John Lennon's Loo

"The porcelain lavatory was used by the Beatle for three years when he lived at Tittenhurst Park in Berkshire between 1969 and 1972. It was expected to sell for just £1,000 but an overseas investor paid £9,500 for it at the 33rd annual Beatles Convention in Liverpool. Stephen Bailey, a Fab Four expert and the auction's organiser, said: "It is unbelievable. We had bids coming in from all over the place, but it went to a private overseas buyer." The lot was part of a sale of Beatles memorabilia, including autographs, rare recordings of the group, and a harmonica owned by Lennon's son Julian."

The Telegraph

Man, I'd like a loo like that even if it didn't belong to John.

Shelob's Return

If you were reading this blog six years ago (first of all, if you were, you need to take a bow) you may remember when I was bitten by a Brown Recluse, or Fiddleback, spider. Yeah, it was right on my ass because, not knowing about these hell beasties, I innocently left my sweats lying on the bathroom floor. Doesn't everyone once in a while? That bite made me pretty sick, but the doctor determined that it had probably been a baby spider, so the worst I got from it was some nausea, a pretty sore welt, and an occasional flare-up twice a year or so. It was livable because I've seen what can happen from a Brown Recluse bite. Trust me... do NOT Google it.

When I was younger, especially in my late twenties and thirties, I was pretty hot. I'm not being vain or conceited, I'd spent my entire life up to about 1979 feeling like a dog-faced burrito. But something magical happened and I suddenly just blossomed. Okay, so all good things come to an end and around 1994 I started slipping back into dog-faced burritoness. I lost most of what looks I enjoyed for a while, but the one thing I kept was my great ass. I mean it! If you saw me from the back, even today, you'd think I was only about 30 and in good shape. It's when I turn around that things get disappointing; I'm beginning to look every bit of my 59 years. So when Baby Shelob bit me, I was humiliated but not too broken up because it left no scar and half of my ass didn't fall off in a festering heap.

Fast-forward. Last Thursday I decided to start cleaning the garage. We'd had a spider infestation earlier in the summer, so we bug bombed it twice, killing a multitude of spider varieties and their eggs. I've been out there a bit and there was no sign of a living spider anywhere, except for that one big mama for whom I left the garage doors open so she could leave in peace. Wasn't going to mess with her.

Anyway, after I cleaned up about half the garage, Joel, Micah and I sat out there, the doors wide open, enjoying a beer together. Our garage is cool. Because it's finished and built-in with recessed lighting and heat and air vents, it's really more like a big room and we have plans to make a bar/lounge out of it as soon as it's cleaned out. There was a grey desk chair out there that I'd put in the Goodwill pile, so I pulled it out and sat down to enjoy my beer while laughing with my boys.

Not soon after, after I'd shut the doors and switched off the lights to call it a day, I started feeling unwell. I took a shower and that's when I noticed (or, felt) the spider bite on my ass, just three inches from the old one. For a couple of days I just figured it was another flare-up, but yesterday I was so ill I couldn't even get out of the bed. I slept all day, and when I was awake I was pretty nearly delirious. But you know, I used to spend good money to feel like that, so I went with it and didn't complain. I sure did write a lot, and some pretty vivid stuff, too! Finally, Nettl demanded she look at it and sure enough, it's a brand new Brown Recluse bite. Enter Shelob II.

Great. Not only do I have yet another six-plus years to go through painful flare-ups, now I have to worry if this bite is going to be like the ones I've seen in Google.

My ass is all I have left of my youth, folks, and I don't much fancy the idea that it could fall off. Well, it won't do that literally, but judging from some of those pictures, it could definitely turn into something much uglier than a dog-faced burrito. I don't like thinking about my butt becoming disfigured, so I'm trying to be philosophical about this whole thing.

In some Native American traditions, Spider Grandmother is the earth mother, spinning her web of fate. In dream dictionaries the spider often denotes high creativity and inspiration. Right now, however, I'm just hoping it was another baby that bit me and not an ancient granny. I've always heard that killing a spider was bad karma, so I've always set them free when I've found them in the house. But a garage full? Sorry, ladies. Yeah, and sorry about my luck--if I killed hundreds of spiders and thousands of eggs, I just know my ass is going to fall off in karmic payback.

My Musical Roots - The Ventures

As many of you have read in the past, I come from a long line of drummers. I grew up in a home where there were never fewer than two drum sets at any given time. There was my dad's set, which was usually in the garage unless my parents were having one of their frequent parties or my dad's band, The Aristocrats of Dixie, were rehearsing. On any of these occasions, his drums were brought into the living room.

My brother, too, was a drummer and he kept his set in his room unless he was playing for a dance somewhere. Being seven years older than me, he was all about Rockabilly, 50s Rock and Roll, and later, 60s Top 40. In the 70s he went into biker band music and blues, and finally, Country.

I heard drumming every day of my life since the day I was born, so I really didn't hear it at all. Drumming was just a normal part of everyday life, from my dad, my brother and me drumming absently on table tops and door sills to actually hitting the skins. I still drum on everything and my feet are constantly playing an invisible high-hat and kick drum.

I used to like to watch my brother play. He kept his record player on a table beside his set, and he'd turn it up really loud and play along. Sometimes when he was gone, I'd go in there and do the same. The song I learned to play first was Walk, Don't Run by The Ventures. It's a straightforward 4/4 beat, the most complicated thing being the rolls that occur every so often. Later, as a young teen, I went on to play harder songs. I was good, too. But then, it runs in the blood, so I never really considered playing drums any kind of feat. Sometimes my brother and I would play together, he on drums and me on my electric guitar. We'd play other Ventures songs like, Pipeline and Misirlou. The Ventures were a huge influence on me musically, thanks to my brother.

"Among artists listing The Ventures as a favorite or an influence are George Harrison (Beatles), Joe Walsh (James Gang, Eagles), Jimmy Page (Led Zeppelin), Stephen Stills, Peter Frampton, Roger Fisher (Heart), Stanley Clarke,  Stevie Ray Vaughn, John Fogerty (CCR), Jeff Cook (Alabama), and Mark Knopfler (Dire Straits). Blondie, the GoGos, and the B52s are groups that list The Ventures in their roots.

"More recently, Joe Perry and Tom Hamilton (Aerosmith) have added their names to the list.  Keith Moon (the Who), Max Weinberg, and Alan White (Yes) have identified the Ventures as a percussion influence. Even Elton John, in his Starbucks Christmas Collection, pays homage to The Ventures." (from The Ventures website)

MAIN INFLUENCES: Clarity of melody and rhythm, instrumental mastery and the importance of a solid rhythm guitar and bass counterpoint.

Here's a video of The Ventures performing Walk, Don't Run in 1984. I'd rather have an earlier one, but they were all synced and didn't show off the drums.

My Musical Roots - Spike Jones & His City Slickers

First off, it's important for you to understand that my dad was a clown (of the Hobo/bumpkin variety, like Emmett Kelly or Clem Kadiddlehopper).

Sometimes he dressed up for parades, in which he swept up after the horses only to threaten to deposit their "road apples" on the feet of innocent bystanders. This always elicited a lot of laughter as the kids ran away screaming. It was his schtick, and he came by it naturally as his father had been a child star in Vaudeville who grew up to be a clownish Song-and-Dance Man, as they were termed in those days.

Grandad did outlandish things on stage like run around his drum set, playing and never missing a beat, and playing the piano upside-down, backwards, and with his toes (not simultaneously. I don't think). While Dad (who inherited his father's Austrian toilet humor) was often mistaken for William Bendix, his sense of humor was more like Red Skelton's.

Being a show-off was a must if you wanted to survive our family, and it's something I naturally continue to perpetuate with my own family and friends. Everyone got their turn in the spotlight, and if that would be troublesome for you, you wouldn't last long. Not that we'd cast you out, we'd just rush to get our time on stage and run you over. It's nothing personal, you understand. The Wallers have always lived to entertain and to "play for the laugh".

I have a colorful family.

Dad loved Spike Jones & His City Slickers so much that he frequently had me sit with him in front of the TV late on Saturday nights to watch old footage of their antics. He also raised me on the Ritz Brothers, the Marx Brothers, Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton.

Growing up with Spike Jones helped me to develop my already well-established Waller humor, but it taught me something else: how to add humor to music. I tried my own hand at it when I was a teenager, although I didn't know that's what I was doing. I mean, I knew I was writing comedy/parody songs, but I didn't know I was just following in some pretty impressive footsteps.

MAIN INFLUENCES: Musical parody, satire and sight gags. "Bastardizing" songs--changing the lyrics to something funny (I was doing that LONG before anyone ever heard of Weird Al). Use of "funny" instruments such as the kazoo, slide whistle, etc.

Here's Spike et al.

My Musical Roots - Joe & Eddie

Because the deadline for my book is October first, I'll be spending the entire month of September working on that. I don't want to just leave you here with no entries though, so I thought it might be fun to share with you videos of people who were my first musical influences. I'm talking pre-Beatles, pre-1964. These will be in no particular order; I've saved the YouTube embed codes for a number of videos and I'll post them as they appear on my list.

Let's start with the great Joe & Eddie. I don't remember how I acquired one of their albums. It seems to me that maybe it belonged to my foster sister, Ginger, so I had to be around 9 or 10 when I first heard it. Maybe she brought it with her. Whatever, once I heard it, it became one of my favorites and I played it until it was nothing but a mass of scratches and skips. My favorite song on the album was Follow the Drinking Gourd, a song about the underground railroad, but I couldn't find Joe & Eddie's version on YouTube. Instead, here is Children Go, which was also on the album I had. It's a great song and an incredible performance.

What I loved, and am still knocked out by, is not only their mastery of harmony, but their syncopation and timing. I swear, sometimes it sounds like there are four voices instead of two.

MAIN INFLUENCES: harmonies, rhythms, texture, playing with syllables to where the meanings of the words become secondary to the sounds they create, and just the incredible joy of making music.

Enjoy!

_____________________________
UPDATE 11:00pm:
I just found Eddie Brown on MySpace. He's still active in music as a producer in L.A., which is wonderful, but I was saddened to learn that Joe Gilbert died in an automobile accident many years ago. I dropped Mr. Brown an email. I hope he replies--it would mean the world to me! If I hear from him, I'll let you know.

Matt Green - Mission Complete!

Matt Green finished his walk across the U.S. yesterday--from Rockaway Beach, NY to Rockaway Beach,OR--a walk of just over 3000 miles. Instead of taking 9 months, as he'd predicted, it took him just 152 days.

Reading his blog (which is largely photos and brief, witty observations), I've seen an America that I thought was long dead. An America of helpful, generous people who reach out and lend a hand. It's an America the talking heads would like us believe does not exist as they broadcast only hate, division, violence, and disintegration. Matt's blog has convinced me that America still thrives and is full of good people.

Matt lived largely on the generosity of strangers, knocking on their front doors and asking if he could place his sleeping tent in their yards. Often, he was taken into homes for a meal, a shower, a soft bed, breakfast, and a sack lunch for the road. At the beginning of his trip, he was mistaken for a homeless person, but as he made his way west more people caught on to what he was doing. By Montana, a town had a hand-drawn welcome sign out for him. After local news reporters discovered him, the comments on his blog went from one or two to over three-hundred.

It was fun following him, and when he once wrote that he had two different kinds of bear repellent, I worried about him. I also worried about red necks in pickups, but I needn't have; he said the worse thing he got from people was a catcall or two.

Here is Matt's blog, I'm Just Walking, with a video of his meet with the Pacific Ocean.
Here are Associated Press photos of his arrival.

Thank you Matt, for allowing me to tag along on your journey, and to see this country in a new light.

It Was Awesome!

Heather chow downs a taco.

Our going away party for Lauren and Dr. Kielbasa was a huge success. There were tons of incredible food, gallons of wine, and lots of laughs and conversation.

It's funny how parties change as we gain more maturity get older. When we were younger, a party was all about how blitzed everyone got, who fell down first, and who woke up in the bath tub with whom. Now it's more about friends just being together for an evening. And I really needed this party. Our circle of friends has been experiencing a few growing pains lately, as all families (chosen or natural) do.

So thanks to everyone who made it such a great evening. And thanks for all the food. Everything about it was terrific!

This week I will finish With A Dream. Well, the story, that is, then begins the task of reading it from the top to flesh it out, delete, and clean it up. I have one more chapter to write—the penultimate chapter—and then I can actually begin to think about this being a done deal. I'm diving in today, just as soon as I have a second cup of coffee in me.

Weekend Rundown

Okay, I agree with Lynette's last comment. That Fat Bastard entry has to be moved down. Even I found myself avoiding coming here because of it.

You might not see me around here much until after the weekend. This evening Lauren is coming home for a few days and tomorrow night we're hosting, not a fiesta, as the new picture implies, but a going away party for her and Dr. Kielbasa. She will be spending a year in Bordeaux and he, as you might recall, earned a Fulbright and will be doing a professor gig at Wroclaw University in Poland for a year. We're going to miss them both, and we thought that Mexican will be the food they'll miss most. I don't know what they eat in Mexico when they get tired of their own cuisine.

The party is actually a Mexican potluck, and we're expecting about a dozen people. Maybe more. Our friends have never been great at the RSVP thing, or at letting me know what they're bringing. We'll probably end up with a dozen bags of chips and a dozen different salsas.

In other news, Matt will probably finish his walk across the United States this weekend, so I have to keep up with that. I've been tagging along since he entered Minnesota. His adventure has compelled me so much that I actually dreamed about him last night. He was in some campground and I took him a congratulations card. Hot air balloons were in the dream as well, but I don't remember how.

Well, I'm busy today. Good day for it too, because it's only 80 degrees out there, a 25-degree difference from last week at this time. I can deal.

Fat Bastard Syndrome

I remember watching an interview with Mike Meyers a few years ago in which he talked about playing Fat Bastard. Mike is one of those actors who gets completely obsessed with (and possessed by) his characters. He never breaks character off camera, or even at home.

He said that everyone on set hated him because he was so disgusting in appearance, stench, and personality. They hated him because there was no evidence of Mike anywhere beneath the rubber suit and the repulsive behavior. Even his wife hated living with Fat Bastard. Who can blame her? When Mike came home he was out of costume and makeup, but he wasn't out of character.

Writing fiction is like that for me. I live every minute of every day in the world of my characters. I dress like they do, listen to the music they do, pick up their slang and speech patterns, even their accents, and I talk about them like I've spent the day with them, which, of course, I have.

I'm sure Fat Bastard Syndrome gets annoying for my family and friends. In fact, I know it stinks sometimes. But the thing is, that's what I have to do and I find it impossible to write without it. Fortunately, they love me so they just wait for it to be over.

“If you go to inordinate length to explore and discover and bring a world to life, it makes better sense to stay in that world rather than jump in and out of it, which I find exhausting and difficult." Daniel Day-Lewis

It's true that I've always been an all-or-nothing-at-all person. I've always bounced from one end of the spectrum to the other, no matter what it is I'm creating. It's the way I am, my M.O., if you will. And I like myself that way because, truthfully, it's damned fun. I've just come out of a 17-year trek through an arid nowhere land during which I created next to nothing. Chronic illness, parental caretaking, abuse, deaths all worked together and now that I'm creative again. I feel resurrected from the dead, that I have my whole life ahead of me. As Fred in Spamalot sings, "I'm not dead yet!" Until I am, I'll be living in character when I'm writing.

Yesterday I posted a quote by A. Victoria Mixon. I think it bears repeating:

"...focus on your protagonist(s) and make them the most interesting, human, multi-faceted, deeply motivated character(s) you possibly can. Give them intense, overriding needs: finding love, fighting danger, restoring justice to an unjust world. They will tell you what their story is about. Create a rock-solid plotline out of that. An unexpected hook. Hair-raising conflicts and complications. A climax like electrocution. You know the drill. Then spend a long, long, long, loooooong time enjoying every minute of writing that story scene-by-scene, development-by-development. Luxuriate in it. Wallow in it. Fill your mind with your imaginary universe, roll around in it, get it all over you."

"Get it all over you" ... even if it stinks.

Small Pleasures

I came outside a couple of hours ago. The cat was here already in her usual spot on the ledge, where she can keep a watchful eye on things while the neighborhood sleeps.

I must talk about the weather because of the heatwave we've had here over the past month. The worst day was last Thursday when it was 108 degrees with a heat index of 115. Right now, I'm enjoying a pleasant 79 degrees. There is a slight breeze and a rain and thunder storm is due to grace us in about an hour and-a-half. Already, the sky is collecting clouds.

The coming rain will be a celebration, a delight in small pleasures and a welcome purging of all that has gone awry.

Two Quotes on Writing

"...focus on your protagonist(s) and make them the most interesting, human, multi-faceted, deeply motivated character(s) you possibly can. Give them intense, overriding needs: finding love, fighting danger, restoring justice to an unjust world. They will tell you what their story is about. Create a rock-solid plotline out of that. An unexpected hook. Hair-raising conflicts and complications. A climax like electrocution. You know the drill. Then spend a long, long, long, loooooong time enjoying every minute of writing that story scene-by-scene, development-by-development. Luxuriate in it. Wallow in it. Fill your mind with your imaginary universe, roll around in it, get it all over you." A. Victoria Mixon


"I believe that writers who have the sparkle suspect, but never know for certain, that they have it. In fact they’re more likely to have doubts about their work, for the simple reason that they experience glimpses of a perfection that no human pen can ever achieve." Jane Steen

Friday Morning Stuff

It's supposed to get to 108° today and 107° tomorrow. I didn't think it could get worse than a solid month of 104°, but I was mistaken. Fortunately, we have a cold front moving in on Monday, which will take us back into the high 90s. Oh, bother.

I've been in hotter weather. I remember back in 1979 when the boys and I drove through Lake Havasu, on the border of Arizona and California. It was 110°. At night. And we were in my old 1964 VW van with no AC. I've spent summer days in Las Vegas as well, where leaving one casino to go to another felt like walking into the open jaws of a dragon.

Out there in the southwestern desert it's dry, though. The humidity is nil, so it feels different. Not hotter or cooler, just different. Compare sitting in a car with the heater on full blast to sitting in a sauna. You'll have to decide which you prefer. Personally, I'll take humidity. At least with it you feel like you're being boiled as compared to being broiled. Pasta water or Weber grill. You decide.

Every single day of the past month I've voiced how grateful I am for the new AC in our house. As hard as it was to go without it for a week last spring when the temps were in the low 90s, I can't even imagine if it had waited until now. This cottage stays very comfortable at 73° whereas at our last house I was constantly resetting it between 68 and 74. Remember how much I complained about that thermal system? And remember how it broke down twice a year? This house is much better insulated, too. I love this little cottage; our once $400 utility bill has been cut in half. And I can sit here as comfortable as you please, and I don't have to listen to those two awful AC turbines all day, all night!

Yeah, as I said when I dreaded moving into a small house, sometimes moving down is moving up.

Sometimes, I wonder how the pioneers withstood this kind of heat. Or the native Americans. I suppose they just spent the days quietly, barely moving, staying in the shade or sitting in a stream. Something tells me the native Americans handled it better because they were acclimated to prairie heat. Nor were they the whiny babies we whites have become. They didn't struggle with nature, they lived in harmony with it.

Last night I watered all of the flower beds, refreshed the birdbath, and soaked all of the potted plants on the porch. I'll do it again this evening, and even in the afternoon, if there are any signs of distress. The cat isn't very happy with me because I'm making her stay inside. Well, let me clarify. We struck a compromise. Because of her incessant caterwauling, I left the kitchen/garage door ajar so that she can come inside when she wants. She loves the heat, but 108 is too freakin' hot, even for a pussycat.

[Insert rude joke here.]

Morning Glory Dreams

Remember this picture of our back fence at the other house? No, probably not. I started those Morning Glories from seeds, and for a first crop I think they did rather well.

That's what I'm trying to re-create here at Bookends Cottage. Last spring I planted five or six packets of seeds and carefully watered them. The soil here is so much better than that red clay we had at the other house. It's rich and loamy from 80 years of gardening, and needs no feeding.

The plants grew quickly, surrounding the entire south and west sides of the front porch. They're now sprouting beautiful blue and purple blossoms, but not in the abundance that I'm hoping for. Ants have bitten holes in the leaves, leaving them looking like lace or filigree, but still they grow.

It's a bit early for the full bloom here in Oklahoma, which usually happens late August to mid-September. Sadly, I'll only get a few weeks of enjoyment before the frost sets in. Then they'll drop their seeds everywhere and die. Still, it's worth it because next year the crop will be even larger and I'll be ready for the ants.

Peanut Rolling

I've made a new discovery. Or maybe it's a new determination, or both, and of course I'm going to tell you all about it.

I don't handle negativity very well. I can be happy as can be, smiling, enjoying my day-at-a-time existence, but the minute someone starts talking about how pissed off they or, or what's wrong with the world, or how bad they feel, I get sucked right into it.

The first clue is that I get angry. Not raving mad, but just unsettled in the little place that was happy before they opened their mouth. Something in me just sort of wilts and I start looking for ways to get away from them. If I can't do that, I simply tune them out, one of the Waller gene pool's many talents.

That's why, on Facebook, I've hidden people who post nothing but stuff about politics, religion, environmental concerns, veganism, etc. They're still on my friends list, but I don't have to see their constant ranting. I just can't handle it, even if it's flavored with enough positivity to make people think they're not actually being negative. This is also why several months ago I announced that I'd no longer make political or religious posts in Facebook, or comment on those of other people. And come on, it's just so much pontificating and preaching to the choir anyway, isn't it?

I understand social consciousness. I'm from the Sixties for crying out loud. But to tell the truth, I've had my fist up in the air for so long, my arm's about to fall off. I know the planet's in trouble. I know about the rising tide of corporate feudalism. I know that everyone has been thought of and treated unfairly in some part of the world, at some time in history. I know that Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, and others of their ilk are morons who are poisoning America. I know that Hitler was bad and I know that Marie Antoinette never said, "Let them eat cake". I know that Lynette and I are considered little more that second-class citizens to some people and that other people believe we deserve to die cruel, miserable deaths, and I know that the economy is the worst it's been since the Great Depression. I know all of this stuff, but I don't have to, nor will I, allow it to steal what little happiness I've been able to scrape up for myself, so leave me alone, alright? Quit pissing on my parade and understand that unless you have something nice to say, I really wish you'd just shut the hell up.

All this is not to say that an occasional conversation about what's wrong isn't okay. I just don't like it to be the only conversation. I've always hated talking politics and religion. That's why I didn't fit in very well into that part of the Sixties. While everyone else was chanting protest songs, there I was, singing Donovan ballads.

I've battled depression my entire life, but although I've gotten a pretty good handle on it, my daily life is a constant struggle with my own negative thoughts, fears, and worries. I work hard at it. I meditate and I always look for the good around me. When people start talking about what's wrong with the world it just triples my workload, which means that once they're gone, I have to start rolling that peanut uphill with my nose all over again. It's exhausting.

Look, the bottom line is that this stuff simply lessens my happiness. It makes me angry and opinionated and discontented, and I don't have so much life left to me that I want to spend it feeling like that. That's all. If you enjoy marching around with your fist in the air that's fine. Go for it. Just don't bring your parade up my street.

Gentle Gratitude, Sweet Surrender

The miracle of life is that just as I start to get bored or tired, it deals me something so surprising, so wonderful, so transforming that I know I'm alive. All I can do is weep at the beauty of it. Sometimes these things can be quite painful when they first crash into me, but with a little time they always prove to be the eventual fulfillment of something I've wanted to happen. When my fear is confronted and put aside, I see the miracle.

If we desire a miraculous life we must be open to it. We must dump our fears and expectations and simply surrender. Most people are proud of their unwillingness to surrender: "I must be strong", "I must not bend", "It has to be this way", "My way or the highway", "People are jerks", etc., etc.. They will never witness a miracle. I'm not talking about biblical kind of miracles, but the simple, almost invisible miracles that happen around us every day. Just being here, alive, and knowing I'm here is so stupendously improbable that when I think about it, my mind reels and I'm so grateful to have the chance to experience life at all.

We have a large Bald Cypress right outside our bedroom window and last spring I hung some of those bird food cages in it--the ones you put suet cakes and seed bricks in--and a bird bath in the shade. We quickly acquired a variety of birds: a family of Wrens, a pair of Blue Jays, a Mourning Dove, a pair of Northern Cardinals, a Redheaded Woodpecker, an American Robin, and an occasional band of marauding Grackles. About a week after I put up the feeders, the squirrel that lives in the old oak across the street paid a visit and hung upside-down from the branch, picking out the sunflower seeds and nuts in the block. I guess I could have bought all kinds of things to deter her, but what's the point? She's hungry too, so I bought a squirrel feeder and everyone's happy. I surrendered to life instead of wasting energy trying to control it.

The word surrender has all kinds of negative connotations. People tend to use it through only one definition, which is giving in or giving up. What I mean by surrender is letting go. Letting go of expectations, judgementalism, negativity, anger, and the addiction to drama that plagues the modern world. I've been learning so much about the power of surrender recently, and I have to admit that I feel much better letting life be what it wants to be. I've quit worrying about the things I can't change and I'm changing the things that cause me worry. Not having TV for a year has certainly helped because I'm no longer being marketed to, preached to, fear-mongered, angered, lied to, or worse, numbed into a somnambulent state. I'm content with what I have because I'm no longer being told I need to buy a million products in order to be happy. I read. I play musical instruments. I listen to music. I meditate. I have more time with my family, and we eat at the table, sit in the living room and talk, and listen to each other.

Surrender doesn't always come easily--and it's an ongoing exercise--but I'm finding it's more easily attained by practicing gratitude. And gratitude is an attitude, not a state of grace. When I find myself slipping into an "I wish" state of mind, I look around and take stock of what I have, or I look at the birds and life outside my window, and I practice gratitude. I consciously work to change my attitude and I'm instantly the happier for it.

"Your heart has wisdom that your mind cannot comprehend. Today, surrender to the wisdom of your heart. Let go the need to be right, to control, to be in charge. Let your heart lead, soften your grip and see the miracle of the present moment.You are ALIVE! This is a great gift. Your dreams materialize when you follow the path of your heart. Go there." Ryan Fisher

The Goddess of Gratitude
by Darcy Simonson

Life Passes Much Too Quickly

Today is my oldest son's 40th birthday. How can that be? I was just 40, wasn't I? When I look at these pictures, in which I was a tender 20, I still feel when they were taken. I can feel the sun, the air, the grass and water.

It's odd when your child enters the age group of most of your friends. And Joel and I have built a beautiful friendship in recent years. I had him pretty young, so we've kind of grown up together. We've faced some of the fiercest trials life can dole out, and we've come out whole, sane, and happy. And we have quite a tale to tell.

Little Joel's life didn't begin easily, and it has continued to be difficult for him sometimes, but he keeps on believing that life works out in the long run. I admire his courage and his sunny humor. He has pulled me through the rough times. I hope that I have done the same for him.

I've always tried to be mindful that his life hasn't been a walk in the park. I've tried to teach him that circumstances and happenings, good or bad, aren't the most important things in life, that having family and friends who love us unconditionally are. And everyone has always loved Joel. He is a magical being from his very soul. He has always been special.

I don't think he'll mind me telling you that he has Asperger's Syndrome, a high-functioning autism, which only adds to what makes him so magical and special. He perceives life very differently than you and I do. It is something that doesn't show up right away in a child. It was standardized as a diagnosis only as recently as 1994, so neither Joel nor I, nor his doctors, knew why he was different from other children his age. Being from a highly creative family, he was celebrated for his eccentricity and jaw-dropping creativity. Our family spills over with those qualities, so he fit right in from his very first breath.

Joel is the quiet strength in our home. I cannot picture him in my mind without seeing his beautiful smile and sparkling eyes, and hearing his laughter. He is Uncle Joel to Lynette's kids; even the cat regards him with the utmost respect. Is that because he's a Leo?

The only thing I can complain about is that he just grew up too darned fast. I always tell parents with young children to hold onto the first nine years because once they hit their first double-digit birthday, it's basically over in an eye blink. Those first nine years seem to crawl, but those that come after fly by so quickly it makes your head spin.

So happy birthday my darling, precious son. Words cannot express the love I feel for you. Thank you for coming into my life and filling it with your special light. May you feel especially "Tinked" today!

I love you.

Just When You Thought You'd Seen it All

Apparently, British TV in the Fifties wasn't much better than ours here in the States. Many thanks to Liz Ringrose for the link to this.

And I'm not apologizing for my silliness the last two days.

Because I Need to Laugh

Things have been kind of heavy for me lately, and I just needed to laugh. When I thought about who makes me laugh harder than anyone, there was only one person who came to mind: the gifted Wayne Brady.

Here are some of the funniest songs from Whose Line Is It Anyway (the US version). For the two or three of you who have never seen the show, these songs are totally improvised on the spot (that's redundant, isn't it), and Wayne is the very best at the art. Besides, he's so damned cute I just want to hug him. Wish he'd marry one of our daughters. I'd love to have him as a son-in-law and give us lots of little Waynes to huggle, the rascal!

I've Looked At Life

I've recently been granted cause to look back over my life in a way that has been both joyful and painful. I hasten to add, however, that the pain is the kind that leads to personal transformation, so I've been relishing it without a single thought of regret or remorse. I'm sorry for those of you who are still in your forties and younger because there's no way you can know exactly what I'm talking about. That's not me pulling the age card, it's just facts.

I feel like something's winding down and that there are burnt bridges that I must repair. People from my past  are reappearing, which leaves me with questions: Do I really want to reconnect? Do they want to? And if we do, what do we do with the 30-plus years between us during which we lost track of each other? Do we re-involve ourselves in each other's lives, or do we say what we have to say and retreat back into the land of memory? I don't know. The internet has created a phenomenon that I'm not sure we were intended to deal with. This is something I've only just recently been confronted with and I have no answers. All I'm certain of is that I refuse to have regrets over things I did when I was young. Life is for learning and, regret, which is self-centered, distracts us from connecting with life. Let's face it. Life is messy and who would want a life spent in a heartless, uneventful sterility? I've loved, I've lost. I've screwed up and I've triumphed. And I'm still learning.

Here is an extraordinary video. On its own this song would express what I'm feeling, but this particular performance, recorded when Joni Mitchell was in her late fifties--exactly where I am now--says it all so much better.