When I'm driving along, I put my playlist on Alphabetical by Title. It makes for an interesting juxtaposition of spoken words and music. I have songs I didn't even know I had, probably imported from someone else's CDs. And songs, like the poetic ones of Leonard Cohen, in which I hear something new each time I listen.
On one stretch of road, I heard Ram Dass (Jewish/Buddhist) fold so naturally into John O'Donahue's (Christian, Mystic) that they could have been at the same table conversing, agreeing with each other. The higher spiritual leaders are on the ladder, the more they sound like each other, and the further they move from rigid pronouncements. These two teachers throw open windows and let in fresh air-- instead of posting signs over the doors, like US and THEM, BAD and GOOD.
In yesterday's road class, John O'Donahue and Ram Dass both spoke from the tip-top of the ladder, I thought. Thanks to the magic of digital preservation of voices, John O'Donahue's living voice survives his own physical death of several years ago. Ram Dass, now 84, has suffered a stroke since he gave the talks I'm listening to--on aging and death.
We should not fear death, O'Donahue says; rather, we should "build a little raft of words to help the dying person reach the other shore."
Both consider being present with a dying person as a privilege--and both tell stories about the final hours of transformation that often happen when a person is "leaving his or her body." In the Buddhist tradition, they call it "dropping the body."
In my scattered life at home, I rarely take the time to listen to these voices. On the road, music and talks I've saved take me to higher, more vivid overlooks, just as the landscapes outside my car window change as the light and weather changes.
Years ago, I bought a set of CDs by O'Donahue: Beauty. When I listen to them now, I can remember exactly where I was when I first heard certain lines--at the gym, in Alabama on a previous road trip, driving along Big Sur.
"Beauty awakens us to the life we have been given--and tries to coax us into a new way of being in the world...." he says in his beautiful Irish accent. "Beauty always wants to break the present cage of confinement."
He quotes four sentences by the poet William Stafford, in Crossing Unmarked Snow:
The things you do not have to say make you rich.
Saying the things you do not have to say weakens your talk.
Hearing the things you do not need to hear dulls your hearing.
And the things you know before you hear them, these are you and these are the reasons you are in the world.
He talks about the mediocrity and dullness of most talk that fills the airwaves--the heated fear-based raging of certain political voices, the cliches of advertising, the noise of strident opinions. If those are the only "channels" we listen to (to borrow an excellent analogy from Ram Dass), we can start thinking they are the only ones we have.
From the well of all journeys come music and insight that inspire--as well as, unfortunately, wall-building opinions that evoke fear. Road trips are times to take a break from the latter and tune in to clearer, kinder channels.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Saturday night in Tuscaloosa
This has been a beautiful day--the prettiest winter road trip I've ever taken.
Mike and I were just in Vicksburg a month ago--the night he saved my life by turning a clump of steak into a projectile. Today, I got there early enough to shop a bit for some clothes. Not a mall shopper, I so enjoyed shopping in downtown shops.
My clerk was a cool black woman named Fanny who had a wicked sense of humor. We talked and laughed in the dressing room for an hour and I walked out with pants and blouses.
At another store, I bought a clear glass lamp with a green shade, two throw pillows and a shawl--and Regina threw in a free scarf and some fringy-things that I'll either make necklaces out of or use as they are intended--as curtain tie-backs.
Tonight I'm all set up with a chicken pot pie and salad from O'Charley's to watch the Democratic debates in my motel room, hoping Bernie knocks some socks off.
Mike and I were just in Vicksburg a month ago--the night he saved my life by turning a clump of steak into a projectile. Today, I got there early enough to shop a bit for some clothes. Not a mall shopper, I so enjoyed shopping in downtown shops.
My clerk was a cool black woman named Fanny who had a wicked sense of humor. We talked and laughed in the dressing room for an hour and I walked out with pants and blouses.
At another store, I bought a clear glass lamp with a green shade, two throw pillows and a shawl--and Regina threw in a free scarf and some fringy-things that I'll either make necklaces out of or use as they are intended--as curtain tie-backs.
Tonight I'm all set up with a chicken pot pie and salad from O'Charley's to watch the Democratic debates in my motel room, hoping Bernie knocks some socks off.
Highway 79
For nearly fifty years, I've been traveling back and forth to Georgia--and my parents used to make this trip twice a year by car. We decide each time whether to take the Southern Route (Interstate 10 mostly) or the Northern Route, 35, then 79, then I 20. Highway 79--from Hutto to Marshall--is the best stretch.
Carlene was usually in the driver's seat when they made this car trip, and she could make the whole trip, door to door, in 17 hours. I guess I got my love of driving from her--though it was my daddy who cautioned me to keep both hands on the wheel, my eyes on the road, and all the doors locked.
I got up at three yesterday, left my house around 4, and drove to Ruston, Louisiana. A drive through rural landscapes, especially during the hour when the sun is just lighting the fringe of the horizon, is magical. Even old crumbling houses and barns, unremarkable or even downright ugly in the full light of day, are beautiful against the canvas of morning sky. Mist rises from ponds and lakes, and I stop and snap pictures of reflections shimmering on the surface of water.
There's also a sad side to driving Highway 79. I can remember when these towns were vibrant and busy, but many of them have gone dormant since the advent of Wal-Mart and chain gas stations. Some are veritable ghost towns. Countless store front windows are papered and boarded over, and windows are scrawled with hand-written signs, Closed. Barber poles, neon signs, big brass cash registers, pharmacies and soda fountains--these relics have been abandoned or moved to the warehouses of collectors.
I did find one little town that is being refurbished--and I talked for a while to the man who's buying all the old buildings and turning them into restaurants and stores. He ripped the paneling from the interior of the bank and took out the low plaster ceiling to reveal an ornate one of silver ceiling tiles; he kept the original wood and marble. The lone teller there is a woman (probably in her nineties) who's been working there for sixty-five years!
I had a delicious lunch at the Pint and Barrel in old town Palestine and met the wife of the head of the Chamber of Commerce who owns a little shop of vintage treasures. I bought a piece of buttermilk pie in the Old Town pie shop and watched as the owner packaged up a huge assortment of freshly-baked pies in white boxes--lemon, cherry, chocolate, pecan, pumpkin, and buttermilk with or without pecans.
Driving Highway 79 evokes memories of a simpler and more vivid time when every town and neighborhood had its own identity, as Old Town Palestine still does, not absorbed in chain-everything homogeneity.
A black and white cow is grazing in the front yard of the white house. Horses stand still as statues in groves of pecan and pine trees. I feel like I'm driving through the past, a world hidden in the fog of time.
Carlene was usually in the driver's seat when they made this car trip, and she could make the whole trip, door to door, in 17 hours. I guess I got my love of driving from her--though it was my daddy who cautioned me to keep both hands on the wheel, my eyes on the road, and all the doors locked.
I got up at three yesterday, left my house around 4, and drove to Ruston, Louisiana. A drive through rural landscapes, especially during the hour when the sun is just lighting the fringe of the horizon, is magical. Even old crumbling houses and barns, unremarkable or even downright ugly in the full light of day, are beautiful against the canvas of morning sky. Mist rises from ponds and lakes, and I stop and snap pictures of reflections shimmering on the surface of water.
There's also a sad side to driving Highway 79. I can remember when these towns were vibrant and busy, but many of them have gone dormant since the advent of Wal-Mart and chain gas stations. Some are veritable ghost towns. Countless store front windows are papered and boarded over, and windows are scrawled with hand-written signs, Closed. Barber poles, neon signs, big brass cash registers, pharmacies and soda fountains--these relics have been abandoned or moved to the warehouses of collectors.
I did find one little town that is being refurbished--and I talked for a while to the man who's buying all the old buildings and turning them into restaurants and stores. He ripped the paneling from the interior of the bank and took out the low plaster ceiling to reveal an ornate one of silver ceiling tiles; he kept the original wood and marble. The lone teller there is a woman (probably in her nineties) who's been working there for sixty-five years!
I had a delicious lunch at the Pint and Barrel in old town Palestine and met the wife of the head of the Chamber of Commerce who owns a little shop of vintage treasures. I bought a piece of buttermilk pie in the Old Town pie shop and watched as the owner packaged up a huge assortment of freshly-baked pies in white boxes--lemon, cherry, chocolate, pecan, pumpkin, and buttermilk with or without pecans.
Driving Highway 79 evokes memories of a simpler and more vivid time when every town and neighborhood had its own identity, as Old Town Palestine still does, not absorbed in chain-everything homogeneity.
A black and white cow is grazing in the front yard of the white house. Horses stand still as statues in groves of pecan and pine trees. I feel like I'm driving through the past, a world hidden in the fog of time.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Driving in a big, slow circle
After spending the morning visiting--in person and by phone--with several good people, I decided to take a little nap and then leave at 3:00. Bad choice.
My plan was to get through Houston before morning traffic. What was I thinking?
After two hours on the road, listening to the SERIAL podcast, I had only gotten as far as the downtown UTSA campus, fifteen minutes (normally) from home. Traffic was at a standstill and it was starting to get dark, so I turned around and came back home, stopping for puffy tacos at Blanco Cafe.
San Antonio traffic is rarely that bad. Apparently, there was a stalled 18-wheeler on the road ahead. Or maybe it is often that bad and I'm just not out there to see it.
At any rate, I've decided to get some sleep and try again early in the morning, this time taking the Austin and I20 route instead of Houston.
My plan was to get through Houston before morning traffic. What was I thinking?
After two hours on the road, listening to the SERIAL podcast, I had only gotten as far as the downtown UTSA campus, fifteen minutes (normally) from home. Traffic was at a standstill and it was starting to get dark, so I turned around and came back home, stopping for puffy tacos at Blanco Cafe.
San Antonio traffic is rarely that bad. Apparently, there was a stalled 18-wheeler on the road ahead. Or maybe it is often that bad and I'm just not out there to see it.
At any rate, I've decided to get some sleep and try again early in the morning, this time taking the Austin and I20 route instead of Houston.
Love....
I'm lucky. I have the kinds of friends who cheer each other on when we do good things--and let each other off the hook when we don't.
Yesterday, I got this quote from Maya Angelou via text from Pam: "I do not believe a person who does not love himself when he tells me he loves me." I hadn't read that one before--it's so true, so something to think about!
Pam sent me that to cheer me on to do something in the self-love department, and we talked about it some more this morning when she brought me breakfast tacos. We decided that we're going to give ourselves more love in the new year: speak up for what we want, take the time to attend to our health and get remedies when maladies show up, buy good bras, say no when we mean no--things like that.
Here's my Christmas story of the day: I gave Nathan a couple of small toys and a wallet-with-money for Christmas and a big heavy box of tools. I gave Elena a barn and lots of animals--much more flashy a gift, I noticed, when they were all opened.
I'm sure he'd been hoping for a toy in the heavy box under the tree and his disappointment was obvious, though he tried to hide it. I could hardly sleep that night and woke up yesterday morning intent on rectifying that choice. Will said not to bother. He said Nathan would love the tools after the holidays and that he'd get plenty of toys.
But yesterday, I went to the toy store and bought a Star Wars Lego set and delivered it last night while they were out. I also took a few books and puzzles from my house for both of them and scattered them around the house.
He loved it, Will said. "Yenna is awesome!" Nathan said as he tore into the package this morning. "She makes Christmas like Easter, hiding things all around the house."
Of course, I like being called awesome! But what I like even more is that I made him feel special with an unexpected, though delayed, toy on his list. I want to be among the village that makes him feel as loved as he is.
Ted and Me
So it's five in the morning and I wake up with Ted Radio Hour podcasts playing away beside me. I'd downloaded a bunch of them last night to listen to on the road and they just started playing, one after the other, I guess. No telling what all I learned while sleeping!
I'm going back to bed now, silencing Ted, but I wanted to recommend some terrific podcasts before I do:
Season 2 has just begun on SERIAL. Season 1 was a season of telling one story over several episodes, a real life murder mystery.
Elizabeth Gilbert has a podcast, MAGIC LESSONS, that expands on the book by the same title.
ON THE MEDIA, TRUE STORY, NPR Most Emailed Stories, ON BEING, THE MOTH, RADIO LAB, and UNFICTIONAL are all good ones. FRESH AIR and the DIANE RHEM SHOW are also good podcasts for catching up on shows you missed.
Once you start exploring podcasts, you'll find them on every topic--from food to music to politics.
I'm going back to bed now, silencing Ted, but I wanted to recommend some terrific podcasts before I do:
Season 2 has just begun on SERIAL. Season 1 was a season of telling one story over several episodes, a real life murder mystery.
Elizabeth Gilbert has a podcast, MAGIC LESSONS, that expands on the book by the same title.
ON THE MEDIA, TRUE STORY, NPR Most Emailed Stories, ON BEING, THE MOTH, RADIO LAB, and UNFICTIONAL are all good ones. FRESH AIR and the DIANE RHEM SHOW are also good podcasts for catching up on shows you missed.
Once you start exploring podcasts, you'll find them on every topic--from food to music to politics.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
The Topo Chicas Celebrate Cindy's 70th Birthday
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| My Saturday Writing Group We call ourselves The Topo Chicas- after the drink we all like, Topo Chicos |
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| Mary brought this beautiful salad.... |
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| Mary and Victoria Setting up our birthday feast |
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| And here's Cindy--the Celebrated One! |
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| Jennifer brought barbecue from Boerne |
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| Cindy blowing out candles with p-zazzz! |
Early Christmas in Helotes
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| We picked up Nathan after his drumming lessons. Here we are by the Helotes Elementary Bulldog-- Both Will's former school and Nathan's present one. |
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| Precious Nathan |
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| Elena making marble paper with shaving cream and paint |
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| Bonnie and Will, Elena and Nathan |
Monday, December 14, 2015
Second Baptist Church
On Sunday, four of us white women attended a large all-Black Baptist Church service at Second Baptist--an invitation from one of the church's trustees who was among our photo subjects last week.
We enjoyed it enough to stay for four hours!
It was the 137th anniversary of the church--so after music and a rousing sermon, we stayed for chicken and dressing and a full lunch in their social hall. Church included amazing music by their choir and a dance in the aisle by a group of women. The sermon was delivered by a guest speaker, president of the Progressive Baptist Association. Although built upon a parable, the sermon was not overtly religious--it was a call to action for church people to get out on the streets and find the children of the Black community who are in trouble.
He began speaking in a quiet voice--I had to lean forward to hear. He was so calm and soft-spoken I wondered how he was president of such a large body of churches. His text was the parable of the one lost sheep. The opening pattern was contrasting "this generation" and the "previous generation" --in which parents were boss and everyone was part of a flock. With lively metaphors and examples, his voice grew louder and more musical. "This is a dangerous world for lost sheep!" he shouted. "Sheep need green pastures, not being left out there all alone with the wolves!"
By the end of his sermon, he was sweating profusely and the sermon had become almost a song, entreating his congregation to get up out of their churchy seats and go out where the lost sheep boys and girls are and bring them in. The congregation was "Amen"ing and clapping and cheering him on. It was--like Black Baptist sermons often are--cadenced and entertaining from start to finish, growing louder with each point.
The Christmas music portion of the service (including some of the songs I've recently complained about being piped into every store from auto parts to nail salons to grocery stores) was beautiful in church, and there were also many multi-verse songs I had never heard before.
Two among us were members of Temple Beth-El; one of us a former Baptist, the other a former Baptist-Catholic. "You don't have a church? Then this is your church now!" the regular pastor told us at lunch.
We felt at home there, welcomed warmly by seemingly every member of the church.
We enjoyed it enough to stay for four hours!
It was the 137th anniversary of the church--so after music and a rousing sermon, we stayed for chicken and dressing and a full lunch in their social hall. Church included amazing music by their choir and a dance in the aisle by a group of women. The sermon was delivered by a guest speaker, president of the Progressive Baptist Association. Although built upon a parable, the sermon was not overtly religious--it was a call to action for church people to get out on the streets and find the children of the Black community who are in trouble.
He began speaking in a quiet voice--I had to lean forward to hear. He was so calm and soft-spoken I wondered how he was president of such a large body of churches. His text was the parable of the one lost sheep. The opening pattern was contrasting "this generation" and the "previous generation" --in which parents were boss and everyone was part of a flock. With lively metaphors and examples, his voice grew louder and more musical. "This is a dangerous world for lost sheep!" he shouted. "Sheep need green pastures, not being left out there all alone with the wolves!"
By the end of his sermon, he was sweating profusely and the sermon had become almost a song, entreating his congregation to get up out of their churchy seats and go out where the lost sheep boys and girls are and bring them in. The congregation was "Amen"ing and clapping and cheering him on. It was--like Black Baptist sermons often are--cadenced and entertaining from start to finish, growing louder with each point.
The Christmas music portion of the service (including some of the songs I've recently complained about being piped into every store from auto parts to nail salons to grocery stores) was beautiful in church, and there were also many multi-verse songs I had never heard before.
Two among us were members of Temple Beth-El; one of us a former Baptist, the other a former Baptist-Catholic. "You don't have a church? Then this is your church now!" the regular pastor told us at lunch.
We felt at home there, welcomed warmly by seemingly every member of the church.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Meditation on Wheels
I'm canceling my flight to Georgia on the 17th--not because I'm not going there, but because I've decided to travel on wheels.
Driving is impractical, I told myself when I booked the flight a month ago. But then I remembered: driving is well worth the time and expense. Besides, I'm not quite ready to leave just yet, having been home less than two weeks from the last trip.
Since my other home is my car, I'll enjoy exploring different roads and listening to podcasts, my meditation on wheels with no deadlines. I'll be refreshed when I arrive, ready to celebrate.
It's been a full week--filled with good times with good conversations, and picture-taking of inspiring women. But it's not complete yet, and I don't want to leave with straggly threads.
As I was wrapping my final gifts last night to grandchildren, I thought about all the years my parents and grandparents made Christmas so starry-eyed happy for me. The surprises. The delicious food spread on a red tablecloth. The sugar cookies and date bars and hot chocolate and popcorn balls. The sparklers outside. Decorating the tree with fake icicles. A new dress to wear to church. Going to Betty's house--and vice versa--on Christmas morning to see what Santa Claus left.
Like all traditions, we all tweak them a bit--but in the end, if they were good, we try to recreate the parts we can. We remember the last Christmas we spent with someone we love--not knowing it was the last. Sadness drips in streaks along with joy.
But when we were children, every Christmas was magical and whole. We believed in Santa Clause until we didn't and then we passed on the myth to those not yet in the know. It was a simpler and beautiful time--not freighted so much with the commercialism that starts now just after Halloween and Black Friday sales.
I used to think the best part was the gift-giving--and in a way, I still do. But the gifts now are the intangibles of being with people we love and wrapping gifts for children who will, we hope, feel as excited by them as we felt when we woke up before dawn to find just what we wanted under the tree.
Driving is impractical, I told myself when I booked the flight a month ago. But then I remembered: driving is well worth the time and expense. Besides, I'm not quite ready to leave just yet, having been home less than two weeks from the last trip.
Since my other home is my car, I'll enjoy exploring different roads and listening to podcasts, my meditation on wheels with no deadlines. I'll be refreshed when I arrive, ready to celebrate.
It's been a full week--filled with good times with good conversations, and picture-taking of inspiring women. But it's not complete yet, and I don't want to leave with straggly threads.
As I was wrapping my final gifts last night to grandchildren, I thought about all the years my parents and grandparents made Christmas so starry-eyed happy for me. The surprises. The delicious food spread on a red tablecloth. The sugar cookies and date bars and hot chocolate and popcorn balls. The sparklers outside. Decorating the tree with fake icicles. A new dress to wear to church. Going to Betty's house--and vice versa--on Christmas morning to see what Santa Claus left.
Like all traditions, we all tweak them a bit--but in the end, if they were good, we try to recreate the parts we can. We remember the last Christmas we spent with someone we love--not knowing it was the last. Sadness drips in streaks along with joy.
But when we were children, every Christmas was magical and whole. We believed in Santa Clause until we didn't and then we passed on the myth to those not yet in the know. It was a simpler and beautiful time--not freighted so much with the commercialism that starts now just after Halloween and Black Friday sales.
I used to think the best part was the gift-giving--and in a way, I still do. But the gifts now are the intangibles of being with people we love and wrapping gifts for children who will, we hope, feel as excited by them as we felt when we woke up before dawn to find just what we wanted under the tree.
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