I’m not a hedonistic person by any means, but I sure do like using the five senses God gave me. Black and and white and gray are good, but full color is so much better.
I’m a night owl by nature, but there is only so much you can see in the darkness. Lighting is everything. In photography. In life. And that is why almost every room of my house has an abundance of candles. I like the way each candle flickers and illuminates everything around it. The right lighting can change the mood and the plot of every life story.
Early morning lighting is like a breath. Take it in, let it out, it’s gone. But it’s beautiful.
Usually the only time I catch the sunrise is after I have been awake all night, usually after writing for an extended period. I rarely can write snippets. When I do, I typically end up discarding them.
When I write, I’m rewarded by the sunrise. It’s as if to say, “Well done. Here is your reward. It’s not a prize; it’s an experience.” Every sunrise is an experience. And that is why the sunrise holds so much meaning for me.
I remember a trip to Montana, standing on a deck with a blanket wrapped around me, waiting for the sunrise. I remember early morning trips for coffee, riding into the sunrise. I remember waking up after sleeping all night in a tent in a pasture on the edge of the woods, a horse’s muzzle within inches of my fingertips and the sunrise saying hello.
And though every sunrise is fleeting, very sunrise has with it the potential for its coordinating memory to be carried the rest of our lives. Memories sustain us and remind us what is good and what is bad so that we can set our feet in the right direction.
My friend Emily concurs with her description of the sun, its lights and colors:
You dropped a purple raveling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you’ve littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
I like sunrises better than sunsets because sunrises say hello and sunsets say goodbye.
Sunrise or sunset, I do enjoy the color. Full color, full of life.
In my life’s journey, I’ve discovered that we can spend our days storing away our treasures without taking time to enjoy them.
But wouldn’t it be better to have less and to fully embrace what we have rather than to have our treasure chests full and never see their colors?
Our treasures are not our silver and gold. Our treasures are the moments we spend with the people we love.
The Stage Manager in Our Town makes a poignant revelation:
“We all know that something is eternal. And it ain’t houses and it ain’t names, and it ain’t earth, and it ain’t even the stars . . . everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with human beings. All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years and yet you’d be surprised how people are always losing hold of it. There’s something way down deep that’s eternal about every human being.”
I especially like the follow-up question from another Emily I’ve come to know. She asks, “Does anyone ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?”
And the stage manager responds, “No. Saints and poets maybe…they do some.”
I’ve often wondered why since a child I’ve been drawn to all things colorful, expressive, beautiful, poetical, musical, artistic, and harmonious. Now I know.
I have a bohemian soul.
Today’s blog (though greatly delayed) is inspired by the Daily Prompt:
Your local electronics store has just started selling time machines, anywhere doors, and invisibility helmets. You can only afford one. Which of these do you buy, and why?
Being the dreamer I am, I’ve often thought about what it would be like to have a Time Machine so I could pick any era, step in, experience the culture, and talk to my literary heroes of days gone by. Here’s how I think it would go, meeting the Father of the Modern Detective Story, the master of bloody horror, the man of constant sorrow, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.
Edgar, buddy, what’s the deal with your fixation on beautiful dead women? You’re a rock star, man. Live it! The ladies swoon when you recite your verses. Take a look around. There are a lot of living, breathing women here who would love to be the object of your affection, poetry, and prose. But no, you bust your rhymes about that crazy ghost chick Lenore. And what’s up with hearts hidden under floorboards and big-eyed men, draped in gossamer gowns? Dude, if my man Shemar (Derrick Morgan on Criminal Minds) profiled you, he’d peg you as a serial killer. You aren’t…are you? Hey, stay away from the sewer rats. They aren’t kittens, and I hear they’ll give you rabies.
Hmmm. I fear I’ve traveled back to 1990s rap while talking to an 1840s writer. Whatever.
Let’s get back to the prompt. I hold the record for the high school student who has been retained the longest number of years. Yep. I put on my cap and gown in the 80’s, turned my tassel, but still haven’t walked out these high school doors. It’s like permanent detention, Groundhog Day style. I wake up and live it again. Same places, different faces. I delight in kids but bear great disdain for being controlled by the State. Let me teach, let me teach, let me teach, Mr. Grinch. You’re a mean one, rotten to the “Core.”
If I can’t beat ‘em, I’ll daydream them to death. An Anywhere Door would do the trick. Where would I go? What would I do?
Right now, I think I would like to go to the beach. I’m ready for a slow down. There is little to do at the beach other than to hang out with Mother Nature. Most people dig the sunlight My fair skin isn’t a fan, so I prefer the moonlight and the stars over the ocean. My Anywhere Door would take me to a place where all my five senses (maybe six) could kick in and kick back. Ah, the sweet sensation of a nautical getaway…
I want to watch the sun paint ribbons in the sky
Hear lap, lap swishes and the seagull’s cry
Sink my toes in the sand, be blanketed by sun
Taste fresh key lime pie, be tempted by rum
Smell briney mud and sea-salted air
And know without knowing answers to my prayers
People always tell me, girl, you live in the past. Embrace the moment. Stop wishing your life away. Bloom where you are planted. Okay, maybe I need to re-think my decisions.
What if the Time Machine breaks and I get stuck in the past? I don’t want to go back. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. What if the Anywhere Door leaves me stranded and I can’t put my feet on familiar ground? There are some good things about right now I don’t want to lose. Bad choices, bad choices, what’s a girl to do?
All I have left is the Invisibility Helmet. I can’t re-live the past or skip to my future. I need to focus on right now. I just need a little help seeing. If only I had better eyes, ones that could see everything I’m missing, then I would know whom I could really trust.
Don’t you think our eyes are opened when others don’t think we’re watching.
If I had an Invisibility Helmet, I could walk into your circle of friends and hear what you say about me when I’m not around. I could truly be like the Teacher with Eyes in the Back of Her Head. I could see who is cheating and who is not.
On a lighter note, I could walk into a Starbucks and walk away with all the Frappacinos. I could drive my car 160 mpg and never get a ticket. I could plant dreams in people’s minds by whispering in their ears as they fall asleep. I could spy on my cat and see what he really does when I’m not in the room.
So, I’ll take the Invisibility Helmet. I’m always watching, always. You may not realize it, but I’m watching you. Right now. I’m taking notes, just like Harriet the Spy. These notes, I’m sure, will make a great book. Someday.
I’m always looking for answers, always. Even if they’re right under my nose, I keep looking for what I want to see. The problem is I don’t see what I don’t want to see. Heck, maybe I’m already wearing the Invisibility Helmet. Instead of hiding me, it hides what I don’t want to acknowledge.
Everybody knows there are no calories in chocolate when you’re stressed out and on vacation. There are no dirty dishes or dirt on the floor when the sun begs you to leave the house. And then there are those other things we choose not to see….
Time Machine, Anywhere Door, or Invisibility Helmet? Choose your choice. What would it be?
I moved to Rio de Janeiro Monday.
Not really, but my Facebook status says I live there now, and I blame this bald face lie on Zac Brown.
See, on Saturday, I went to Shelbyville to go treasure hunting, thrift store shopping, junkin’, whatever you want to call it. I needed some sunshine and get away, so I took the scenic route and surfed the radio waves for some easy, breezy road trip music.
Zac Brown’s “Jump Right In” popped up over and over—no disappointment to me. Every time I heard the whistle in the background, I thought of Carnival, and every time I thought of Carnival, I thought of Rio de Janiero.
Cool, right? If I couldn’t be there in person, at least I could be there in spirit.
Honestly, I don’t know where the Zac Brown Band is singing about. The song makes reference to Misty Mountain, and the only Misty Mountain(s) I can think are those in Tolkien’s The Hobbit. The song also mentions an island lullaby and a Southern breeze, so Rio probably isn’t what he had in mind, but that’s where the song took me.
Isn’t it funny how a song can take you away? One song can change a world, or at least a small town.
Take for instance Winslow, Arizona, which appears in the Eagles’ song “Take It Easy,” written by Jackson Browne and Glenn Frey. Winslow almost dried up when the interstate took away business from Route 66, but when the song came out, everybody wanted to head to Winslow—and they still do. Winslow now has Standin’ On the Corner Park with a mural depicting the “Girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford.” Since then, the town has undergone its own “renaissance.” Voila!
I can’t not mention Memphis. Who hasn’t recorded a song about Memphis? In fact, it’s the most mentioned city in the world. According to the Memphis Rock and Soul Museum, the list is at 1074 songs and counting.
Take a look see at who has Memphis on the mind: Sheryl Crow, Paul Simon, Jerry Reed, Hank Williams, Jr., Chuck Berry, Darryl Worley, Trisha Yearwood, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Tanya Tucker, etc.
Of course, “Walking in Memphis” by Marc Cohn is my favorite. It’s always a serendipitous moment when I’m on Beale Street and hear it as I’m walking down the street.
Let’s see how up YOU are on your Song Travel Trivia. I’ll give you the artist and the title, and you chart the destination. (Answers are listed below the quiz.)
- “Turn the Page” by Bob Seager
- “I Wanna Talk about Me” by Toby Keith (one of the FIRST country rap songs)
- “Get Your Kicks on Route 66” by Perry Como
- “Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor
- “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce
- “Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny Cash
- “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” by The Band
- “City Don’t Sleep” by Maclemore
- “I Will Follow You into the Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie
- “Werewolves of London” by Warren Zevon (London is easy. Name another place mentioned in the song.)
- Muncie, Indiana
10 Correct – Fantabulous. “Ramble On.” You’re obviously going somewhere.
7-9 Correct – Head out on the highway. You’re “Born to Be Wild.”
4-6 Correct – Not too shabby. Baby, you’re “Born to Run.”
1-3 Correct – Brush up on your travel trivia and get “On the Road Again.”
0 Correct – Not so good. You need a “Vacation.”
I like to talk to Elvis.
He says, “Hey, Pretty Mama,” and I walk on over.
He knows I look for signs, and he is so kind to tell me everything I need to know for my current situation. He even includes my lucky numbers, though I’ve never tried playing them in the lottery or using them to bet on a horse.
I bet you’re probably thinking, “Hey, Elvis has gone on. How can it be that he talks to YOU?”
THIS Elvis, just one of the many forms of Elvi that can be found on Lower Broadway in Nashville, is a robotic half man that sits in a glass box.
He calls out to tourists, who, in turn, give him exactly what he’s looking for–a crisp dollar bill.
He kindly gives them a fortune, printed on yellow paper with the consistency of cardstock that has been run through the wash and then dried.
Anyhoo, Elvis knows all and tells all to those who look for signs.
I have never been to a living, breathing fortune teller, at least not one acting in the capacity of fortune teller. I don’t consult the Farmer’s Almanac. I’m not into tarot, and I can’t read tea leaves–though I do enjoy a lovely cup of tea.
The spirit world is a very dangerous place for those of us who have been forbidden to peek behind the veil.
I also don’t advise asking God a question and then flipping open the Bible to find the answer. I don’t think we can command God to do anything, but we can pray.
God chooses to do for us in a way he sees fit. That’s why believers walk in faith. A person has to be of great courage to walk in faith because only a strong person can release total control.
I’m working on it.
But I do enjoy looking for signs or at least being ready for them should they appear.
I like seeing a shooting star and then making a wish. That’s the whimsical part of me.
I like analyzing dreams. Sometimes mine have come true! Sometimes I have dreamed things about other people’s lives. I don’t intentionally try to do that. It just happens. I guess God chooses to reveal what he needs me to know. I don’t always understand, but maybe someday I will.
Sometimes what I dream is simply Teresa trying to talk to Teresa in a way she can understand. (Sorry about the third person, but that’s the only way I can think to say it.) I take in the info. My brain swirls it around, and then it sends it back to me in a dream. As I analyze it, I figure out what I’m hiding from myself.
Last night I had a nightmare about a hospital going up in flames. I certainly hope that one doesn’t come true.
A week ago I dreamed that students were now in charge of teachers’ health care. Instead of going to the doctor, we teachers had to go to the school guidance office. A student would be chosen to diagnose and treat our illnesses. Wait a minute! That sounds an awful lot like what’s happening in education today. Students DO determine our well being. If they don’t pass the tests, we fail.
Again, I digress. Let’s get back to Elvis.
I like looking for meaning in unexpected places and things. I like poetry. I like song lyrics. I like books that are allegorical.
But mostly, I like Elvis.
I have a very small purse. It’s filled with ID cards and discount cards, not much cash, and a whole lot of yellow cards from Elvis. I don’t know why I keep them. I mean, Elvis’s words of wisdom only count for the moment. I don’t think I can pull one from random and apply the advice to today if Elvis gave me the card two years ago. Can I?
Can I recycle a fortune? Let’s see if it works. Here we go: Random Elvis card, drawn from my wallet.
Elvis says, ” Unexpected wealth will arrive. Remember he is richest, who is content with the least, for content is the wealth of nature. Although you may look for riches, realize that wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants. When riches come, do not forget that man’s true wealth is the good he does in the world. So, when opportunity knocks, grab it. It is easy at any moment to resign the great fortune, to acquire it is difficult and arduous.”
Does this mean that I’m about to get a whole lot of nothing?
What does that mean?
I’ll take a whole lot of nothing, if something refers to trouble, drama, and stress. I’ll take not having many wants. I’ll take being content, happy, and satisfied.
Maybe it means I should grab every opportunity to build my fortune by doing what good I can do.
Then again, this is a “recycled” fortune. Perhaps I should look back and count my blessings, and a person can’t do too much good, now or later.
Maybe, I should head to Nashville and take a trip to the Legends corner. Elvis is waiting for me in a glass box.
He’ll say, “Hey, pretty mama,” and I’ll say, “Oh, you ain’t nothing but a hound dog. I bet you say that to all the girls.”
I’ll slip him a crisp dollar bill, and he’ll give me more words to fill my wallet.
I’m not really a fan of magic shows. I don’t like magic because magicians never reveal their secrets. I don’t like sleight of hand. I don’t like tricks. I don’t like audience manipulation.
Too much of what goes on in real life is deception that happens right under our noses, especially with the entertainment industry and media outlets. We’re fed what they want us to digest. We see what they want us to see.
Okay, maybeee I’m a major conspiracy theorist. Maybe I believe there is more than what meets the eye. Maybe I believe there are cover-ups. Maybe people will do whatever it takes to maintain power. It’s all about power. Maybe I’m just jaded. Maybe.
It’s not that I don’t like intrigue. I’m a big fan of mysteries. I love a good mystery—as long as the writer leaves us clues and allows us to figure out what’s really happening. What I don’t like is the mystery that leaves me hanging, the one that has no end, no solution, no plausible plot, no purpose.
Those mysteries make my head hurt. There’s nothing so disappointing than to invest trust and time into an author’s work to find out he or she was merely throwing words on the page in some advant garde attempt to experiment with art. Heck, if it’s got no purpose, what am I doing reading it? Time is slipping, slipping, slipping into the future. There’s so little time left, we can’t afford to waste it.
Why am I all of a sudden so enthralled with magic? The answer is easy. I watched the movie Now You See Me, and it piqued my interest.
I almost didn’t watch it. As I said, I’m bored by theatrics. But I like Morgan Freeman, so much so that I traveled to Clarksdale, Mississippi, to visit his blues club Ground Zero. Now there’s a story.
I prefer real magic, like what a person feels when standing on a cliff overlooking the Badlands in South Dakota or when standing on the edge of the real Walden’s Pond–as opposed to the lack of feeling that comes with staring at a photo of Walden’s Pond in a 20-year old text book.
I like the magic of “What if …?”
Not “the manipulation of “I know the facts, Jack, but you aren’t privy to it.”
The movie Now You See Me tells the story a group of mentalists or magicians who metaphorically sell their souls to be pawns, mules, slaves, or whatever you prefer to call them, to a discreet organization that uses many but welcomes few.
These magicians will never be part of the inner workings, so why would they want to be used?
Most of us are already controlled. We’re marks. Why would we willingly surrender what freedom we have so that we can be closer to the source of deception?
The news is controlled by a few conglomerates. Education is controlled by Pearson. The entertainment industry is controlled by…well, by those of whom we do not speak. And how does this control happen?
By manipulation? Yes. By magick? Yes, at least, I think so. And by our own flaws. What would we give up to be accepted, or to appear that we are accepted?
Envy. We’re controlled by envy. We’re prone to either envying others or wishing others would envy us. We are our own worst enemies.
I say, “Let it go, already.” It’s time to walk away.
With my favorite holiday, St. Patrick’s Day, right around the corner, I’ve been thinking about magic quite a bit. I still get excited when I see rainbows, and I really think there is something wonderful, something magical, at the end.
And there we go again. That word magic.
Maybe, even at my ripe old age, I’m still too childlike and naïve. I believe in a different type of magic. I can’t give up believing in serendipity. There’s something truly magical about serendipity.
But there’s one thing I’ve learned about serendipity–you can’t make it happen.
I know. I’ve tried.
I’ve set out on a Saturday looking for something wonderful to spontaneously happen, only to go back home empty and disappointed. Serendipity really is an accidental good fortune–which is the opposite of what illusionists create, i.e. the illusion of something wonderful.
Slight of hand. Calculated manipulation. Lies. Plain and simple, just lies.
I despise lies.
I’ve read several reviews about Now You See Me. Many reviewers blast the flaws of the plot–or the lack there of.
What I can’t figure out is if the purpose of the movie is to make a commentary about the obvious “controlled” media industry, or if it is showing us something in front of our faces that we can’t see. If so, what is it?
The main character tells us, “The closer you think you are, the less you’ll actually see.”
Our arrogance makes us think we’re smarter than the average bear, and, thus, the more arrogance we possess, the more prone we are to manipulation.
Then again, sometimes when we want to see something, our minds make it happen. Our minds create closure. In some ways, maybe, we don’t need other people to deceive us. We deceive ourselves.
I would make a horrible mentalist–though I know I’m way too susceptible to hypnosis. That’s why I’ll never do it.
I like the facts on the table. That’s why I would never make it as an illusionist, an allusionist, maybe. You know, being an English teacher, I make all sorts of references to Thoreau, Emerson, Poe, Hawthorne, etc.
What’s wrong with being simple? I’m not a mentalistic, magical, or magickal. But I do like me some serendipity.
What’s the difference between magic/magick and serendipity? Magic(k) requires control, holding on. Serendipity requires submission, letting go. Control verses acceptance. One leads path leads to stress, greed, and power lust. The other path leads to inner peace, tranquility, and joy.
So in keeping with the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day and the luck of the Irish, I wish you all good fortune. May your paths cross with serendipity, and may you never give up in believing in the “what if” at the end of the rainbow.
I was talking to my childhood friend who was helping me put together a writing workshop for our community, and the topic of WIPS came up.
I, of course, have a list of unfinished projects—most of them in my head. She is starting on a non-fiction work that is killer! I don’t know why somebody else hasn’t already thought of it. I won’t mention it because I don’t want anyone to steal her idea, but when she publishes it, I’ll be the first to buy it. It’s a winner, winner.
But then she reminded me of a project that she and I had first discussed a few years ago—a children’s book with her being the writer and me being the illustrator.
Me? An illustrator? I laugh thinking about it. I have a friend who is an illustrator, an artist, a REAL artist. I don’t even come close.
But my how times have changed. There was a time in my life when I was a kid that I was known as the resident “artist.” I used to draw. And color. And paint. And take pictures.
I loved, loved, loved art. I haven’t thought about art much until my friend brought up the “good old days.”
When I graduated from high school, my parents didn’t expect me to go to college. I held my own in school, graduating ninth out of a class of 362 (I think). I made good grades, but I still held on to the idea that my trignometry teacher called me a spaz. (Now that I think about it, it’s probably true. Let’s just say I can see now where my children get their math skills.) My parents told me that I needed to major in something that would provide me a steady job. Our high school had ONE art teacher (THE BEST). What were the odds of me getting a job in art?
So I toyed with the idea of being an education major my first few weeks of college, then changed my major to recording industry management, got scared I wouldn’t find a job, and returned to education, majoring in English because one of my professors told me I could write. And that’s where I’ve been for, um, an extended stay.
But I like art, any kind of art. Most of the creative people I know try a little bit of everything before honing in on one skill. Drawing, painting, playing music, taking pictures. I thrive when I create.
All during high school, whenever anybody needed somebody to draw something, anything, I was the go-to person. I wasn’t particularly good at portraits, but I could draw other things. What I really liked doing was taking people’s names and designing each letter to create something unique. My dad was a printer, and he had access to leftover cardstock. Being a budding entrepreneur, I opened my own “business” and designed names for people, charging them a dime per letter. I designed my friend’s Pat’s campaign posters, and he drummed up customers for my art business.
I feel a little guilty now for taking their money. I should have been doing my trignometry.
I waited and waited and waited until my senior year so that I could take THE art class. My art teacher, Jimmy “Grouch” Jones, was my hero. “The Old Man” taught me how to fire clay in a kiln, how to make torn-paper collages, how to shade, how to screen print, how to see something no one else could see. I wish I could say I was the best artist in my family, but all my younger cousins were so much better. But Jimmy Jones knew I liked his class better than any other class I had ever taken. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t the best. He treated all of his students as if they were “the best.”
Now that I am older, I realize that it’s not too late to dabble in art again. I don’t have the desire or the talent to create children’s books, but I think I should like to learn how to paint. I think I should like to dabble in folk art.
I made a new friend a few years ago at the annual Bell Buckle Arts and Crafts Show. I was meandering along when I saw this really cool folk art with a mojo, blues, music, spiritual theme. It was if someone had stepped into my head and had pulled out my ideas. How could it be? I introduced myself to the artist, and we talked, and I found out she also played guitar (the blues) and sang. I bought some of her work and have since bought a couple more of the pieces. I like it because it is different.
I like different.
Now that I’m old(er), I realize the only person I’ve ever had to please is myself, and I’ve never really made an effort to do so.
It doesn’t have to be good. It just has to be. For now.
I am no Monet. I am no Van Gogh. I am no Picasso. I Am made in the image of my Creator, and I like to create.
I like color. I can’t decide on ONE color, so in my house, I use as much color as I can in every room. I like color blocks. I like mosaics. Maybe I should create mosaics.
Or maybe I’ll start with something simple, maybe a painting class. I want to paint pictures of guitars. Maybe I can learn how to create my own style of folk art that will make people stop in their tracks and say, “Hey. Something about that piece reaches inside my soul and speaks to me.”
As George Eliot said, “It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”
This is my first DUET with Hasty Words, What an honor and fun experience! Please check out Hasty Words for some amazing art.
Originally posted on hastywords:
This duet took some time to write due to me losing my place a billion times. She was patient though and I think the end result turned out beautifully. Visit SerendipiTee here.Written by SerendipiTee and HastyWords
Wading through a cold, familiar river
I happened upon a gold and silver beam
The brilliant sparkling pulled me to the sun
And dragged me deeper into the flowing stream
I stared directly with fascination and for the first time
Was not blinded but could see that someone
Had left his mark, a message, a rhyming song
Written in fire upon this fiery globe in front of me
Wading through a fireof lukewarm flames
I happened upon an unexpected inferno
That, engulfing me, soothed me and pulled me to its center
I shielded my eyes -careful little eyes for what you see-
I blinked and…
View original 130 more words
Just because I haven’t written anything in a few days.
Just because this blog was inspired by a WordPress daily prompt.
I dedicate this blog to Roy G. Biv. May you color the canvas of my life. May every song I write be infused with your hues. May all the stories I dream be seen through your prism.
YELLOW. Not a ribbon. Not a light. Not a streak. Definitely a bright, sunshiny day.
INDIGO. Could be bruised, but it’s not. Could be a dye, but it’s not. Could be a child, but it’s not. It’s a crayon, and I can use it to mark on all my walls.
VIOLET. Don’t look for it among the Africans. It isn’t in true blood, or even with a Royal. 790,000,000? I don’t know. Hmmm.
Now it’s your turn. Follow these directions and take this prompt for a spin:
Write about anything you’d like, but make sure that all seven colors of the rainbow — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet — make an appearance in the post, either through word or image.
- I will NOT be a vindictive person.
- I will NOT give in to comfort food when I feel sad.
- I will NOT give up writing.
- I will NOT change who I am for anybody.
- I will NOT allow people to take advantage of my naivety.
- I will NOT stop loving my students.
- I will NOT coast when it comes to my jobs—100% or nothing.
- I will NOT be ashamed of my spiritual beliefs.
- I will NOT place religion above relationship.
- I will NOT stop dreaming of going to Ireland.
- I will NOT stop looking for adventure.
- I will NOT grow weary of doing good.
- I will NOT make hasty judgments about people’s actions.
- I will NOT give up on love.
That’s it. Your turn. What will you NOT do in 2014?
Funny how one thing leads to another.
I was out doing errands this morning when a Stevie Nicks song came on the radio. I didn’t get a chance to hear all of it, so I marked my mental “to do” list to go home and to look up the song so that I could see if I wanted to learn how to play it.
I never made it to the song on the radio because the title of another one of her songs caught my eye, one I’d never before heard—“Has Anyone Ever Written Anything for You.”
One of the verses goes like this:
“Has anyone ever given anything to you
In your darkest hours
Did you ever give it back
Well, I have
I have given that to you
If it’s all I ever do
This is your song”
The song isn’t written in what I call a standard format, but it ends with these lines:
“So, if not for me, then
Do it for yourself
If not for me then
Do it for the world”
Of course, I looked up the lyrics and listened to the song. I could barely breathe as the song was so hauntingly beautiful. And, as I always do whenever I hear a song that moves me, I researched it. I can’t verify the facts because I haven’t talked to Stevie herself, but supposedly the liner notes from her TimeSpace explains her inspiration :
Stevie had just finished a gig and then walked into a party at the hotel where she was staying. She saw this guy from across the room and immediately fell in love (something she does not / did not believe possible):
No, it wasn’t Lindsey Buckingham. It was Joe Walsh.
He held out his arms to her, and she walked right into them. Two days later he took her for drive in the mountains of Colorado to a “magical park” where he used to take his little girl. Joe had a special connection with his daughter, a connection that only a parent understands, a connection that can only be experienced, not transformed into words on paper. I suppose Joe felt totally vulnerable and REAL around her because she was so pure, so innocent. Her only complaint in life was that she was too little to reach the water fountain in the park.
This story is sad because this sweet little being he loved so much, the one he could truly connect with, died. I don’t know how. Joe’s heart must have ached for her. In dealing with his grief, he built a fountain for her and all the others too little to reach “it.” And Joe wrote a song for her, titled “Song for Emma.” Here are a few of the words:
“There’s a feeling I get
When I look to the sky
As if someone is watching
Someone hears every word
We are filled with regrets
It was such a short time
But we told Him we loved you
Hoping somehow He heard
We hoped He heard”
As the story goes, Stevie was so moved by what Joe told her on their drive and during the visit to the park that she wrote the song “Has Anyone Ever Written Anything for You” for Joe.
And for this reason, I feel a connection with Joe Walsh and Stevie Nicks. We’re all seeking relief, love, and answers. We look in different places, but we all look. You look. The person in line with you at the grocery story is looking. It doesn’t matter what sins or troubles he or she wears. The person is looking, seeking, needing.
I am a writer of songs. I know that what I write is for myself, not for a commercial market. Writing helps me digest life experiences and gives them meaning in my world.
I am a collector. I don’t collect fine things that cost a lot of money. I collect things that remind me of people and the experiences I’ve encountered.
Today’s journey through song was quite serendipitous for me. Only by chance, or better yet, God’s design, did everything line up at just the right time, just the right moment, so that I would do the research, hear the song, discover the meaning, and remember, the wonderful experience I had talking with Joe Walsh about one of his songs he wrote—inspired by his music hero, Jimi Hendrix.
Isn’t it amazing how we’re all connected in one way or another? The experiences. The songs. The journeys. The inspiration. The meaning our experiences bring to our lives.
There is dire conflict in the media today, such a clash between religion and beliefs and tolerance and intolerance.
God created each one of us and gave us the freedom to choose. We can’t force people to love us, and who would want a relationship with someone forced to love us? Do we expect God to want anything less?
Just because people don’t love us doesn’t mean we don’t love them. Right? You can’t stop love. God still loves people who don’t love Him. So why do we spend all of our time yakking about the sins of somebody else when we’ve got enough troubles of our own? Is God not big enough to handle the situation? He knows why they (we) do what they (we) do.
But what do I know?
God created each one of us, and each one of us has a purpose. We choose our own destiny. But God’s plan is always fulfilled. He orchestrates all lives so beautifully that a grand purpose is accomplished. I can’t explain it. I can’t comprehend it. But I can feel it. And write about it—in a blog , in a book, or in a song.
So thank you, God, that I was able to connect with a couple of human beings through song this morning. We may not think the same way, we may not share the same talent, we may not share the same beliefs, but I know You are pretty proud of them and of me too even when we break Your heart.