Enough Already

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In memory of Amanda Todd, a girl I never knew…whose loss I grieve.

In honor of my dance partner, Raymond Wall, born to make music…whom I’ll never forget.

 For “Targets” everywhere…who suffer in silence.

Few are the giants of the soul who actually feel that the human race is their family circle.

~Freya Stark, explorer and writer

It isn’t about you.  Please hear me.

Some people just feel taller standing on the backs of others.

What feels so devastating to you in the moment is nothing but a mindless sport to your opponent.  It has everything to do with them—hungering for a sense of power that they are unable to feel on their own.

Their conduct has everything to do with choice.

Most people think of bullies as the schoolyard variety.  They assume that adults leave childish behaviors behind.  We don’t think much about adult bullies unless we find ourselves –or someone dear– on the receiving end of their self-loathing.

Adult Bully.  It sounds like a contradiction of terms.  It pretty much is.  Adult is usually equated with the word mature and there is nothing mature about a bully of any age.  So what do you call a grown-ass person who has chosen to bully?  When I pick word meanings apart, the best I can come up with is full grown bully.

I never knew what it felt like to be the target of a bully.  Not until I was in my 30’s.  I don’t speak of it often.  But for now, I will.

Someone out there needs a kindred spirit.  I feel it in my bones.

Forget, for a minute, about wife-beaters, faded jeans and the requisite can of Bud.  Most attacks at this stage of the game won’t be physical.  They are verbal.  Psychological.

The sense of power derived is short lived because a pseudo power never yields long-term satisfaction…but it is the best they’ve felt about themselves in God knows how long, so they pounce when opportunity presents itself again with the anticipation of a tweeker looking for the next high.

Maybe your full grown bully has the appearance of someone who feels good about themselves, dons the immaculate head-to-toe white collar ensemble… but has an unshakeable narcissism that seems to require putting others down.

Full grown bullies often get paid well for putting others down.  They are celebrated for it.

Maybe your bully is one whose greatest advantage is their subtlety…so skilled at what they do it would be damn near impossible to prove or document.  They are passive-aggressive in their delivery.  Backhanded.  Usually female.

But the truth is that people do see.

Some of those people fall right in and become drones.  A vehicle with no pilot.  Chances are that they’d never dream of initiating such behavior, but they notice.  Maybe you’ve never been anything but kind to this person—never hurt them nor offended them– but at some point, they choose to side with the one they perceive to be the most powerful.  Isn’t it sad how people mistake kindness for weakness?  Secondary bullies are concerned more than anything–with protecting themselves. 

The others who see?  This is the silent majority.  By choice, they provide the world with a never-ending supply of passive bystanders.  They give their unspoken consent by saying…nothing.  For this reason, more than any other, bullying has become an ongoing, ever-increasing, socially acceptable behavior.

When a schoolyard/ mean girl bully becomes a full grown bully, there really isn’t anything you can do other than to ignore them or avoid them.  They have no interest in working things out.  They have no interest in compromise.  Their primary interest is power and domination; to feel important and preferred.  They accomplish this by bringing others down.  It is what they do best.

Of all the awesome things in this world to do well…growing beautiful gardens, feeding people delicious meals, constructing impressive buildings, re-vamping a worn-out community,  making music, being the best parent you can be, making someone’s day a little sweeter…they choose, instead, to destroy.

With intention, they set out to inflict pain.  They diminish, ignore, humiliate, and render their chosen target insignificant.

But you are not insignificant anymore than they are powerful.

Their psychological shortcomings have absolutely nothing to do with you.

Here’s the thing: You have to save yourself.  Even in a world filled with people standing by, the giants of the soul are out there lifting cars off of people with their bare hands.  Those are the super-heroes of the world and when just one of those super-heroes jumps into action, others follow, never doubting for a second that they can lift 5000 pounds of dead weight off of their fellow human trapped underneath.  And they do.

The passive bystanders are in a big sandbox somewhere with their feet poking out, pitifully safe.  Not a place you’d ever want to find yourself trapped underneath a vehicle.  Not a place you’d ever want to be when you are the chosen target of a bully.

If you are lucky, like me, you can walk away.  I wasn’t bullied in school or the workplace.  My situation was in a setting where I had complete freedom to walk away.  So after a decade, I did.  My only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner.  There was so much sweetness waiting on the other side.  Divine appointments, people who needed what I had to offer, and still others who were there to heal my soul.

On the other side were the super-heroes.  Kind-hearted people who make waking each day a joy.

I love waking up.  With each new sunrise, God delivers two offerings without fail and tucks them right underneath my pillow: brand new mercies and the gift of free will.  What we do with those gifts for the rest of the day…is up to us.

We get to choose.

And that, right there…is enough to make me want to wear a cape.

Stay with me.  Let’s fly.

 There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with.

~Harry Crews, novelist and playwright

Bitten

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My stories run up and bite me in the leg — I respond by writing them down — everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go and runs off.

~Ray Bradbury,
science-fiction writer

Beyond Jazz

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You’ve got to have something to eat and a little love in your life before you can hold still for any damn body’s sermon on how to behave.

~Billie Holiday, words of wisdom.

I have an awesome friend named Michael.  We’ve never shared a bad meal.  From Jacques Imo’s to Liuzza’s gumbo–Port of Call burgers to ham sandwiches on the front porch in the ruins of Katrina–everything in life is delicious when you’re in the company of friends who love you.

It isn’t just about the food.  Friends like Michael instinctively seem to know what you need.   I don’t know if we’ve shared more meals or listened to more music together over the years and it doesn’t matter.  I require both to sustain me.  Throw in a good ratio of moisture to air and I thrive.

Friends like Michael keep you in line and don’t let you get by with any sort of nonsense but mostly, they feed your soul.

And that’s how Bry and I came to enjoy a sold-out performance of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band less than a week ago, kicking off Oklahoma City University’s Distinguished Artist Series which coincided with the release of Preservation Hall Jazz Band’s live recording of its 2012 Carnegie Hall Concert in celebration of the band’s 50th year.

You see, Michael isn’t just a good friend to me.  He is extraordinarily good to all of his friends.  One of those friends just happens to play the tenor sax and sing vocals as part of the younger generation of musicians who blend so beautifully with their well-seasoned sources of inspiration.  Together they are guardians of culture, keeping the legendary sound of traditional New Orleans Jazz not only alive, but in a continuous state of evolution.  Michael’s friend graciously put my name on an envelope with tickets enclosed– more than I anticipated—so I was able to share the joy.

For me, a little fix goes a long way.  Now I can sit still and focus on the behaving part.

On Monday, September 24th, Preservation Hall will host a special performance at 8 p.m. to celebrate the release of St. Peter and 57th St. and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band 50th Anniversary Collection. Proceeds from this concert will go to Preservation Hall Outreach Program.

If you are anywhere in the vicinity, GO.  If you can’t be there, you can find ordering information here.

In the meantime, here is something to make you smile.  I fell in love with this video years ago and you will, too…if you are anything at all like me.  Close your eyes and imagine a place where the best friends in life need no explanation for your addiction to subtropical air; where dancing is the rule rather than the exception; where a Fiorella’s delivery guy can stop along his route and walk right into the legendary Preservation Hall to play a song or two with the greatest jazz musicians on earth—because luck is for people in Ohio.  It’s magic that happens here.

Thank you, Michael and Clint…for making the week magical.

If I worked for Southwest Airlines…

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…I would be celebrating Uncle Lionel’s effervescence…right in the midst of the spectacular Second Line to be held in his honor this evening.

Words escape me when I try to define Uncle Lionel, who used his big bass drum as a floatation device when the levees broke in 2005.

Beautiful Ambassador comes to mind, as seen in this Pearl Jam video, so completely worth watching: http://vimeo.com/19421235

Or the story about how that life-saving bass drum was stolen one night as told in Varmint, written by Charlotte, one of my favorite New Orleans poets.

Even though words escape me,  I think this simple quote does justice to the man who was such a beautiful ambassador for the city that stole my heart 33 years ago:

“Inside Uncle Lionel’s bass drum is the pulse of the city.” ~Drummer, Herman LeBeaux

When I grow up, I want to be just like Uncle Lionel, who danced through this life with a big bass drum (or a sassy umbrella) and offered kindness every chance he got.

The Last Gentleman of Frenchmen

Reblogged from The Accidental Cajun:

Click to visit the original post

We had walked about twenty steps up Royal Street, just past Marigny Brasserie, when the elephant tear raindrops started to fall in big splats on the sidewalk.  We futilely tried to open umbrellas, but it was no use -- as if someone pulled the drain plug from the bottom of a cloud -- and the sky started sheeting on us.  Our proximity to each other only made it worse, as the rainwater sluiced off the other's umbrella, drenching and unusually cold for a New Orleans summer:  we needed cover.  

Read more… 964 more words

A beautiful tribute to Uncle Lionel Batiste, written by The Accidental Cajun.

Richard Avedon Exhibition

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This is my dear friend Lyle’s family.  This awesome family photograph, taken on May 3, 1970, graces both the billboard and the catalog cover of an exhibition honoring legendary photographer, Richard Avedon, at the Gagosian Gallery in New York.  The exhibition opened on May 4th and will continue through July 6, 2012.

You can read the press release here.

Dear Friend…

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You know that game shrinks play when they show their patients pictures of objects and ask them to say the first word that comes to mind?  My son played that game with me on April 19th.  Only he didn’t show me a photo…he mentioned your name.

Kind.  Very kind.  The answer came quick and easy.  But your name doesn’t bring to mind one word.  One word isn’t enough.

Pure-hearted.  Sincerely good.  Everyday.

That is what I remember most about you.

It seems after all these years, you’ve left the same impression on my son.  While your paths crossed,  I never knew.  Professionally for the both of you.  And that time you pulled him over not so long ago while he was driving that old blue geo metro that looked as though it would fall apart right then and there.

Thank you for all you do…for being discerning.  In a world filled with muddied agendas, I appreciate that quality in humans more than words can say.  Especially in your line of work.

May God surround you with His favor like a shield.  I pray that you will be enveloped by His love and comfort and peace.  Each morning when you rise to new mercies, I pray you remember that your counselor and defender neither slumbers nor sleeps.

In righteousness you will be established: Tyranny will be far from you; you will have nothing to fear.  Terror will be far removed; it will not come near you.

If anyone does attack you, it will not be my doing; whoever attacks you will surrender to you.

See, it is I who created the blacksmith who fans the coals into flame and forges a weapon fit for its work.  And it is I who created the destroyer to wreak havoc;

No weapon forged against you will prevail, and you will refute every tongue that accuses you. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and this is their vindication from me,” declares the Lord.

~Isaiah 54: 14-17

The Pink House

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It would take me years to fully understand the lessons of the pink house.  I only knew I felt at home in the room where thick, velvety theatrical curtains hung with dramatic prominence and a new litter of kittens seemed to outnumber humans.  I learned two things quickly: 1) kittens didn’t like me and 2) I wanted very much to be on the other side of that curtain.  I was two years old.

There was no great wizard on the other side– only a world of possibilities.  No ruby slippers.  Just a size 8 powerhouse– topped with red hair, grounded with tap shoes– and love that shone from her eyes when she looked at you, fueled by an unusual kindness that took up residence in her soul.  The only other look she seemed capable of giving was a passionate fierceness.  I’d learn about that later.  But even that was emphasized with love.

Miss Judy.

Decked out in Danskin and Capezio, she took me under her wing in spite of the fact that my big brother had sunk his teeth deeply into her hand for no good reason.  I was captivated by her, impressed beyond words by her never-ending supply of Tootsie Rolls.  She was 41.  I was 3— far too young to understand that she was the stuff legends were made of.

She had already lived an impressive amount of life by anyone’s standards but she still had another half a lifetime yet to live and her hunger to make every moment count was insatiable.  Maybe it was because she had already buried the love of her life.  All I know is that by the time I met her in the late 1960’s, she had already coached football, earned a pilot’s license, starred in a movie, studied dance in New York, raised two wonderful kids, and opened her own studio.

Together with her family, she welcomed all into the pink house.  The sign in front, painted in black script read: Judy’s School of Fine Arts.  Her tiny gray-headed mother, Mrs. Ruth Hays, held down the fort at the reception desk.  Through the kitchen, past the Pepsi machine, to the right and down the stairs was where Miss Judy taught.  Past the Pepsi machine, to the left and up the stairs is where her daughter, Mary Ruth taught.

Long before the days of reality television featuring competitive, feuding dance moms, we’d spend entire summers at the pink house.  Our mothers didn’t linger, let alone fuss.  They just dropped us off in the mornings with our dance bags and sack lunch, Monday through Friday, and headed to work.

There was no summer camp fee added to tuition.  No ungodly hourly rate.  Miss Judy simply liked having us there.  When we weren’t dancing in her classroom downstairs, we were upstairs with Mary in the gymnastic room, stopping only to enjoy lunch, drinking ice cold Pepsi from a glass bottle purchased from the machine for 20 cents.

I never knew Miss Judy to be away from her studio during business hours with the exception of one trip out of town.  Mary decided to surprise her with a fresh coat of interior paint.  Pink, of course.  So we spent one wonderful summer afternoon painting the walls.  In the evenings, our mothers would pick us up and after a good night’s sleep, we’d start all over again.

Body image wasn’t an issue there.  Miss Judy understood basic math: calories in vs. calories expended and if too big a deficit was created, there was always peanut butter and bread in the kitchen.  Day after day, week after week, and year after year she danced alongside us.  That’s why she had thighs and buns of steel long before it was envogue.

Looking back, I see how very much Mary was like her mother, minus the red hair.  Hers was dark blond or light brown, depending on the season and she carried herself on legs as every bit as defined as the cross-fit competitors of today.  Neither Mary nor Miss Judy would take I can’t for an answer and yet their challenges came without criticism.  And they usually got from us exactly what they wanted.  Even when the circus equipment arrived.  Circus equipment– because someone decided that if we could master time steps and back-hand-springs infinity and double pique turns diagonally across the room on pointe—which actually is rocket science because any good physicist can tell you that the polar moment of inertia equals mass times the radius squared—why…there was no reason on God’s green earth you couldn’t master a high wire or trapeze.  And so the circus equipment was installed in the yard of the pink house the summer I was eleven years old.

We knew nothing of dance competition; nothing of tense dressing room scenarios where competitive dance moms held court with their arsenal of makeup and safety pins and false eye-lashes.  No one to sneak into our personal space, launching an attack by way of aerosol spray body glitter.  Rivalry wasn’t on Miss Judy’s list of attributes, though she could certainly stand her ground if pressed into action.  Anything we learned about clashing or locking horns, we learned outside of those pink walls.

Instead of those things, she’d load us into her station wagon and take us on adventures around the state.  When her tiny gray-headed mother finally went to live in a nursing facility, she’d take us there to visit.  And, of course, to dance.  She eliminated the awkwardness from the growing-up process by focusing on the fun stuff and keeping us busy, convincing our moms to let us shave our legs much sooner than our age peers.

The pink house was a place of healing.  Relationships were built, and people fell in love.  Tragedy occurred and loss was mourned.  Babies arrived and had tap shoes on their feet by the age of two.  When I found myself a 21 year old single mother after marrying the wrong boy, she didn’t philosophize.  She saw my broken heart and simply suggested that I rearrange my furniture and we sat in comfortable silence in the dance room where I now taught.  She knew a slight change in energy flow would somehow refresh and alter perspective.  She knew all about love and life after loss.

When I attended her graveside service earlier this year, it all came back.  As I stood among childhood friends—the ones who felt like big sisters for the length of a childhood— Mary told me that she didn’t recognize the red head standing there…because I had grown up blonde.  I told her without ever having realized it before that the influence was far-reaching…and it didn’t escape my notice that Mary’s hair is also infused with red.

Miss Judy’s children and grandchildren stood beside her casket where a pair of tap shoes looked perfectly at home among flowers and celebrated with stories of their mother and grandmother, passing along her words of wisdom:  Treat your wife with love and respect and she will always take good care of you   Never fight with your husband without your make-up on.   Time to wake up…today can be a good day or it can be a bad day…but if you decide it’s going to be a bad day…it will be a bad day all day long.  It didn’t surprise me to learn that a couple of days before she passed away, she made it a point to telephone a friend who suffered from Alzheimer’s just to tell her You are a glamour girl. 

Every soul there was wholly aware that they mattered a great deal to her….because the beautiful life she shared with her family and friends didn’t just happen.  It was choreographed.

My childhood institution of learning was the pink house—a world of possibilities—where faith was a verb and doubt was demolished.  A place where we learned to love and prevail and endure.  To relish and savor.  That remaining alive was far more important than mere survival.  That whatever you must face down in this life–just keep dancing.

Sometimes you forget the steps.  But if you close your eyes for a piece of time and listen closely to the music, you remember.  The lessons imprinted on a soul are never truly forgotten.  I’m feeling that insatiable hunger to make every moment count.  I’ve still got another half a lifetime yet to live, God willing.  Today can be a good day or a bad day.  If I’m mindful, I can encourage someone with my last breath and enter into my final rest in the manner of Miss Judy… topped with red hair… grounded with tap shoes.

There are stars whose radiance is visible on Earth though they have long been extinct.  There are people whose brilliance continues to light the world though they are no longer among the living.  These lights are particularly bright when the night is dark.  They light the way for humankind.”

~Hannah Senesh, poet, playwright, paratrouper

A Divine Summons

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For Melissa…

 “Few are those who see with their own eyes and feel with their own hearts.”

~Albert Einstein

For Moses, it was a burning bush—a voice he could hear calling from within.

For me, it was an inkling…communicated in a gentle undertone…a feeling that wouldn’t go away.  A slight understanding that repeated itself when I was quiet enough to listen.

I left it there for a time.  There was no need for immediate response.  Nothing was on fire.  Some things need a little marinating and this was one of them.  The longer I let it absorb, the more savory it became.  The more savory it became, the more intense my craving.

This is how it began with me 16 years ago when I responded to the call to teach my kids at home.

Most people think of a call as a mystical thing reserved only for those who pursue religious occupations.  Like a woman who is called into a Sisterhood or a man who is called into the Priesthood.  Or my great-grandfather who was serving in the U.S. Navy when he felt called to preach.

Theologian Frederick Buechner said this of the process: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

A simpler, sweeter explanation that resonates deeply is defined by author Melissa Lauber:

A call is always personal and tailored to fit a person’s soul.  It builds on one’s spiritual gifts; it usually feels urgent and persistent.  A call is a response to a summons.  It is a kind of surrendering.  It is a challenge and a joy.

Most people are average people going about the business of their ordinary day when negotiations begin.  Moses, a 40 year fugitive, was shepherding in a field.  I was leaving the parking lot of the school where I served as vice president of the PTA Board.

The hearing of a call is the easy part.  The answering is more of a challenge because the temptation to talk yourself out of the thing is huge.  For Moses, it was a matter of speech.  He argued that he was not an eloquent speaker.  So God sent Aaron— not only big brother to Moses—but also a gifted public speaker —who happened to be on his way to visit Moses as they spoke. 

In their back-and-forth negotiations, I imagine Moses found it reassuring to hear God speak the words, I will be with you.  I will help you.  I will teach you what to do.  Tell them I Am Who I Am sent you.

Moses’ Sender…had complete confidence in the one He was sending.

Speech was not an issue for me.  Algebra was.  In my back-and-forth negotiations I argued:  I would do it in a heartbeat if only…I could do them justice in algebra.  So before the sun set that day, someone who happened to show up to visit me… opened my world to the greatest math program ever invented.

A true call morphs into a knowing in your soul that arrives with such great clarity—it is easy to trust that you will be equipped.  No matter how average and ordinary we know we are.

It takes on a life of its own…a thing you can no longer let sit.

There is no standard level of education required to answer a divine summons.  God places the passion and desire in our hearts to do the thing He calls us to do.  What you bring to the table is faith, courage, and a touch of audacity.

And for Moses, there was this staff…

You’ll need these tools because you will encounter resistance.  Strong resistance.  People who believe they know better will work themselves into a seizure trying to fit you into a mainstream mold.  But you’ll never fit and that’s probably why you were calledThese are your critics.  They will fixate on your perceived weaknesses…failing to recognize that the beauty of being obedient to a call… is that it happens in spite of weakness

Always.

This is about the time provision is made for the next thing you’ll need.  Confirmation …a priceless treasure that arrives in the form of people who believe in you.  They don’t see weakness.  They see potential.  They are sent to uncover your hidden strengths.

Even Moses, courageous as he was, needed a spotter to help complete the final rep of a military press in the battle against the Amalekites.  Two men supported his arms—one on one side and one on the other—because he had grown too tired to hold his staff in the air by his strength alone.

As the years go by, you will hear people express all manner of worry about kids who spend their school years at home.  It isn’t necessary to engage them.  Responding to your call in this life is between you and the One who called you.  Their discernment—or lack of—is between them and their God.

I have nothing against the public school system.  I’m aware that not all homeschooling families choose that particular path for the reason that I did.  I’ve never tried to convince anyone that my way is best.  As one wise mother put it:  “Homeschooling will not build a successful family any more than a hammer will build a successful house.” This is the truth of any school setting.

With challenges and obstacles and far too many mistakes along the way, Moses fulfilled his call.  With challenges and obstacles and far too many mistakes along the way, I raised four kids who completed a course of study. One of them completed their course of study a year ahead of schedule.  All of them excelled in algebra.   Three of them are gifted writers.  All of them are on the right-hand side of the downward slope…for those who need proof that “it worked”.

Those things matter a great deal to people who idolize intellect.  I’m not one of them.  I never set out to raise geniuses.  Genius is what happens in spite of a one-size-fits-all curriculum and not because of it.  Research shows that IQ accounts for 20% of a person’s life success.  The remaining 80% comes from the elements of a far more dimensional EQ.

So what, exactly, defines success?  To some it is job status and power, acquiring wealth, having prestige, a college degree, being surrounded by admirers, having their accomplishments noticed.  For me, it is enjoying the fruits of my labor…moving forward and setting new goals.   It is that beautiful, immeasurable thing that happens on the front porch at the end of the day.

My goal was to raise self-directed learners who would grow up to be compassionate people who would hopefully go on to pursue worthwhile endeavors that would continue to spark their neurons.   And they are.  They’ve taught me far more than any classroom or book.

And the people who fixated on my weaknesses?  They still do.  Does it bother me?  Not any more than Pharaoh bothered Moses.

I Am Who I Am called me.

My Caller had complete confidence in the one He was calling.

I was not of noble birth.  I had no teaching degree in my possession.  I was referred to as an “underachiever”.  Sometimes I think God just has fun picking people who are simply teachable vs. those who already know it all.

He assigns extraordinary tasks to people whose occupations are detestable to the Egyptians.

And I love living in this realm.

I love believing with all of my heart… that herdsmen can become Kings, orphaned girls can become Queens, and murderous fugitives can be just the man for the job.  I believe “unschooled and ordinary” fishermen can become healers and carpenters can profoundly change the world.  Not to mention all those folks without seminary degrees….

But that’s just me.

“It is, in fact, nothing short of a miracle that the modern methods of instruction have not yet entirely strangled the holy curiosity of inquiry; for this delicate little plant, aside from stimulation, stands mainly in need of freedom.  It is a very grave mistake to think that the enjoyment of seeing and searching can be promoted by means of coercion and a sense of duty.”

~Albert Einstein–slow learner who didn’t do well in school –so he left at age 15 to figure things out for himself –and went on to become a genius.

 

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