The movie depicts what has happened to the American way of thinking. People today are so caught up in what they think they should be doing with their lives they sadly miss what is truly important to them as an individual. This “American way” of thinking causes the vast majority to live a life of “happy misery”. Liz Gilbert took a bold step and decided to break out of her misery and discover what would truly make her happy.
Most people stay in their happy misery because it’s safe, and leaving it would mean losing what they think they have gained from careers and jobs that most of them hate. Others, like Liz, leave their misery to grow. I applaud her for embarking on a voyage that could be seen as self-indulgent but in reality broadens her self-knowledge.
Ultimately, she broke free of the dull way most Americans think they should live their lives to be successful and obtain the ever so elusive American dream (which most of us will never experience).
Whereas the movie was lacking in productive depth, the depth was there for those that could relate to Liz, whether they are in the beginning phase of needing to embark on that same type of journey, or they had already taken the leap. Perhaps those that think it was shallow should take the plunge. I dare you.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Figure Skaters, Grace, and the Gold
One of the most beautiful artistic pieces you can ever experience is watching a figure skater gracefully gliding across the ice interpreting music, not letting a gold medal interfere with their joy of skating. For me, Peggy Flemming, Dorothy Hamill, Katarina Witt and Nancy Kerrigan were the epitome of grace on ice. Wednesday I was drawn into another skater that I will now call strength on ice. Joannie Rochette, the young lady that bridled her emotions and took to the Olympic ice in the midst of struggling with the deepest pain a child could experience. She had not crossed my radar until now. Watching her I felt compelled to research her past performances. With each presentation I was drawn into her every move and amazed at how she blended the required jumps into her routine with ease. She definitely joins the ranks of my grace skaters.
From the beginning to the end of her short program you could see she had a mission. With graceful strength she took her stance upon the ice; as the music started so did her interpretation of that mission. She had to finish what she and her mother started as a young child—to podium in the Olympics. Never did Joannie think that when she left her hometown with her mother and father by her side to compete she would end her long program looking toward heaven blowing a kiss to her mother’s spirit.
How could a young woman muster the courage she did to stay in the game after the champion of her life suddenly leaves this world never to return and skate with the grace of the aforementioned skaters? It had to be something bigger than her. Perhaps we have a glimpse with the direction of her kiss.
No doubt their dream was the gold—that was not to be. She did however make the podium; with that steeled grace and strength exhibited early on, she lowered her head during the ceremony and received the bronze medal fulfilling the mission she knew she must complete.
Even sadder than the passing of her mother is the reaction of some people (I am happy to say are in the minority) that feel she didn’t deserve the medal and it was a sympathy awarding. Like music and beauty, skating is in "the eye of the beholder". This is apparent with the rules of scoring changing so many times over the years. Some, like me, watch for the artistry, others watch for the athleticism and some, a combination of both. I don’t know much about nor do care about the technical side of figure skating, I love to watch the artistic interpretation of the music, and if they never make a jump it wouldn’t matter to me. With the insurgence of triple lutzes and triple axels most skaters have left out the grace. Joannie brought it back for me, that coupled with her strength in a dark moment made it all the better. For that I give her the gold.
In the quest for Olympic gold the male figure skaters were not without their drama. The favored was Evgeni Plushenko. He skated to a silver end and the gold went to Evan Lysacek. Plushenko, along with many critics and fans feel he was cheated because he jumped a quad and Evan didn’t. There it is again—jumping vs. grace. In this case however, I think it went deeper than that; there was a pride vs. humility at play and the humble one walked away with the gold--after skating gracefully on the ice.
From the beginning to the end of her short program you could see she had a mission. With graceful strength she took her stance upon the ice; as the music started so did her interpretation of that mission. She had to finish what she and her mother started as a young child—to podium in the Olympics. Never did Joannie think that when she left her hometown with her mother and father by her side to compete she would end her long program looking toward heaven blowing a kiss to her mother’s spirit.
How could a young woman muster the courage she did to stay in the game after the champion of her life suddenly leaves this world never to return and skate with the grace of the aforementioned skaters? It had to be something bigger than her. Perhaps we have a glimpse with the direction of her kiss.
No doubt their dream was the gold—that was not to be. She did however make the podium; with that steeled grace and strength exhibited early on, she lowered her head during the ceremony and received the bronze medal fulfilling the mission she knew she must complete.
Even sadder than the passing of her mother is the reaction of some people (I am happy to say are in the minority) that feel she didn’t deserve the medal and it was a sympathy awarding. Like music and beauty, skating is in "the eye of the beholder". This is apparent with the rules of scoring changing so many times over the years. Some, like me, watch for the artistry, others watch for the athleticism and some, a combination of both. I don’t know much about nor do care about the technical side of figure skating, I love to watch the artistic interpretation of the music, and if they never make a jump it wouldn’t matter to me. With the insurgence of triple lutzes and triple axels most skaters have left out the grace. Joannie brought it back for me, that coupled with her strength in a dark moment made it all the better. For that I give her the gold.
In the quest for Olympic gold the male figure skaters were not without their drama. The favored was Evgeni Plushenko. He skated to a silver end and the gold went to Evan Lysacek. Plushenko, along with many critics and fans feel he was cheated because he jumped a quad and Evan didn’t. There it is again—jumping vs. grace. In this case however, I think it went deeper than that; there was a pride vs. humility at play and the humble one walked away with the gold--after skating gracefully on the ice.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Adam Lambert vs. Susan Boyle
One of my favorite past times is reading music blogs or blogs talking about music and the musicians making the music. This week a lot of them are filled with the Adam Lambert/Susan Boyle controversy. Most of the times I do not comment; I just read and move on. Occasionally one will spark a thought and off I go. As was the case with this article: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/gossip/susan-boyle/. When I tried to post, a message informed me “data not accepted”, so here I am where I know my data will be accepted.
My comment as written for the blog:
My comment as written for the blog:
I am weighing in late on this, but find it intriguing and felt compelled to comment. I will not applaud or condemn this article, because this article like almost every article in a blog is mostly opinion based on fact. Whether or not Adam Lambert was misquoted is not what intrigues me; I am always amazed that some artists and their listeners hardly ever consider the fact that music is relative to the maker and the listener.
I had not heard the Rolling Stones’ version of Wild Horses, as a matter of fact I have not heard much of anything by the Rolling Stones because I do not care to listen to their style of music, nor had I heard Susan Boyle's version. So I listened to the selections offered here. I started Ms. Boyle’s video and proceeded to reading the comments posted. When it ended I started the Rolling Stones video and continued to read the comments, after several bars I couldn't take it anymore and had to stop it. It was just not my cup of tea.
I didn’t buy Susan or Adam’s album because neither one appeals to my eclectic taste in music. If Adam indeed said “if it weren’t for Susan Boyle”, I would hope he was sarcastically joking. People buy what they like. Apparently, more of Susan’s type of listeners found something to buy that week than Adam’s type of listeners. If a benefactor had offered me money that week and said I had to buy Adam’s album or Susan’s album I would first ask for another choice, if I couldn’t get that choice and had to choose between the two…I would have chosen Susan.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
History Revisited
In the midst of the birthday celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., I pull another story from my files. Is it true, or is it fiction…you decide. In either case, how much have we evolved since the setting of this story?
The Dilemma of A Rose
It was beauty on wheels; “Cougars Our Love is Like a Red, Red Rose”; letters perfectly placed in red and green on a white poster attached to a bed of crepe paper grass; all adorned on a green pick-up truck. The decorations were topped off with live green leaf branches, artificial red roses—and me. I stood in the middle of the float, dressed in green from the neck down leaning on the cab to keep my balance, while nervously smiling and timidly waving my rosebud mittens made of bright red felt. With red petal-shaped crepe paper towering around my neck and a red felt cap donning my head, hopefully, I looked like what I was supposed to be—a red rose that loved the cougars. It should have been a perfect day of love and school spirit—instead, tension hung in the air.
Four years had passed since schools in our small town were forced into integration. Four years of matriculating under the same roof but still segregated inside the classrooms—and more eminently segregated in our hearts and minds. Four years of watching our heroes disappear. No longer did we see African-American principals and teachers in large numbers, no longer did we see African-American SGA presidents and class secretaries, Drum majors and cheerleaders were reduced to one, maybe two; and no homecoming queens—they all seemed to have disappeared into the woodwork. What happened, where did they go?
The class of 1972 had a brilliant solution to the homecoming queen problem—they selected one black candidate for the ballot. Though the African-American students were outnumbered, their unified vote for that one candidate outfoxed the split vote for the multiple Caucasian candidates, resulting in the first African-American homecoming queen since integration. This did not sit well with guess who…
The class of 1973 now had the formula, and put it to use the following year. But to their surprise and horror, the good White folks had a solution for the formula—instead of one homecoming queen—we had five, which did not include the “one candidate”. This did not sit well with guess who…
Tempers ran high and a mass walkout ensued, a picket line was formed in front of the school and those of color that crossed it were considered traitors. A boycott of the homecoming parade and the homecoming game was scheduled. The local NAACP planned a march to parallel the parade. Our up to now peaceful town was finally boiling over from years of unreleased racial frustration.
There were some of us however, that were caught in a dilemma; we were already selected as representatives from various organizations to participate in the parade. Our parents had spent money preparing us for our distinct honors. While some Black parents felt forfeiting their hard earned money for the cause was the right thing to do, others felt we should not all back down and walk out. Do we show solidarity, or do we stand alone and follow through with our commitments. It was a decision that brought tremendous inner turmoil.
It is a day I will never forget, standing there on the back of that truck that won third place in the float competition, was the single most agonizing day of my life thus far. I did not know what to expect as we left the school grounds headed for downtown, where at any given point we would meet the marchers carrying their signs and singing We Shall Overcome. Rumors were circulating that they would trash the floats of any traitors. I felt some semblance of peace knowing my father was in the cab of the truck and his best friend, the town’s only black policeman, was walking nearby.
As we turned the corner headed for the court square, I heard them; my fear went into high gear. What would happen, what would they do? They were meeting the parade head-on, singing and waving their signs. So far it was a peaceful interchange as they passed each float, but they had not passed any “traitors” yet. My time was drawing closer, feelings of conflict were now mixed with my fear; I should be with them, not dressed in this stupid looking rose outfit scared to move because decisions beyond my control had been made.
But there I was, getting closer and closer. I tensed and held my breath while the front of the line met the front of my float and passed… nothing happened… we were now half and half… and still nothing happened. Was I going to make it all the way with no incident? They didn’t look at me as I stood frozen trying not to look at them—and then the words “you cheated” came from out of the marchers, not from the total group and not from any stranger, but from someone I had considered my friend. He leaned over and sneered the words toward me, piercing my frozen stance and causing my insides to rumble like Mt. St. Helens before the eruption. My rosebud hands waved no more, my smile now resembled a faded rose. My next memory was my father helping me off the truck and saying “we made it”.
That day was the beginning of a multitude of migraines. Along with the pain in my head and the rocks in my stomach, I could faintly hear my advisors for the organization congratulating me while offering their admonition to make them proud as I received the trophy that evening for our award winning float. Surely they wouldn’t make me do that as well. I was already a traitor and a cheater for participating in the parade. Couldn’t I at least boycott the game!
As fate would have it I was in for the whole package. I sat there on our side of the stadium, my insides feeling like Niagara Falls on a rainy day, dreading walking out on that field. When the awards ceremony began I was so caught up in my trepidation I didn’t hear them call my name. A nudge and a push from a friend got me off the bleachers. I walked slowly toward the field with my head down wondering what I would be called this time. But to my amazement and ultimate anger they didn’t call out any names, instead they stood up with fist in the air yelling “black power!” I looked up into that sea of black faces and thought “WHAT?” You all had my insides feeling like an avalanche of hard tumbling roses all day and now you are going to share in the glory and revel in black power! How dare you!
Somehow from the close of the parade to the awards ceremony I went from a cheater to a hero. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps they were reminded that the organization I represented was comprised of all black students, and we had put together an award winning float. The rose was no longer in a dilemma but was ironically thinking: If I had a bazooka I would shoot all of you.
The real glory however, came at the end of the ceremony during the announcement of the homecoming queen(s) when a group of eloquently dressed black students took their “one candidate” out on the field and crowned her as the homecoming queen. The surprised administration not wanting to cause a greater friction, graciously, with tongue in cheek, allowed the crowning.
So as not to create this dilemma again, for several years to come school administrators crowned not one—but two queens: one white, one black.
The Dilemma of A Rose
It was beauty on wheels; “Cougars Our Love is Like a Red, Red Rose”; letters perfectly placed in red and green on a white poster attached to a bed of crepe paper grass; all adorned on a green pick-up truck. The decorations were topped off with live green leaf branches, artificial red roses—and me. I stood in the middle of the float, dressed in green from the neck down leaning on the cab to keep my balance, while nervously smiling and timidly waving my rosebud mittens made of bright red felt. With red petal-shaped crepe paper towering around my neck and a red felt cap donning my head, hopefully, I looked like what I was supposed to be—a red rose that loved the cougars. It should have been a perfect day of love and school spirit—instead, tension hung in the air.
Four years had passed since schools in our small town were forced into integration. Four years of matriculating under the same roof but still segregated inside the classrooms—and more eminently segregated in our hearts and minds. Four years of watching our heroes disappear. No longer did we see African-American principals and teachers in large numbers, no longer did we see African-American SGA presidents and class secretaries, Drum majors and cheerleaders were reduced to one, maybe two; and no homecoming queens—they all seemed to have disappeared into the woodwork. What happened, where did they go?
The class of 1972 had a brilliant solution to the homecoming queen problem—they selected one black candidate for the ballot. Though the African-American students were outnumbered, their unified vote for that one candidate outfoxed the split vote for the multiple Caucasian candidates, resulting in the first African-American homecoming queen since integration. This did not sit well with guess who…
The class of 1973 now had the formula, and put it to use the following year. But to their surprise and horror, the good White folks had a solution for the formula—instead of one homecoming queen—we had five, which did not include the “one candidate”. This did not sit well with guess who…
Tempers ran high and a mass walkout ensued, a picket line was formed in front of the school and those of color that crossed it were considered traitors. A boycott of the homecoming parade and the homecoming game was scheduled. The local NAACP planned a march to parallel the parade. Our up to now peaceful town was finally boiling over from years of unreleased racial frustration.
There were some of us however, that were caught in a dilemma; we were already selected as representatives from various organizations to participate in the parade. Our parents had spent money preparing us for our distinct honors. While some Black parents felt forfeiting their hard earned money for the cause was the right thing to do, others felt we should not all back down and walk out. Do we show solidarity, or do we stand alone and follow through with our commitments. It was a decision that brought tremendous inner turmoil.
It is a day I will never forget, standing there on the back of that truck that won third place in the float competition, was the single most agonizing day of my life thus far. I did not know what to expect as we left the school grounds headed for downtown, where at any given point we would meet the marchers carrying their signs and singing We Shall Overcome. Rumors were circulating that they would trash the floats of any traitors. I felt some semblance of peace knowing my father was in the cab of the truck and his best friend, the town’s only black policeman, was walking nearby.
As we turned the corner headed for the court square, I heard them; my fear went into high gear. What would happen, what would they do? They were meeting the parade head-on, singing and waving their signs. So far it was a peaceful interchange as they passed each float, but they had not passed any “traitors” yet. My time was drawing closer, feelings of conflict were now mixed with my fear; I should be with them, not dressed in this stupid looking rose outfit scared to move because decisions beyond my control had been made.
But there I was, getting closer and closer. I tensed and held my breath while the front of the line met the front of my float and passed… nothing happened… we were now half and half… and still nothing happened. Was I going to make it all the way with no incident? They didn’t look at me as I stood frozen trying not to look at them—and then the words “you cheated” came from out of the marchers, not from the total group and not from any stranger, but from someone I had considered my friend. He leaned over and sneered the words toward me, piercing my frozen stance and causing my insides to rumble like Mt. St. Helens before the eruption. My rosebud hands waved no more, my smile now resembled a faded rose. My next memory was my father helping me off the truck and saying “we made it”.
That day was the beginning of a multitude of migraines. Along with the pain in my head and the rocks in my stomach, I could faintly hear my advisors for the organization congratulating me while offering their admonition to make them proud as I received the trophy that evening for our award winning float. Surely they wouldn’t make me do that as well. I was already a traitor and a cheater for participating in the parade. Couldn’t I at least boycott the game!
As fate would have it I was in for the whole package. I sat there on our side of the stadium, my insides feeling like Niagara Falls on a rainy day, dreading walking out on that field. When the awards ceremony began I was so caught up in my trepidation I didn’t hear them call my name. A nudge and a push from a friend got me off the bleachers. I walked slowly toward the field with my head down wondering what I would be called this time. But to my amazement and ultimate anger they didn’t call out any names, instead they stood up with fist in the air yelling “black power!” I looked up into that sea of black faces and thought “WHAT?” You all had my insides feeling like an avalanche of hard tumbling roses all day and now you are going to share in the glory and revel in black power! How dare you!
Somehow from the close of the parade to the awards ceremony I went from a cheater to a hero. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps they were reminded that the organization I represented was comprised of all black students, and we had put together an award winning float. The rose was no longer in a dilemma but was ironically thinking: If I had a bazooka I would shoot all of you.
The real glory however, came at the end of the ceremony during the announcement of the homecoming queen(s) when a group of eloquently dressed black students took their “one candidate” out on the field and crowned her as the homecoming queen. The surprised administration not wanting to cause a greater friction, graciously, with tongue in cheek, allowed the crowning.
So as not to create this dilemma again, for several years to come school administrators crowned not one—but two queens: one white, one black.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The United State of Economic America
The United States of America
Land of the free, home of the brave
They once beat a man because he was a slave
The United States of America
They send space shuttles to the moon
Teachers won’t be able to teach all our children
This won’t happen later—but soon
The United States of America
They send space shuttles to the moon
Older citizens are afraid to come out long past noon
They may lose part of their pension
This won’t happen later—but soon
The United States of America
They send space shuttles to the moon
We hear our country is in economic trouble
Yet, the shuttle takes off in a happy little bubble
The United States of America
They send space shuttles to the moon
Our people will be crying
This won’t happen later—but soon
The United States of America
Land of Liberty
The government won’t let us be free……
*********************************************
While going through some old writings of mine I rediscovered this poem. I’ll never forget the day I wrote it. I was living off-campus with a relative.
Intensely, I lay stretched across my bed surrounded by textbooks and a half-written term paper, when suddenly, the background TV noise became an intrusion of loud newscasters bursting into the mindless entertainment buzzing about the lift-off of yet another space shuttle. It angered me.
Why, you may ask was I angry—simple. Before the mindless entertainment, the daily news was on enlightening us of all the problems we were facing as a nation: how we were in economic trouble, the crimes of our youth, the state of senior citizens, our troubled school systems, etc, etc. So yes, hearing their excitement laced with pious political importance report the take-off of a space shuttle angered me. My collegiate revolutionary intellect surmised it as sending millions of dollars literally into space and people here on earth in the great country of the USA were going to lose their pension.
In that moment “economic trouble” as reported by the newscasters, that day back in the early 80’s, sent my pen in a different direction than the topic of my term paper. Yes, that’s when it was—the early 80’s (research pinpoints it as April 12,1981)—and here we are in 2010…
What has changed in the US of A since that day—what has evolved—what stayed the same—and the big question of all—what came true from that day to now concerning the economy…
Food for thought:
In all the years listed here: http://www.infoplease.com/spot/spaceshuttletimeline.html how much money could American seniors enjoy if we had an alternate money maker.
Land of the free, home of the brave
They once beat a man because he was a slave
The United States of America
They send space shuttles to the moon
Teachers won’t be able to teach all our children
This won’t happen later—but soon
The United States of America
They send space shuttles to the moon
Older citizens are afraid to come out long past noon
They may lose part of their pension
This won’t happen later—but soon
The United States of America
They send space shuttles to the moon
We hear our country is in economic trouble
Yet, the shuttle takes off in a happy little bubble
The United States of America
They send space shuttles to the moon
Our people will be crying
This won’t happen later—but soon
The United States of America
Land of Liberty
The government won’t let us be free……
*********************************************
While going through some old writings of mine I rediscovered this poem. I’ll never forget the day I wrote it. I was living off-campus with a relative.
Intensely, I lay stretched across my bed surrounded by textbooks and a half-written term paper, when suddenly, the background TV noise became an intrusion of loud newscasters bursting into the mindless entertainment buzzing about the lift-off of yet another space shuttle. It angered me.
Why, you may ask was I angry—simple. Before the mindless entertainment, the daily news was on enlightening us of all the problems we were facing as a nation: how we were in economic trouble, the crimes of our youth, the state of senior citizens, our troubled school systems, etc, etc. So yes, hearing their excitement laced with pious political importance report the take-off of a space shuttle angered me. My collegiate revolutionary intellect surmised it as sending millions of dollars literally into space and people here on earth in the great country of the USA were going to lose their pension.
In that moment “economic trouble” as reported by the newscasters, that day back in the early 80’s, sent my pen in a different direction than the topic of my term paper. Yes, that’s when it was—the early 80’s (research pinpoints it as April 12,1981)—and here we are in 2010…
What has changed in the US of A since that day—what has evolved—what stayed the same—and the big question of all—what came true from that day to now concerning the economy…
Food for thought:
"Space is much more expensive to do and much more technically difficult
than any other industry," he said. "Nobody's been able to figure out what can
you do in space that will allow you to make a lot of money. In the aircraft and
railroad business, it became obvious that transporting cargo made you money, but
in the case of space it is just not that easy."
Quote by analyst John Pike taken from this article: http://articles.latimes.com/2009/jul/23/business/fi-spacebiz23
In all the years listed here: http://www.infoplease.com/spot/spaceshuttletimeline.html how much money could American seniors enjoy if we had an alternate money maker.
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