Eat Pray Love - My Thoughts

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.

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.

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:

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.

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 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:

"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.

Our Miracle

MaKayla Imani Arrianna Cain, my great-niece, entered the world on October 2, 2008, a bouncing, bubbly, kicking, bright-eyed baby girl full of smiles and joy. In her short 7 month life-span she has undergone open heart surgery and a heart transplant. All the while looking like a normal healthy baby girl. We are very grateful to God for showing us the fragility of life through MaKayla...our miracle.

While we rejoice in our blessing we lift up the family that suffered a loss to make our miracle possible; may God forever bless and comfort them.

One More Day

Reading and listening to music was and still is two of my all time favorite things to do. Fishing was one of my father’s favorite things, and talking is one of my mother’s all time favorite things.

We were able to bring our favorite things together on family outings to the lake on the 4th of July. I loved sitting by the water in a quiet, peaceful spot contentedly reading a book and listening to music while my father and grandmother fished, my brothers ran around playing, and my mother walked the lake talking. Those were some of the best times.

As we grew older the fishing trips became fewer and so did the family members. My grandmother passed away and my brothers found other things to do. Occasionally, my parents and I continued the trips; my father fishing, my mother talking, and me—always looking for a quiet spot to read with my music. We were eventually joined by the first grandchild in the family who replaced my brothers running around playing.

I remember one particular trip where my father was in a very talkative mood giving advice on the best way to catch a fish, my nephew was replicating my brothers, my mother was napping, and I had a book with a very interesting plot. Listening to fishing techniques was interfering with the intricate details surrounding the mystery my characters were involved in. Fortunately, my nephew happened along with his fishing pole and a listening ear giving me a chance to escape to another quiet spot and become absorbed once again in my book without interruptions.

That trip is now a cherished memory. One thing etched in my mind is the beauty of the lake and the many different spots to sit and commune with nature, contemplating how the mystery in the book would be solved as jazz tunes permeated my soul. The memory of it came back to me as I watched Oprah asking people if they could spend one more day with someone, who would it be and what would they do.

My answer: My dad—and we would go fishing. Only this time, instead of moving to a quiet spot to read, I would move closer to him, put down my book, turn off my music—and listen. Then, I would pick up a fishing pole, stand beside him—and fish.

I always become pensive when I hear Luther Vandross’ song, Dance With My Father, tears either fall from my eyes or surround my heart. How I wish I could recreate that moment in time and fish with my father.

Kelly Clarkson's Apology

Using the scripture reference James 3:2-13, Betty Miller of bible.com penned the following:

“These words from James tell us that we can bless or curse with our tongues and that the root of our mouth problems is a heart problem. What is in our heart, will come out of our mouths. The only way we are going to overcome our heart problems is to give our heart to Jesus and allow Him to cleanse it, then we will bless others and use our mouths to speak wisdom and kind things. We have all said things that we wish we had not spoken. When this happens, the only way to make things right is to apologize and admit that what we said was wrong. Even though this is hard, we will have more respect, than if we refuse to admit we were wrong and allow pride to rule us.”

If these words ring true, then why on my regular perusal of music message boards and blogs am I reading many of the posters and writers no longer have respect for Kelly Clarkson since she or her people made the statement on her websites? In today’s society where "right is wrong and wrong is glorified" I shouldn’t be surprised that a lot of people see her apology as a sign of weakness and “giving in” instead of strength.

After Kelly spoke from her mouth what was in her heart, whether right or wrong, about the predicament she found herself in— what was the next step? She received scrutiny and praises for her stand against the music industry, and then the same for her apology. Whatever she did was going to equal more hot water for her. She clearly put herself in a situation hard to win. Once again she chose to take the high road. Whether she truly wished she had not said the things she said about the record executives will probably remain a mystery since we cannot see her true heart—only God can, and He is the only one she has to answer to.

Betty continues with a commentary on Proverbs 21:24 as follows:

“Verse 24 in our study today, tells us that a scoffer, who is proud and haughty, will also be an angry and over-bearing person. No one likes a person who is over-bearing and pushy. We must ask God to change us if we tend to have a demeaning and controlling attitude toward others. The Bible tells us that the Lord resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble. May we all humble ourselves before God.”

Does this verse describe Kelly or the record executives? What people think of her apology will remain debatable, until the next scandal comes along for them to debate and write about. My prayer is that she made things right in her heart with the one that really matters.

I always join Betty in her prayer for the day:

“Dear Heavenly Father, I am thankful for Your grace and mercy toward me. I need help in the area of guarding my lips. Lord, give me the grace to keep my mouth shut when I should not speak, and give me the holy boldness to speak up when I need to do so, without fearing what others will think about me. May I be a person who blesses others and not one who curses others with a negative confession about them. Cleanse my heart, oh Lord, so that I will not even want to speak evil or bad things. I humble myself before You, Lord, and ask for a meek and lowly spirit like Jesus, our Saviour, has. In His name I pray. Amen.”

The Good Ol' Days

Television viewing in recent years has become a boring venture. I grew weary of watching illicit sex, crime, violence and the eerie supernatural long ago. Now reality shows are infiltrating the tubes in droves and getting out of hand. Occasionally, a station will replay a movie I like but I get frustrated with the annoying commercial interruptions.

Thank Goodness for the VCR and the DVD, when I need good clean entertainment my collection never fails to deliver. Doris Day was one of my favorite actresses in the 60s. You could always count on her for a good laugh and a heartwarming cry. I have 36 of the 38 movies she made so I am never at a loss for a good nostalgic flick.

Funny how watching a movie from back in the day can bring back so many memories, make you laugh out loud, even more so make you sentimental and melancholy when a scene reminds you of a similar life experience. Calamity Jane, starring Doris Day and Howard Keel, did that for me today; a rip-roaring, (not meant to be) romantic, western comedy.

Before I get into the melancholy I have to point out “the walk”. I mentioned Denzel Washington’s walk in my last post…hey y’all, before Denzel there was Howard Keel, when he walks into the saloon to gaze at Katie Brown’s portrait… oo-lah lah! Denzel must have taken lessons from him. I’ll say it again…oo-lah lah, no, oo oo lah LAH!

My Secret Love
The tender beauty in the movie was Doris (Calamity Jane) and Howard (Wild Bill Hickock) realizing they were not just best friends but actually, albeit secretly, loved each other. The strange beauty lie in the fact that it was also a secret to them until a jealous triangle brought it to light. Doris very eloquently shouted it from the mountaintops in the beautiful song My Secret Love.

I was reminded of a conversation I had with a friend that couldn’t understand how you can not know you love someone. My response was…you can’t, unless you experience it—like I did.

He was my best friend, we had fun together. I could tell him anything. We looked forward to seeing each other in church and hanging out afterwards. We took long drives together enjoying music. Sat on beach cliffs watching the sunset and cuddled watching cheesy movies that made you laugh and made you cry. He didn’t have “the walk” but he had everything else. He was everything I dreamed of. I didn’t realize how much he meant to me until our longest drive up the coast of California from San Diego to San Francisco. I began to feel more than friendship the night I introduced him to Maid to Order and he introduced me to Dirty Dancing. He sealed the deal the night he pulled out a saxophone and squeaked through Joy to the World. I was now smitten.

My Dilemma
How do we move from friendship to "loveship"? Would our transition be as smooth as Calamity Jane and Wild Bill’s? It’s funny, now that my heart was floating in a sea of love he had somehow developed “the Denzel/Howard walk” and I loved watching him walk away. With every departure I couldn’t wait for the day we would have a heart to heart talk about our developing relationship. That time would come the night I was packing to return to my home state. He came over to tell me how much he was going to miss his buddy. I took this as a great opportunity to share with him my developing feelings. To my dismay and heartbroken disbelief we did not have a Calamity Jane/Wild Bill Hickock transition. It was in this moment of truth I learned that for him, it would forever remain platonic.

How did I overcome? Well…it wasn’t easy, but I did, and I did it without hating him. How could I, he never promised me anything or crossed any lines, I did. I crossed when I wanted more than friendship. He was very gracious in the handling of my feelings, which made me love him even more. My Secret Love forever remained my secret—until now.

A movie from the good ol’ days led to remembering a good ol’ friend.

Why Do Some Men...

find it necessary to hide their wives—not in a literal sense, but hiding her by not revealing his connection in marital bliss?

He was very easy on the eye, the muscles popping through his shirt were breathtaking and he had a smile to match. His easygoing manner made you want to sit and talk to him everyday—and that Denzel Washington walk—you just stared, somehow glad he was leaving you behind yet wanting to walk with him. He gave a persona of being open and was sending an electrifying invitation. My female-ticker was getting excited anticipating his availability.

However, being the cautious person I am, I sit back, listen and observe waiting for him to show his character. It is times like this I am glad I have a cautious nature. His every move and conversation said I’m available, but overhearing a conversation revealed a truth his glance toward me didn’t want me to know. His downward look spoke more volumes than the words—my wife.

Being a single woman I am always going to look and wonder when a new male prospect comes into the workplace. If I didn’t I would know for sure death’s door was nearby. Prior to “Mr. Muscle with the congenial aire” my female ticker went into action when another set of muscles came on the scene and I went through the usual wonderings. There is, however, a stark difference in the encounters. What sets this experience apart from the aforementioned was his upfront admittance of marital bliss, so much so I wanted to slap him every time he blatantly threw it in my face. He got a joy out of saying—my wife. I now see he had a perception I’m ashamed to admit he picked up on. He was protecting his wife and letting me know he was not available.

In retrospect, I have a respect for Mr. My Wife that is unparallel to Mr. Congenial Muscles. Why didn’t he reveal his marital status? Did my observant nature wait and see his true character revealed? Or maybe his marital bliss is a marital miss. Whatever the case—why do some men hide their wives?