Christmas Bells

On this Christmas Day 2018 when the world seems so topsy-turvy, I give you the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, written on Christmas Day 1863 in the middle of the American Civil War. (It was published two years later, February 1865.) The poem starts out rather melancholy, moves to despair, and ends in hope. 

May you find joy and hope in the notion that wrong shall fail and right prevail this holiday season. A voice, a chime, a chant sublime - Merry Christmas!

Christmas Bells

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

    And wild and sweet

    The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

    Had rolled along

    The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,

The world revolved from night to day,

    A voice, a chime,

    A chant sublime

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth

The cannon thundered in the South,

    And with the sound

    The carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent

The hearth-stones of a continent,

    And made forlorn

    The households born

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;

“There is no peace on earth," I said;

    “For hate is strong,

    And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

    The Wrong shall fail,

    The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

Thankful for Who I Am Now

Who I am now is a lot different from who I was a few months ago. Changes. Unexpected transitions. You know. Stuff happens, and it's altered who I am now.

I'm a person who moves on. From schools. From towns (except NYC - I'll always come back to you). From jobs. I'm just not a person who goes back. Forward is my primary direction. I am not who I was four months ago.

I am now a person whose only paid work responsibilities are to be cheerful, hospitable, and helpful, all while surrounded by fabulous art in a gorgeous Renzo Piano building. I am not responsible for anyone's comings-and-going, yearly reviews, office behavior, or work directives.

I'm now a person who works or volunteers in three of Atlanta's leading cultural entities: High Museum of Art, Atlanta History Center, and Center from Puppetry Arts. I am no longer expected to create anything clever, moving, or fabulous for a social media campaign, resource, exhibit hall display, or promotional giveaway.

My unpaid volunteer work lets me hang around the likes of Kermit and Miss Piggy, golfing great Bobby Jones, a multitude of fabulous authors, and Mali's Sogo Bo. I am no longer required to attend meeting after meeting after meeting after meeting after meeting (infinity), and impossible deadlines are no longer burdens I have to carry.

I like earning money, and thanks to the High Museum, I'm doing just that. Volunteering is lots of fun, but . . . money. Retirement holds no appeal for me as long as I'm healthy and in my right (sorta) mind.

I'm still Kate's mama, Greg's mama-in-law, and GrandMary to gorgeous, smart, funny, loving Liam and Charlotte. That part of me is deep and life-long.

In short, I'm not the producer or teacher or boss of anyone but my own self. Letting go of responsibility and office drama has been amazingly easy. I love not having to be on call 24/7. I love how varied and culturally enriching my work and volunteer life is now.

So this Thanksgiving, I'm supremely grateful for the opening of new doors, new opportunities, and new insights. And I plan to acknowledge that thanks with my family around a table full of good food, laughter, and love.

I'm thankful for the new me.

8 For What We Will

Happy Labor Day, y'all. It's a day to celebrate the 40-hour work week, overtime pay, a minimum wage (as small as it might be), collective bargaining rights (as small as they may be), and weekends! Safer workplaces and the absence of small children working dangerous machinery are a couple of other things to be thankful for.

In the late 19th century, the Gilded Age and Progressive Era ran smack into each other - boom! Thanks to brave politicians willing to reign in the robber barons and even braver working folks organizing for better working conditions, the American people tried to hammer out a way for those who had money to make more money, while not jeopardizing the lives and livelihoods of most of the population who were just trying to make ends meet and still be alive at the end of the work day.

Just take in some of these pictures and stories. I've purposefully chosen those of women and children, though certainly men were abused in the same way. Look at them. All hard workers - no shirkers, here. Helping their families keep a roof overhead, food on the table, and medicine available when necessary. Young children and scary equipment. Women burned alive or dead from jumping out of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory building. And the consequences of painting radium onto watch dials so they (the watch dials, but eventually the women themselves) could light up in the dark.

It took years to reckon with and legislate against the most heinous and unfair labor practices. True, factories with heavy machinery and any sort of mining jobs were and are inherently dangerous, But the late 19th-early 20th century labor movement worked to make earning a buck as safe as possible, even for the most hazardous occupations. For that alone we should be celebrating today.

But let's not be naive. First, who's missing in these pictures? Hard to find any black faces. That struggle is ongoing. And second, unfortunately, labor bosses evolved into the equivalent of mob bosses, their greed and forms of retribution as harsh as any Gilded Age captain of gelt. Thanks to the corruption of those bosses, unions and the labor movement are met with disdain and animosity today. A horrible dilemma, but not one we can't overcome.

Here's the thing. Most people want to work. I guarantee you there are more folks at the highest level of the food chain avoiding real work than there are in the middle and on the bottom. More folks at the top are gaming the system than ever were able to game it at the lowest rungs of the ladder. Let's stop making bad guys out of the women and men trying to better themselves through work and education. Don't be a work-snob. Work of all kinds is honorable, unless illegal or immoral, and, shoot, even then . . .  Show some gratitude. Treat people as the humans they are.

My prayer for this Labor Day is that we don't throw the safe, fair, moral baby out with the tainted bathwater. Folks shouldn't have to work two and three jobs to take care of hearth and health. Fair pay for a good day's work. And we've got to work out this healthcare thing. It should never have been tied to work in the first place. Yes, it's a Gordian Knot, but we can and must figure this out.

Consider how lucky many of us are for that 8 for work, 8 for rest, and 8 for what you will. It was won through much blood, sweat, and tears. Just look at the pictures.

I know we're in a time of high public immorality, but the wind has got to change for the better soon or we are doomed. So, consider that as you appreciate a good grilled burger and beer the Labor Day.

Tales of a Junior High Gym Class, or What Fresh Hell is This?

While skimming through the New York Times trying to maintain my sanity by avoiding anything vaguely political (a hard thing to do these days, maintaining sanity and avoiding the political), I came across an article that made me wish I'd stuck with venom and politics. The article, "How You Felt About Gym Class May Impact Your Exercise Habits Today," opened a zombie-memory I'd thought was buried for good.

And like any good zombie, it burst forth with a vengeance.

The article had some kind of point, I'm sure, but "gym class" stopped me cold, and I do mean cold. I froze at the very thought of junior high physical education and those walking-dead memories of the teacher, the uniforms, the sound of tennis shoes squeaking on the gym floor, and the smell of Right Guard, Shalimar, Aqua Net, and sweat in the locker room.

We had a tyrant of a gym teacher, Miss Willie Jones. Broadminded, forgiving adult that I am, I'm willing to accept that Willie Jones had many fine qualities, it's just that none were even remotely evident to junior high me. As the school king/queen-maker, she held sway over who was in and who was out for class officers, cheerleaders, and all those other things that adolescents deem so important. Alas, I got off on the wrong foot with her simply by being my brother David's little sister. She never made it clear exactly what he'd done to her that was traumatic enough to impose guilt by relation on little me, but I was junior high-doomed once she found out. And I was at her mercy every day in the gym.

Then there was the rush and hurry of dressing out, changing out of whatever cute little outfit you'd so carefully chosen for the day and slipping into lovely black bloomer shorts and a white top. Yeah, that gym uniform that you might take home every couple of weeks to wash. Maybe. I mean, who had time to take dirty gym clothes to your locker after class, when your time was better spent trying to salvage that perfect flip hairdo gone limp from 45 minutes of so-called exercise?

And don't get me started on the team sports mentality of phys ed classes. I could climb anything like a monkey. I could roller and ice skate with the best of them. But volleyball, basketball, and softball? Nope nope-ity nope nope. Oh, sure, we had a few minutes of jumping jacks and the like at the first of class, and occasionally we learned some kind of little dance to "Alley Cat," but most of the time was spent popping blood vessels in our thumbs serving volleyballs, missing countless baskets in basketball, or wasting our precious youth in the outfield of a softball game. And for those of us chosen last for teams, well, you know the drill: the dreaded humiliation as you and some other poor shlub stood waiting to learn which of you would be the bigger disappointment to one of the teams.

After class, the locker room was a cloud of aerosol - Right Guard, Shalimar, Ambush, AquaNet, Adorn - all of which did more damage to our young lungs than smoking ever did, I'm sure. Thank goodness, I never smoked or my lungs would be well and truly shot by now. Those clouds of fragrance combined with some good old teenage sweat remains one of my most traumatic olfactory memories.

Funny thing, memories. All of my gym tales of the zombie persuasion seem to be of the junior high variety. I don't remember much about phys ed in high school, though I know I had to take it my sophomore and junior years. Maybe those memories are so deeply repressed that they're not surfacing in my dotage. Or maybe it's because nothing could top the shudder-inducing thoughts of Willie Jones, the last-chosen humiliations, and the fog of Right Guard and cheap cologne.

Now, excuse me while I head off for the best workout I know: settling in with a good book.

How Musical Theater Restores My Faith in Everything

Years ago, I told a friend that someday I was going to write a book called Everything I Know I Learned From Musicals. For instance, did you know that the rain in Spain does NOT fall mainly in the plain? Now see, I wouldn't care one way or another except for loving My Fair Lady (the Julie Andrews/Rex Harrison soundtrack) and being a curious 14-year-old wanting to know if that song lyric was, indeed, factual. The point being that many a song from a musical has led me to further research on a variety of topics, most of which have proven of more use than where rain falls in Spain.

The impact of American musical theater on my life is incalculable. I know you're thinking "Wow! How shallow!" But the stories, the performances, the music, the lyrics, the costumes, the scenery, and the sheer energy of pulling all of that together make my spirit soar. Is it any wonder that musicals are getting me through this dark time in our history?

Last week, daughter and I did a whirlwind trip to New York to see Bette Midler in Hello, Dolly! Kate managed to nab tickets to a Hamilton matinee for the same day. We were on our way to an afternoon and evening that restored my faith in some important things: all the ways we need to live and work together, how crooked paths can be made straight, how gifted storytellers, musicians, and actors can show us truth and love and laughter when we need it most. 

Both Hamilton and Dolly! showcase the indomitable American spirit. As different as they are, both shows capture the get-'er-done drive that has been a hallmark of our collective personality. And both expose some serious flaws in our collective DNA, as well. By highlighting our brilliance and our faults, Hamilton and Dolly! give me faith not only in the way our stories get told, but in the truth-telling stories themselves.

So, raise a glass to freedom before the parade passes by. Put on your Sunday clothes when you feel down and out, and look around look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now. I wanna be in the room where it happens room where it happens, because it only takes a moment to be loved a whole life long. (Pardon the mash-up, Lin-Manuel Miranda and Jerry Herman.) Faith and courage restored. The will to persevere and fight for our better selves returned.

And as for writing that book about learning everything from musicals, I still might do it, who knows? 

A Mother's Story: Dare to Be Brave

This is a Mother's Day story. It's not about my mother. I've written about her wonderful, loving, quirky self many times. It's not about me. That's a story someone else will have to write. But it is a story about the woman who made me a mother and grandmother. And about bravery. Not the running into a burning building kind of courage, but bravery all the same.

A month or so ago, daughter Kate was offered the opportunity to sing for 4,000 people at the Beautycounter Leadership Summit in Minneapolis, which took place last weekend. Now, this child of mine has a fabulous voice, but she isn't a professional singer. She did a fair amount of singing at All Saints' Church as a child and played Guys and Dolls' Miss Adelaide in middle school. In high school she carried around a guitar around doing the Jewel and Sarah McLachlan thing. And I think she spent much of her 20's showcasing her pipes in Buckhead karaoke bars. But unless she has a secret showbiz life that I don't know about, this opportunity was somewhat unexpected.

Now, she could've said, "Y'all, I'm flattered, but why don't you go for Gaga or Justin Timberlake?" Or, "I'd love to, but I'm out of practice." Or, "Are you kidding me? What if I screw up? What if I disappoint everybody? What if I embarrass myself?"

But she said, "Yes." Bravely. Yes. Brene Brown would be so proud. But not as proud as Kate's mama. Heck, yeah, let's do this!

The whole thing was kept mostly under wraps. Only a few of us knew what was going on. She had a quick trip to NYC to get the arrangement down and do a little practicing. I think she had a run-through Wednesday before the Saturday performance, then had a dress rehearsal the morning of. She sent me a video of the rehearsal early afternoon, and I was blown away. I never doubted she could do it, but after watching what she'd sent, I knew she'd kill it.

And she did. She bravely took the stage and cut loose in front of 4,000 people, closing the conference with a bang.

What does this have to do with Mother's Day? Well, to me it has everything to do with all the makings of a good mama. It's no wonder a woman that brave is a wonderful mother, too. The example she sets every day for Liam and Charlotte demonstrates the courage and reward of saying "Yes." Even if unsure. Or nervous. Or stressed. Even if failure is an option. Say yes and give it all ya' got. Practice, practice, practice. (Study, study, study.)
Listen to your heart. Say yes to good things. Dream big. Be fearless even when fearful. Step out and sing your song.

Happy Mother's Day.

Appreciation? Not a Strong Enough Word for a Great Teacher.

It's Teacher Appreciation Day. If Facebook says it's so, it must be so. Having been taught by the best (and a few of the worst) and having headed up a high school classroom of my own, "appreciation" seems a pretty tame word for the glory, laud, and honor (and money) we owe teachers.

Let's get this out of the way first. Yes, there are crappy, mean, awful teachers, though I venture to guess there are far fewer of these than, say, the same crappy/mean/awful folks in politics, business, religion, and internet provider-world. Dedicated, knowledgeable, caring, passionate teachers far out-number the bad ones. And yes, I'm talking about public school teachers. They are, on the whole, amazing.

So on this Teacher Praise To High Heaven Day, I offer two personal reflections. One about the teacher who most influenced my life, and one about recent contact with a former student of mine.

She was young. She was pretty. She was smart. Sixth grade can be hard because all sorts of stuff is happening to you physically and emotionally. And 1962-63? The space race. Integration and civil rights. Cuban Missile Crisis. Kennedy vs Khrushchev were our headlines. Monster Mash, Sherry, and Surfin' Safari led Dick Clark's Top 10.

We were on the brink personally, nationally, and internationally. The perfect time for a teacher who demanded excellence, who asked questions about what we thought we knew and what we might need to explore further before being so all-fired sure about the answers, and who put up with our budding adolescent nonsense. She was 29 years old, and we helped celebrate her #30 in April 1963. That was our teacher, Marilyn Rushlow. Appreciation? Way bigger than that.

In the mid-90's I set out to find her. I wanted to reconnect to let her know what a force she'd been in my life. This was before the internet people-finding capabilities we have now, though I did employ The Chattanooga Public Library and CD-ROMs of old newspapers. (Obituaries are a goldmine of information, by the way). It was a process, but I did find her in Lompoc, California, where she was still teaching.

From that point on we stayed connected. I visited her in California. She and husband Dewey visited me in Atlanta and New York. I called her about every three months or so. There's so much more I can reflect on about her, but my heart is still too full.

Marilyn Rushlow Maxwell died April 19, just a couple of weeks after turning 85. Appreciation? Deep, deep, life-changing gratitude is more like it.

Late last year a former student of mine from Chattahoochee High School reached out to me via email. I'd taught Advanced Placement Government & Politics, US + International, and Lauren had been one of my students. Back in the early 2000's, we'd worked a lot on political and personal efficacy (sometimes I'm really low on both) and staying engaged in the system, even when you disagreed or things looked bleak.

Lauren reconnected with me because she believed that those lessons from almost 20 years ago had prepared her for this moment in time.

We were finally able to meet face-to-face last week. It's a new kind of relationship now. Much as I discovered with Marilyn, it's not teacher-student but adult-to-adult, and very gratifying. I'm happy to report Lauren has grown and traveled and put her writing ad marketing abilities to good use. She's also a hands-on political activist, working to ensure the future for her generation and those after her will be safer, cleaner, more civil. And "appreciation" for her reaching out, for putting her AP knowledge to work? How about "pride" and "hopeful," from me? It's one of the many pay-offs of teaching.

Which teachers changed your life? Which influenced the way you write a sentence, understand history, put science to work every day? I suspect "appreciation" doesn't even begin to cover it.

Where Do I Want To Go?

I'm suffering from a little bit of wanderlust. I want to go somewhere, but I don't know where. Not sure why this is getting under my skin, this need to go some place other than where I am. That I'm feeling the need to travel right now is a little strange since over the next three weeks I have trips to New York, San Antonio, and Austin.

But I want to go somewhere . . . else.

Maybe all I need is a few days in the mountains or a beach. But which mountains? Which beach?

Or a week or ten days in London. Or strike out for a place I've never been before. Copenhagen. Dubrovnik. Banff. Budapest. Perhaps an historical World War I nose around Ypres. The fjords - I've always wanted to see the fjords, so maybe Norway?

I travel alone so besides cost, I have to consider safety. And timing. It's a very busy year at work, so only a short trip if before July, but beyond mid-July a longer trip can be planned.

Ah, well. Maybe the feeling will pass.

Still. Natchez? Dublin? Venice?

Putting 2017 to bed. Forever.

Ah, it's almost over. Though an annus horribilis in many ways, there have been many bright spots that kept life afloat in the midst of down now being up and wrong now being right. Here are some of the moments of grace, fun, love, laughter, hard work, and pure joy that have come my way in the past 12 months.

Best Vacation at a Place I'd Never Been Before: Key West with the family. So much fun - great fun, beautiful sights, comfortable accommodations, and watching Liam and Charlotte fall in love with the area. 

Best Sabbatical Moments: I had no bad moments at Atlanta History Center or The Center for Puppetry Arts during my 3-month stint serving both amazing organizations. I learned so much, and even better, I worked with incredible people - creative, gracious, innovative souls who welcomed me into their environments. Still, a couple of standouts: checking the progress of the Cyclorama installation at the History Center and working in Puppetry Arts' museum studio during DragonCon. Two incredible experiences for vastly different reasons. 

Best Family Gathering: As always, our Bully Bartows Christmas get-together, where I store up a whole year's worth of love and laughter. Tides me over through any rough days. And re-creating our 12 Days of Christmas video was the highlight of highlights!

Best Theatrical Experience: Hands down, Bette Midler in Hello, Dolly! I'm still high on "Put on Your Sunday Clothes." Sometimes, you just have to go old-school. (Props to The Great Comet, though. Sad it had to close so soon.) But y'all - Bette Midler!!

Best Weather Experience: Snow! In Atlanta! In early December!

Best Place to Work: As much as I loved working at the History Center and Pupptry Arts, I love my crazy, constantly-under-pressure colleagues who work on the Presiding Bishop's staff. 

Favorite Liam Hockey Photo: The boy loves his hockey! Go, #5!

Favorite Photo of the Year: Last year, it was Liam being pulled off the ground while ringing the church bell; this year, it's Charlotte's emotional Cherub Choir performance before the annual Christmas pageant. Thanks, Lisa Bell-Davis, for capturing the moment.

Thankful for good health, good friends, good job, and great family. We can and will overcome the rest of the mess we're in, so let's put Mr. 2017 to bed and wake up Ms. 2018.  And if all else fails: Put on your Sunday clothes when you feel down and out . . . 

Happy New Year! Cheers, y'all!

Thoughts and Prayers. Now What?

The world is a mess.

Some things I can't do a darn thing about. If a friend has shared a worry or is dealing with the loss of loved one, maybe all I can offer - and all they need from me - is to keep them on my heart for a while.

But there is an awful lot of stuff - even huge, tangled-up stuff - that needs more than thoughts and prayers. These are the thoughts and prayers than demand action.

My friend may need a hug. Or a phone call. Or a hand-written note. Or someone to share a meal or a glass of wine with. Or to pick up her kids from school.

My congressfolk probably need a phone call, fax, or postcard letting them know how I feel about something pertaining to the latest catastrophe or political tangle. Yeah, it may not matter much to them, but if I keep at it - who knows? Big positive things may happen. (Hope springs eternal, y'all.)

Maybe I need to send money to a reliable relief and development agency that knows way more about how to help in a natural disaster than I do. I can certainly help fund folks who can be of real benefit to people who are suffering.

Perhaps all I can do is listen to someone in pain or in trouble. Even if that person is a stranger, the least I can do is hear her story, put my own agenda on hold for a while, and honor what she has to say. Some positive path may emerge - who knows?

I can always smile more. Pick up that piece of trash in the school hallway. Give way. Hold the door for someone. (And write my senators, send the donations, call the friend in need.)

My own actions won't seem world-savingly grand. In fact, most of what will grow out of my own thoughts and prayers will seem like baby steps to me. Inconsequential. Unimportant little drops in gigantic buckets. But something is better than nothing.

So certainly keep those thoughts and prayers rolling in. But if you're thinking and praying about things that require your action and you do nothing, well then, my friend, it is just so much sounding brass and tinkling cymbal. Pull your head out of the clouds (or sand) and get going. Think. Pray. Do something.

What Aren't We Hearing?

The other day a friend from Wales requested I blog about the current football-kneeling kerfuffle to help her understand the uproar. I gave her a short but very incomplete answer on Facebook, thinking I could do something more in-depth here. But after much deliberation the truth is I just don't have it in me. Well, not true. I do have it in me. Too much in me. I have lots to say about it. Which is one of the problems.

As a white woman of a certain age, it's not my place to explain or pontificate on this. What I need to do is listen. But I want to make a couple of important points:

1. We white folks need to stop telling black folks how to act. How about we check own behavior and that big ol' log in our own eyes before giving advice to people who have very different life experiences - just by walking around in black skin - than we do? 
2. We need to shut up and listen to the stories different from our own. We don't know best, obviously, or our country and our world wouldn't be in the state it is now. Shut up and listen.
3. Stop saying this is unimportant compared to impending war with North Korea, health care, climate change, Russia election influence, and current weather disasters. None of those is more important than systemic racism and upholding everyone's constitutional right to freedom of speech, regardless of race, gender, socio-economic class, bat-shit crazy politics, or fame. Downplaying what is being expressed here is a great example of white privilege, y'all. 

There's so much more I could say, but I'm going to take my own advice to shut up and listen. And read more black authors. And do my damnedest to walk together with, rather than ahead of, folks who have really important things to teach me. 

Let the Sabbaticalizing Begin

It's 6:00pm July 31, and I am officially on a 3-month sabbatical. No, I'm not writing a book. (Or maybe I am.) No, I'm not trekking to the ends of the earth for adventure, or taking a class in Etruscan cinerary urns, Xhosa, or Shaker dancing. I have been instructed to cease, rest, refresh, replenish the well, think, read (OK, and maybe write), so that upon my return to work in November I'll be fresh as all git-out creatively, physically, and mentally.

However. All that rest sounds fine and dandy until reality hits. Little A-type personality me can only do so much chillin'-out navel-gazing before going out of my tiny mind. So, here's the plan.

I'll be splitting my time between hands-on helping out at the Center for Puppetry Arts and interning at the Atlanta History Center. The work of the organizations interests me, and I'm a proud member of both. I'll be thrown into different forms of creativity that I hope to apply to my own job when I return. Both are successful non-profits, not religiously affiliated, and offer a variety of experiences into which I can joyfully plunge. Neither are 8-5/Monday through Friday jobs (I've been instructed to relax, remember?), but I'll put in whatever time I can to ween me off my usual work-a-day schedule and keep me just busy enough for my sanity.

Yes, I will have more time with the grands. More time with family, friends, and former colleagues that I always put off with "Well, I still work, so I can't go here/there at that day/time." More time to test my limits of dealing with unstructured time, which I understand may take a week or so to get used to.

And while I can't wait to see what this sabbatical holds for me, I love my job and will miss being in the thick of things. Which is exactly why a sabbatical is called for.

So off I go, sabbaticalizing. And so it begins.

The Summer of Cool

Growing up in the 50's and 60's, summers took on over-arching themes. The summer we lived in Perry, Georgia, will always be the Summer of the Gnat. All I remember about that year is being covered with tiny, annoying insects the minute little 4-year-old me walked outside. Then there was the Summer of Endless Vacation Bible Schools, when Mother made sure we sampled VBS experiences at home and wherever we had relatives - Chattanooga, Atlanta, Nashville. Many popsicle sticks gave their lives for tawdry projects the year of VBS-overload.

But the summer that changed everything was the Summer of Cool.

That's the summer Daddy carved out one of the windows in the den and installed our very first air conditioner. Until that magical day all a Southern kid could count on for summertime cool were open windows (praying for a breeze), oscillating electric fans, popsicles, and the water hose in the side yard. But y'all, none of those - or all of them in combination - came anywhere near the cooling power of a whackin' great window unit air conditioner.

Now, ours was a large-ish house with lots of little rooms. The exception in this rabbit warren was a good-sized den in the back that ran the width of the house. With the TV and multiple comfy places to flop, it made sense that room got cooling priority. Yes, the rest of the house suffered from the lack of a full-powered artic breeze, though strategically placed fans helped move the air through. Still, somehow the whole crazy place seemed, well, cooler in every sense of the word.

It was a brand new world, baby! Cooling air, cooling tempers. Life a Southern girl had never known. And that was the beginning of my AC addiction. I've never out-grown it. When Yankee friends complain about our freezing cold Atlanta buildings, I just tell 'em to throw on a sweater.

Now I do realize that air conditioners are bad boys when it comes to affecting climate change, so my challenge to all you STEM babies out there - get busy finding an earth-friendly way to keep us cool. Because as much as I love oscillating fans, popsicles, and a water hose in the side yard, they just don't have the same refreshing punch they had before Daddy pushed the ON button that fine day in the Summer of Cool.

Can't Help Falling. Again.

I've always been a girl on the go. Little did I realize that sometimes I need to stop. Safely. Without falling over.

While vacationing in Key West a few weeks ago, I decided to join the younger set for an afternoon of calm, easy-going cycling out to Fort Zachary Taylor State Park. I mean, I can ride a bike, right? The only thing concerning me was that I might not be able to keep up with the rest of the group (I am getting on in years).

Turns out, keeping up was a problem, but not in the way you might think. The problem wasn't keeping up horizontally moving forward; the problem was keeping up vertically when coming to a stop. It was as if I'd lost total muscle memory when it came to braking, putting my feet down on the pavement, and keeping myself and the bike upright. See? I know how it's done, but my legs and feet weren't getting the message from my head.

Now, I didn't fall every time. A bike lane with a curb to step on to was a big help. That extra 5-7 inches made a difference, I reckon. But without the benefit of something easy to help brace my stop, I just couldn't manage it without some kind of calamity.

It just got crazier and crazier. Once I decided (it was a decision, right?) that old-fashioned muscle memory wasn't working for me, I tried everything I could to forestall the inevitable. I tried not thinking about the stopping process (hoping my body would do the right thing - er, no). I tried repeating the steps in my head before approaching a stop (push down on pedals, get feet to pavement, hold bike and myself upright). Nope.

So I'm wondering, is this what getting old is like? Disappearing muscle memory? The body forgetting how to do simple things that have always come naturally? Or maybe not. Maybe I just had a bad bicyle day. Maybe the bike was too heavy or too big for me. Maybe I needed hand-brakes, not the old fashioned pedal-brakes. Time will tell.

Do I rush out and get back on a bike as quickly as possible, or admit my biking days are behind me? I'm pretty spooked about it. I love riding a bike. Let's face it, it's the first feeling of flying and freedom that you have as a kid. But the pain and embarrassment are still fresh in my mind, just as the bruises are still fresh on my knees.

What would you do if it were your knees?

Why Life Isn't Fair

Life isn't fair. We say it to our sweet toddlers, surly teens, frustrated 20-somethings, and anyone of any age confronted with perceived injustice. We say it with a shrug, as if that's the end of it. Move on. Suck it up. Too bad/so sad. Life ain't fair.

But why? Why isn't life fair? Why are we resigned to such a lame, depressing notion? At what point did civilization give up on the idea of fairness, of justice? I've wondered about this a lot lately. Sign of the appalling times, I reckon. So why isn't life fair? OK, I'll start:

Human beings. However adorable, noble, or holy folks may appear (and I do believe - probably naively - that people are basically good), every single human is, well, human. We lie sometimes. We cheat a little here and there. We convince ourselves that our opinions are superior to others. (No use saying you're not guilty of these things. You know you are.) And we all have a drive to get as much as we can - education, money, success, chocolate, whatever. There's nothing wrong with that until we use underhanded ways to achieve our goals or tip over to "I got mine, to hell with you," which happens more often than it should. Ego and that wild streak of personal survival is a part of our DNA. Some folks just have wider, deeper streaks than others.

Nature, also known as: shit happens. Accidents, disabilities, earthquakes, floods, famine, scarcity of chocolate. Granted, some of these things are directly caused by human actions (see above), but often it's just nature doing its thing. Fairness and justice have nothing to do with it.

There you have it. Life ain't fair because of humans or nature or a combination of both. One of those reasons needs to try harder, do a better job on the justice-equity thing. Fewer lies. Less cheating. More compassion. More attention to those who look and think differently. Work harder at living-and-letting-live. Though we may not all be equal physically, mentally, financially, we should work harder at being compassion-equal.

And stop saying "Life isn't fair" to that person who needs and deserves a better response to the situation than a sad old platitude. Practice making life more fair.

The Diary of a Meh-body

When I was living in England in the mid-1970s, I was given a copy of George and Weedon Grossmith's The Diary of a Nobody as an example of humorous (humourous) British writing. The book's "diarist" is one Charles Pooter, who has the brilliant idea that in a world of famous people's diaries, what was really needed is the diary of a regular guy. He takes it upon himself to step up to the challenge. And while the Grossmiths' characters are hilarious, the takeaway is that the lives of us normal slobs just ain't that exciting.

Which brings me to my latest failure as a diarist. Daughter Kate gave me a lovely daily journal for Christmas, so my New Year's resolution was to write a bit in it every day, as one is supposed to do. I made it through January 5th (sorry, Kate). I even mentioned it was sounding like The Diary of a Nobody on Day 4. Trouble is, all my happy throughts/worries/thanksgivings sound alike, day in, day out.

With one solid resolution-failure under my belt for 2017, I vowed to take it up again for Lent. Before turning on the computer and starting work, I'd make a cup of tea and settle down with pen and journal to, yet again, try to mine the depths of my experiences and inner self(ves). I've managed 6 so far. A little better, yeah? Still, reading back over the pages - boring. I have no special insight into who I am from these pages. At all.

Truth is, regular folks live regular lives. Lovely things happen. Exciting things happen, Tragic things happen. Sad things happen. The results of writing about those things can be phenomenal or just a list of . . . things. Alas, while writing has always been a big part of my vocation, I am flat-out lousy at turning a normal day's events, anxieties, and routines into an engrossing read. I'd need to embellish it. Come up with witty retorts to demoralizing circumstances. Add more color. Paint a stronger, funnier, more poignant picture.

So, truth - a journal or true diary - or embellishment - a good story?

Reading back over various journals I've started over the past 40 years, they all tell the same story: love of family, love (mostly) of work, worry about money, and rage at the ways of the world. Any really juicy, indictable, true stuff I write is destroyed immediately after it's down on paper, usually by setting fire to it in the sink and washing away the ashes. (Yeah, don't go looking for stuff after I'm gone.)

I'm at a crossroads. Do I continue my rather boring daily diary of a nobody? Or. do I write for some alter ego, journaling the life of a fictional me?

Meh.

Why I Don't Give Up Social Media For Lent

Well, it's that time of year. Time to give up or take on. Lent. My least favorite season (except for late August, which seems to go on forever). I know I'm supposed to love it in some spiritual way. I just don't. It's a season for me to feel guilty for not feeling spiritual about the whole thing. Ah, well.

Anyway, since the invention of social media, one of the most popular Lenten disciplines seems to be giving it up. Eschewing Facebook, Twitter, blogs, Instagram, whatever seemed to be all the rage last Wednesday, as friends bid adieu until Easter. I get it. It soaks up time. It makes you mad. You (can) become a different person by engaging in the various posts and comment.

I honor my friends who give up social media for any period of time. Go. Be at peace. And, yeah, we'll talk about you while you're gone. *wink*

But giving up social media is probably the last thing I'd do for Lent. Here's why:

• It's my job. My wage-paying work involves planning, scheduling, and posting about The Episcopal Church on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, Instagram, and a variety of blogs. Timely information is essential to sucessful social media, so I can't wall myself off from it. And I'm not sure it's possible to do the professional part and ignore my personal accounts at the same time. For good or for ill, I can't give up social media for Lent.
• I can't imagine doing something that takes me out of relationship with family and friends. Facebook, especially, keeps me close to far-flung family, old school chums, and colleagues that I don't often - if ever - see. I intentionally keep the number of "friends" there small - for folks I really want to stay connected with. I love the pictures. I love the silly posts about food or cats or politics. I love watching children grow, relationships blossom, and both happy and sad events unfold. I love going on vacation with y'all and following careers. Why would I give that up? Seems the opposite of what Lent should be, but that's just me.
• If I give up social media, how would the world keep turning without our Friday Virtual Cocktail Party? Civilization would be fractured. The world as we know it would end. I cannot in good faith be responsible for that. 

So I'm still here, Lent or no. Never fear - our Friday Virtual Cocktail Party shall go on whatever color the season. Cheers!

A Crazy Woman's Guide to the Perfect Day Off

After a busy couple of weeks involving tending a sick grandgirl, fighting off a cold, travel, booth-tending, and grandboy's birthday party, I was glad for a day off with no plans and obligations. Relaxing, however, is not one of my natural gifts. I was determined, though, to recharge my batteries today, and I think I succeeded. Here's the recipe for a perfect day off:

1. The night before, stay up reading as long as you want. I recommend, say, until 1-1:30am.
2. Sleep in as late as you want (for me, 9-ish am).
3. OK, OK, do a tiny bit of work that just has to be done because if you don't, it will bug you all day. Then turn off the computer and don't answer the work phone. 
4. Watch old episodes of Perry Mason (I am my mother's daughter - she loved her some Perry Mason) or whatever goofy thing lets you sit with feet up in your pjs. 
5. Order lunch from Uber. Do not leave the house, even for food. No need.
6. Take an afternoon nap. Just because you can. And it might be raining, so . . . 
7. Get up just in time to drive to a 90-minute massage. Try to fall asleep on the massage table. 
8. Go back to watching Perry Masons (did I mention I'm my mother's daughter?) or catch up on Bates Motel. Whatever.
9. Eat junk food.
10. Go to bed. 

So there. The perfect day off. Now, back to work tomorrow, you lazy chick!

Stuck

Reading over my scared but hopeful post of January 1st, I realize that I have completely failed to live up to those feathers of hope. Instead, I find myself angry. Tired. Still living in a state of disbelief that we seem to be living in some strange, 19th century alternate universe after November's appalling election results.

What I thought was a pretty solid values system hammered out after the atrocities of two world wars and the civil rights/women's rights/LGBT rights movements of the past fifty years appears to have evaporated.

People shouting in praise God and Jesus and the literal interpretation of the Bible are also shouting in hatred against the poor, the stranger, clean air, food, and water, and the basic health, education, and well-being of fellow human beings. Excuse my scepticism of your personal understanding of living the way of Christ.

Every morning I wake up determined to make the day positive, light-filled. I pledge not to let anything rattle me. Shun the news. Keep things on the sunny side. But it doesn't take long before some word of an unbelievable injustice seeps through an email or phone call or, yes, a social media post, and then my sweetness-and-light plan evaporates.

Despite my stuck-ness, I manage to put up a good front. I get work done. Have a few laughs. Take walks. Read. Plan and carry out stuff. Manage to keep my home clean and stocked with food. But something still has hold of an arm or a leg and keeps me from moving forward, outward, onward.

The only truly unstuck time is when I'm with Liam and Charlotte. They make me laugh and look at things in new, fresh ways. They ask impossible questions with impossible answers. We get messy and tired and artsy and silly together. There's no time to be stuck if really in the moment with funny little kids.

But without them, I find myself in quicksand again. Angry. Unbelieving. Appalled. Despairing.

Folks remind me that love will win in the end, and, yes, I believe that. But in the meantime . . . what? How much damage gets done, how many lives lost and broken in the meantime, before love finally shows up?

So here I am. Stuck.

For 2017, That Thing with Feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops - at all
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm
I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
~ Emily Dickinson  

I start this year discouraged. I'm discouraged that smart is dumb, and dumb is smart. That saying and doing hateful things is right, and checking your mouth and actions out of common decency is wrong. That looking backward to some fantasyland bygone age is where we should be headed, but looking to the future with clear-eyed understanding of how the world functions in the 21st century based on scientific knowledge (and I'd say, God-given scientific knowledge) is ridiculed. So, yes, the start of 2017 finds me deeply discouraged.

What I'm left with on this first day of a new year is that thing with feathers, hope. A cardinal-in-the-snow type of hope. Hope exemplified every day by the little children in my life, by colleagues, by family and friends near and far, by mere acquaintances - all loving and living out the good. The true good.

My New Year's plan is to keep my eyes turned toward the good that gives me hope. I'm going to hang on tight to the folks who reach out to help, not hurt. Who speak with respect and love, not hate and bigotry. Who foster understanding, not humiliation. That's the best I can do in these times. Maybe if enough of us do that, then that thing with feathers can flourish and give us a better song to sing.

Happy New Year, all!