and mortified.

Now my day is ruined
as I obsess over why.
One blissful meal and now I want to cry.

Why is it a sin to enjoy
the fruits of God's good earth?
Why does the scale take away my mirth?

I am innocent!
I don't deserve this I say.
After all, I exercised just yesterday.

You pig, you slug
into the mirror I say,
but the scale doesn't lie about how much I weigh.

Easter Morning

Jesus of Nazareth - worth your ten minutes today

Click HERE.
Happy Easter to all my readers.

Maundy Thursday

The Hand Song

This song is as powerful of an Easter song as I can imagine. I would sing it in church but I don't think I'd make it through. It is by the now defunct group Nickel Creek - Sara Watkins, Sean Watkins, Chris Thile)

The boy only wanted to give mother something

and all of her roses had bloomed.

Looking at him as he came rushing in

without knowing her roses were doomed.
All she could see were some thorns buried deep

and tears that he criedas she tended his wounds.

And she knew it was love, it was what she could understand.

He was showing his love and that 's how he hurt his hands.

He still remembers that night as a child on his mother's knee.

She held him close as she opened her bible

and quietly started to read.

Then seeing a picture of Jesus he cried out -

Mama! He's got scars just like me.

And he knew it was love. It was what he could understand.

He was showing his love and that's how he hurt his hands.

Now the boy is grown and moved out on his own

when Uncle Sam comes along.

A foreign affair but our young men are there

and luck had his number drawn.

It wasn't that long til our soldier was gone,

he gave to a friend what he learned from the cross.

But they knew it was love. It was what they could understand.

He was showing his love - and that's how he hurt his hands.

Days

(A poem by Billy Collins former United States Poet Laureate)

Each one is a gift, no doubt,
mysteriously placed in your waking hand
or set upon your forehead
moments before you open your eyes.

Today begins cold and bright,
the ground heavy with snow
and the thick masonry of ice,
the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.

Through the calm eye of the window
everything is in its place
but so precariously
this day might be resting somehow

on the one before it,
all the days of the past stacked high
like the impossible tower of dishes
entertainers used to buid on stage.

No wonder you find yourself
perched on the top of a tall ladder
hoping to add one more.
Just another Wednesday,

you whisper,
then holding your breath,
place this cup on yesterday's saucer
without the slightest clink.

Thursday Night Will Never Be the Same

Last night I tearfully said goodbye to my favorite TV show after fifteen years. It is the only nighttime drama I have ever watched on a regular basis and the only one I've watched at all for as long as I can remember. When ER began it had a cutting-edge new camera style. I'd almost forgotten since so many have copied it since then. Instead of feeling like you were watching prewritten scenes - you felt like you were behind a camera racing down a hallway following a gurney in a frantic emergency every episode. It's funny that I loved this show so much because I am completely needle-phobic and I am not fond of blood either. I've spent a portion of every show with my hands over my eyes waiting for the gore to be over. If you're squeemish there's nothing like watching a stretcher emerge from an ambulance holding a person with some sort of sharp inanimate object sticking out of his torso.

But it was the characters I loved. Real, flawed human beings with past lives to discover. I never stopped missing the character of Mark Green (Anthony Edwards). I remember an episode in the first season called "Love's Labor's Lost" when his pain and agony over losing a mother after giving birth tore your heart right out of your chest. Last night they echoed that amazing episode with a similar story. The character of John Carter was, to me, the heart and soul of the show. He began as a wide-eyed intern under the heartfelt mentorship of Mark Green and the show came full circle last night as John Carter became a mentor to Mark's daughter when she showed up at County General as a medical student.

The cast of the show gave the late author, Michael Crichton credit for the credible and touching characters in the show. Crichton created the show based on his experience as a med student in an ER.

Last night 16.2 people watched the ER finale, which is the highest rated drama finale since 1996 (Murder She Wrote). ER earned 122 Emmy nominations and ran for fifteen years - pretty incredible. I was truly sorry to see it go and for me - Thursday nights will never be the same.

Why Poetry?

Earlier this week I wrote about the generosity of writers. That notion has extended into my week with invitations to read my poetry at a couple local book stores. I love reading aloud. I'm a teacher after all! But I'm not an actress. I wonder how effective I will be in reading my own poems and whether they will make an impression out loud. (I'll let you know) However, I am once again grateful for the independent book store owners who are so supportive and encouraging of local writers and I thank God there are still independent book stores around!

Whenever I am faced with a new writing challenge there is always that little voice fluttering around in my head asking Why are you doing this? Where did these poems come from? I don't know and I don't know. But it's a part of my life now, a part of me.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will. Czeslaw Milosz

Because poems are meanings, and even the saddest poem I write is proof I want to survive. And therefore it represents an affirmation of life in all its complexities and contradictions.

Gregory Orr

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom. Robert Frost

Cleveland Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

Let's face it - Cleveland doesn't get much good press and the country rarely gives us a break when they have the opportunity to make us a laughing stock of something. This week Cleveland is enjoying some positive attention. We are the home of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame - yet the induction ceremony has only taken place here once since the Rock Hall opened in 1997. Henceforth, it will be here every three years.

This is Induction Week 2009. Last Saturday they held The Moondog Coronation Ball with groups such as Tommy James and the Shondells, Three Dog Night, Herman's Hermits and Little Richard. (I read that Little Richard came on the stage in a wheelchair - now THAT can make you feel OLD.) Tomorrow a new exhibit opens called From Asbury Park to the Promised Land: The Life and Music of Bruce Springsteen. Thursday will see a concert with the O'Jays, Dave Mason and Wanda Jackson. Friday- Little Anthony and the Imperials. Saturday is the Induction Ceremony at Cleveland Public Hall. This year's inductees are Jeff Beck, Little Anthony and the Imperials, Run-DMC, Metallica, Bobby Womack and Wanda Jackson.

I can't say I'm actually attending any of these events, but I'm enjoying the positive atmosphere and the good news in Cleveland for a change. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum is a beautiful building that sits in North Coast Harbor on Lake Erie as you can see above. Just this weekend I was listening to the oldies being played in the grocery store and wondering if any of these artists ever dreamed we'd still be hearing their songs forty years later.

A couple weeks ago we met some friends at a restaurant where an "oldies" band was playing. Hearing songs from Junior High and High School was more fun than I imagined. The place was wall-to-wall fifty and sixty-somethings dancing their fool heads off. We LOVE rock and roll and always will.

COEXIST XXI

Painting by Norman Rockwell

The Generosity of Writers

This weekend I went to two writer events. I don't know about other cities, but Cleveland has a community of the most generous and amazing writers I could ever imagine. For several years I took classes at what was then known as the Poet's and Writer's League of Greater Cleveland. Now it is known as The Lit. I worked with incredible fiction writers and poets and I learned more than I can say here. I had been writing my own personal form of poetry for several years and it focused on feelings, (specifically anger most of the time.) I learned about the complexity of writing poems, editing and publishing poetry, and that they were so much more than expressing your feelings

I have a chapbook now and some poetry credits but I still feel like I am a newbie among these accomplished writers. However, they don't react to me that way. I am immediately accepted and encouraged in their presence. I have to accept that I AM a writer. I had several offers to read my poetry on one night. Today the facilitator of one of the classes was someone whose blog I read and he, in turn, has read mine and was kind enough to order my chapbook. He put my blog up on the screen and told the class that my poems make him cry. There is not a thread of competition when you are among other writers. We are in this together. We all know what drives us from within and we understand each other without ever meeting face to face. These writers are also incredibly generous with their time and advice. I can only hope to pay it forward someday.

Thank you to all my mentors out there. You know who you are.

Writing breaks open the vaults of the dead and the skies behind which the prophesying angels hide. Sylvia Plath

Buying A Pair of Jeans

It could take a whole day, maybe two -
the pulling up and pushing down of blue denim.
You know before it wraps around your thigh
whether to continue the heated upward effort.

Sometimes you miscalculate
as they smoothly rise over your hips
to discover the button will not be forced
into its matching hole from two inches away.

Boot cut, flare, straight leg, wide leg,
curvy, slim, skinny, low-waist, ultra low,
faded, dark wash, ripped, bedazzled,
stretch, regular, ankle, long, petite, short,
5-pocket, 4-pocket, button-down, zip.

Then a pair slides on without tears.
You button, you zip, you turn to view the rear.
You squat, you stand on tiptoe - and you sigh.
You pay a lot of money, bring them home

and try them on to make sure it wasn't a dream.
At long last you sit into the ease of your new jeans
and smile. You pray they won't shrink.
You hope you don't gain any more weight.

You touch the soft blue fabric and rejoice
in the comfort you so valiantly sought.
It's a victorious day - and then your husband says,
so what did you do all day?

Kermit Wisdom

Here's some simple advise: always be yourself. Never take yourself too seriously. And beware of advice from experts, pigs, and members of Parliament.

When I was a tadpole there was really only one thing that I collected. I had a file of newspaper and magazine articles on Frogs in Show Business. It was a small collection, but I think it influenced me a lot.

I have a lot of great memories from the swamp. I remember when I was little, we'd all just sit out on our lily pads for hours and hours, rocking gently on the water and listening to the soft, sweet sound of chirping crickets. . . then of course, we'd eat the crickets. . . but that's another story.

I really do believe that all of you are at the beginning of a wonderful journey. As you start traveling down the road of life, remember this: There are never enough comfort stops. The places you're going to are never on the map. And once you get that map out, you won't be able to refold it no matter how smart you are. So forget the map, roll down the windows and whenever you can, pull over and have a picnic with a pig. And if you can help it, never fly as cargo.

When green is all there is to be it can make you wonder why - but why wonder? I am green and it'll do fine. It's beautiful and it's what I want to be.

Food Memories - Or Not

I have a wonderful writer friend, Gail Bellamy, who writes about food. She writes for food magazines, has a poetry book called "Victual Reality" with food poems, and wrote a book called "Cleveland Food Memories." I can't say I have many food memories because food is not really interesting to me. I never was interested in cooking. I made every effort to feed my children healthy meals, but they were nothing to provide them with food memories either - with the exception of my homemade macaroni and cheese! They still love it and I still make it for their birthdays, but sadly, that's it for their mom's cooking. Not being a cook, I believe, has hampered my social skills since there is always talk about new recipes and I have nothing to contribute. Oh well.

I married a wonderful, creative cook and since then my cooking skills have deteriorated to zilch. Hey, I can't be good at everything! I always enjoy his creative kitchen endeavors, but would be just as happy with a fried egg sandwich. You'd think I'd be skinny, wouldn't you?

My husband and I are in the habit of surprising each other with a dinner at a fancy restaurant for our birthdays. We've had several special evenings at some of these highly-overpriced places. Food is not really interesting to me and I am pretty much happy with anything but I do enjoy a relaxing dinner at a place with a pleasing ambience. This week was my husband's birthday. I decided to take him to "Lola" in downtown Cleveland. The reason this place is notable is because the chef, Michael Symon is a winner of the "Iron Chef" television reality show. It's a hot spot in Cleveland, of course. When we approached the restaurant my hubby sounded like he was pleasantly surprised at where we were to dine. We were seated at one of those tiny tables where one of the seats is a long bench so you are sitting about one foot away from other couples on each side. Both sides of us had two men (loud-talkers). We were also about twenty feet away from the kitchen that was located in the middle of the restaurant, not behind doors as it should be. I don't know if the famous chef actually ever cooks there now, but if he did you would be able to sit on a stool with an appletini and watch to your heart's content. This would be really boring to me, plus the noise of ten young men in baseball caps throwing pots and pans around was deafening. It may be where the action is (I think that was a show in the 60's) but I quite enjoy talking to the person I'm having dinner with.

Then comes the meal. I ordered a fish called Artic Char because I like fish and because it was accompanied by sweet potato something-or-other and I love anything with sweet potato. Now for a $29 entree you think they could afford more than a teaspoon of pureed sweet potato, but that was all I was able to locate. The fish serving was small too - and that was about it for dinner. Oh well, at least I didn't feel bloated afterwards. To be fair, everything was very tasty, but between the exhorbitant bill, the chaotic atmosphere and the tiny servings - well, we both said -at least we can say we've been here. No food memories there.

A Spring Walk

On a lunchtime walk this week I came upon a fallen branch with ducks and turtles resting together in the sun. Before I took this photo there were several more large turtles and a couple more ducks, but unfortunately I scared them away. However, I found it a fine example of COEXISTING. Two species, one branch. HAPPY SPRING!
(You can click on it to enlarge. Warning - the two on the end may be getting prepared for something more than sun-bathing!)

Here's Your Answer

Did you hear the one about the man that was stranded on a rooftop after a flood? He prayed for God to help him. Soon a boat came by and offered assistance, but the man declined saying that God was going to help him. Then a helicopter flew over. . . yeah, you've heard it.

One of the frustrating parts of my job teaching kids with learning disabilities is that they know I'm there to help them and sometimes if I don't do a task for them, or tell them the answer I hear "You're not helping me!" I always tell them I am not in fifth grade, they are, and they won't learn if I do it for them. As parents we've all said the same type of thing.

Recently Terry Pluto, a writer for the Cleveland Plain Dealer wrote an article called "There are times when God doesn't want prayers." Hmmm, interesting.

". . .some of us have prayed our way into paralysis. We know what we're supposed to do - but we'd rather pray than do it.

He gave examples of people asking for prayer and being told by friends that they already were capable of doing what they were asking for - so just do it! I thought about something I've prayed, cried and agonized over for years and I realized that it was not that I couldn't do it - it was that I wanted God to make it easier for me. The glaring fact that He has not done that made me think He wasn't helping! Yikes! I sound like my fifth graders!!!

Sometimes we pray to be able to accomplish something and the reply is: " What is standing in your way?"

And really the only answer is : me.

John Denver

I caught a bit of two TV shows this weekend. The first was VH1's Greatest Hard Rock Songs. Whenever these kind of shows are on my husband can never get over how uncool I must have been in the 70's. I am unfamiliar with some of the top songs or which band recorded them. I've never been to a KISS concert or seen an Alice Cooper show. I truly regret missing some of it because now I not only like many of these songs, but I appreciate the absolute originality and musicality of some of the groups of the 70's. (If you must know - their top song was "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns and Roses - a group I did not appreciate when a poster of an unzipped Axl hung in my adolescent daughter's bedroom!)

The other show was a PBS special on John Denver. Now THAT's what I was doing in the '70's! The folk song thing suited me (and my guitar) just fine. I could play all of Denver's 3-chorded songs (D-A-G). I was a big fan , as well as a big fan of James Taylor, although James's music was a bit more complex.

I remember going to a John Denver concert at a now-long-gone humongous venue called The Coliseum and it was packed. He was actually quite a phenomenon; recording 30 albums with 14 going gold and 8 platinum. His songs conveyed mostly the beauty and goodness of the earth or the bittersweet aspects of loving someone. I loved a lyric like:

He was born in the summer of his twenty-seventh year.

Going home to a place he'd never been before.

I insisted on "Annie's Song" being sung at my (first) wedding even though my mother thought the lyrics - let me lay down beside you - were inappropriate for church.

John Denver seemed to have a childlike joy for life. He was a philanthropist and environmentalist and his music was loved all over the world. His concerts were like a camp sing-a-long - although he requested that the audience only sing during the chorus. His life wasn't all rosy - two failed marriages and a drinking problem. He died in a plane crash at age 53 in 1997. I was truly saddened, but I think he was a person that lived life to the fullest while he was here.

So I am not ashamed to be a John Denver fan. I still pull out my guitar, and the John Denver songs are the simple and lovely songs I still know by heart.

Unspin

There is no excuse for your life
just because someone with less
has erased your name
and written their own.

They filled your bucket,
stole your words, tumbled
your ramparts, but there
are still mirrors everywhere.

Don't say you confused
sunrise with sunset
when God put the universe
and all the colors in you.

Don't say He didn't answer
your prayers when what you
prayed for you could
have already made happen.

You're in a blindfolded spin
like a childhood game
but you're not a child.
Unspin yourself.

Hear the resurrection sounds,
walk in His orchard.
We only saw good
until we asked why.

Dark Shadows vs. Twilight

So my book club read "Twilight" - if you haven't heard it's a young adult series of vampire/werewolf books. Yes, I do belong to an adult book club and I didn't want to read it, but I was curious about all the hoopla over the book. I read the first one and it kept my interest. It is unoffensive in every way. The main character is a typical, insecure, flawed teenager who just happens to fall in love with a vampire. But hey, vampires are nothing new, right? In the late 60's I was rushing home from elementary school to watch "Dark Shadows". Everybody watched it! I'd often go next door to Mrs. T's and she'd make me a cup of tea and we'd watch it together. Then I'd race home and call my best girlfriend to discuss the events of that episode. Above is a photo of the dreaded vampire Barnabas Collins. The guy was a terrible actor and the sets were cheesy back then, but it must have captured our imaginations, just like Edward Cullen of "Twlight". One big difference though is that, while Barnabas seemed to entice his share of the ladies, um, I'd have to say Edward Cullen is much hotter. (I haven't seen the movie, just seen pics).

The thing that gets me ab0ut fads like this is that they are not original. I remember when I read the first Harry Potter book. I was expecting brilliance for all the adoration it was getting. I read about magic spells and broomsticks and wizards with the ability to become invisible. What? JK Rowling didn't exactly make any of that up out of her amazing imagination. I was disappointed. Now it's well-meaning, handsome vampires. Oh well, I guess anything that gets kids reading is okay with me. I was forced to read the second one too and then I'd had enough of teeny-bopper land. But my friends tell me book 3 and 4 are MUCH better!