December 25, 2011--First sight, hind sight, second sight and vision.

So, it was probably inevitable that I would write about my latest adventure. On Friday, I had laser vision correction.


As I sit here watching television with complete clarity, it's still hard for me to believe that I am not wearing glasses or contacts. The vision in my eyes truly was corrected. Certainly having one's vision corrected is at once miraculous, but at the same time routine these days.

But, as easy as it has become to have our vision corrected, sometimes, the way we each look at the world is so unique, that we are unable to change the way we see it, even if the way we see it is potentially harmful to ourselves or others. Other times, we have great fortune, and people show us a new way of both looking at, and seeing things.

I turn forty in six days. For the last two months, my husband of nearly sixteen years, plotted and schemed secretly with family and friends to surprise me with a weekend away. I was waylaid by the gesture. Everyone I work with was involved in the secret. My sister was an active plotter. Several friends assisted Jeph in his scheming. Even my grandma was involved in keeping the secret--though the other conspirators would agree, she nearly blew it.

I think a lot of my friends. I care about their struggles and triumphs and always want to do anything I can for any one of them. I know they care about me too, but I never saw them as people who would work so hard to ensure that such a special surprise would come off without a single hitch. I couldn't see that they cared so much. My vision of them has been corrected.

As this master plan came together, my grandmother, who nearly blew the whole thing, revealed to me that she had recently been diagnosed with high blood pressure and was on the road to having a long list of additional testing done. I happen to have a fairly young grandmother who has never been seriously ill. As she struggled not to blow Jeph's surprise, she only managed to make me concerned about her health. For the first time in my life, I saw that she won't be around forever.

Sadly, there are people in my family who were born taking advantage of my grandmother's generosity and love--people who will barely lift a finger to help her with anything and who live in her house rent free and contributing nothing. In my eyes, they are the most unforgivable kind of parasites; in hers they are grandchildren.

I started to consider what might happen if something did happen to her, and I didn't like that vision. I think it's always hard to love someone, especially a family member who has worked so hard throughout their life, be taken advantage of. It's hard to see those people rant, rave and be unpleasant, or even to be just plain antisocial. It's hard to understand how the people we love don't see these people in the same way we do, and the difference in vision can frequently drive wedges between us and those we worry about.

As much as we often see others in different ways, we probably even more frequently see ourselves differently than others do.

In the same way I couldn't see that my friends cared enough about me to help pull off a fabulous surprise, I didn't see myself as someone worthy of that kind of gift. A friend I care very dearly for recently shocked me when she shared that when discussing her child's future if something happened to her and her husband, Jeph and I came up as possible guardians. I could never have imagined that in looking at me, she would see someone worthy of that kind of responsibility. I've always thought of myself as one of her friends, but kind of on her periphery.

I write this blog about once a week, but I only occasionally get any feedback. Sometimes that bothers me. It's because I can't believe it's any good, or that anyone has even seen it if nobody says anything. Sometimes I think it's a lot like the radio signals we send to outer space trying to make contact with whomever else might be out there. Who even knows if I make contact? But as much as I often think that, sometimes someone will express being so moved by something I've written that it makes up for all the times I hear nothing. So I continue, whether I receive any feedback or not.

Sometimes we realize that something we deal with everyday takes on new meaning when we are going through an event ourselves. As this holiday weekend rolls on, one of my friends is grieving the loss of one of her beloved dogs. She's a fairly pragmatic person who works in an emergency veterinary hospital. She sees a lot of hopeless cases. It's not unusual for her to be forced to accept loss multiple times a shift. There isn't time to dwell. It's hard to remember the pain when you have to move so quickly, and gallows humor often ensues. There often is talk of a patient who is trying to "go to the light" and this kind of thing. Nobody means anything hurtful by it, it's just what you do to get through. When you're the one saying goodbye to your furry child, there is a moment of clarity. In those moments, you see what it feels like to be that hopeless case's parent, and it is only natural to come unglued when someone is trying to "get through" as you are losing a best friend. I see the strength in this person every time I am around her. I love her and wish there was never a time I would have to see her dealing with such a loss.

Christmas means different things to different people. For true believers, it's a time to celebrate the birth of their lord and savior. For others, it's different.

I recently was listening to an interview with a soldier who got to return from Iraq this holiday season. He was asked what Christmas was like for him last year. He and his friends had a small tree that they decorated, but they were working. There was nothing special going on that day for him. He saw Christmas as just another day.

One of my friends is working this entire weekend and struggling with health issues and some personal challenges. She isn't able to spend any time with family or friends, and the load she's been carrying around is weighing her down during a time that for most of us is joyful. For her, she sees this weekend as a reminder of things she wishes were different.

I'm not one of those true believers. As I talked with a friend yesterday about what Christmas means to me, I was comforted not to be the only non-believer. We both "celebrate," but we long to celebrate something different. Gatherings of people we truly care about, and the opportunity to do nice things for them is what Christmas means for us. We see the joyous spirit of the season and want to amplify that, even though the religious spirit of the holiday means little to us.

We won't all ever see things with the same eyes. Some security systems are set up to use retinal scans in order to achieve access. Our eyes are like our fingerprints. My guess is that like our eyes and our fingerprints, we also have our very own visions. Sometimes, we learn that the way we saw something in the past was wrong. Sometimes, we learn that we can see things others can't. Sometimes, no matter how much help we have from other people, we can never see things the way they truly are.

Of the times of the year I could have had the vision in my eyes corrected, perhaps this time of year only gives me shades of drab brown and gray to look at when I go to the window. I know when the spring comes, I will be rewarded with shades of green and flowers every color of the rainbow. I don't feel cheated by the drabness of the season though. For me, having some of my other vision issues corrected has been just as bright as that green flickering light I focused on Friday.

As this holiday weekend and this year draw to a close, I hope we all get to see the world we are hoping for, and I hope we have the vision to achieve it. 

When I Look at the World--U2

December 19, 2011--Not so sure promoting nerd love is the right message.

So, I found myself wandering around, somewhat aimlessly, at Target today. I was killing time while I had some prescriptions filled. I picked up a few things, including cheese, which I now seem to have been obsessively craving for days. I ran across something in the girls' clothing department that kind of bothered me.

Hanging on a rack was a cute little blouse with eye-glasses over a heart and a slogan that read "I love nerds." On the one hand, it's a sweet sentiment on the other hand, what?!

Now, I have been a nerd pretty much all my life. Nerd has several definitions and means different things to different people. For me, it meant that I learned to read and write fairly quickly and I adored school with the exception of math. As previously stated, I was never into any sports. By the time I hit eighth grade, I was wearing glasses just to be able to see the blackboard. I read Agatha Christie novels, "Dragonlance" novels and was endlessly trying to check out the book "Mein Kampf" because I was a total World War II freak. (I still don't know why it was always checked out in our high school library.)

Needless to say, I didn't exactly run with the popular crowd. My personal twist was to start wearing primarily black and white by the time I was a junior in high school, and given a very controlling and sheltered home life, I didn't date or go out with friends much. At one point, an ex-boyfriend actually referred to me as 'one of those easy, greasy peace people.' I'm not completely sure what he meant by that, but I am pretty sure it was nothing nice. He read "Dragonlance" novels too, but I think he forgot that when he tried out for the wrestling team and got a letter man's jacket.

As early as I started to love school, I realized that I wasn't a popular kid. In second grade there was a girl I greatly admired and esteemed--sadly, she was a complete snob. She had one of those really cool 'satin' jackets of the time that was color blocked and had a roller skate applique on it. She wore a pink, floor length formal dress for our group picture day. And she had these really awesome tall boots with a pocket on the outsides. It's probably her fault that I endlessly covet tall boots that will fit over my calves. Damn her!

Sometimes, she acted like I was one of her friends. Other times, I was not nearly cool enough to be in her circle. I remember one day she asked me how I felt and for whatever reason, I answered that I wasn't feeling too hot. She responded "That's because you're not." I was 'lucky' enough to be  invited to her birthday bunkin' party that year. I didn't have a really cool sleeping bag or anything like that, just a pillow and blanket. I felt really awkward there with all of her awesome friends, and her fancy party. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone I had to go to the bathroom and I didn't know where it was in their giant maze of a house, so I peed my pants overnight. Without revealing my shameful secret, I said I wanted to go home and luckily, my step-dad came to get me and didn't so much chastise me for my soiled bedding.

That little top in the little girls' section probably would have fit someone in my second grade class. This many years later, even though life has probably "equalized" us in most respects, the sting of her snobbery and harsh words was fresh when I saw that little shirt. I'm pretty sure I never saw anything like that in any children's section when I was six or seven. That girl in my class didn't need help learning how to differentiate who was 'cool' and who was 'not.' Imagine how much more sophisticated her insults might have been if she'd had that kind of retail assistance.

Jeph and I are considering having a child of our own. I'm pretty sure he would agree that he was a member of the "cult of nerd" growing up. We savor the fact that our nerdiness and lack of popularity put us in a different social category--'most likely to succeed.' And to this day, I read goofy fantasy novels; become obsessed with weird, geeky styles; and fail to listen to the cool music. I'm okay with that. I think I'm a little more well-liked than I was as a kid. The circle of people I find myself in seems to be one that works to know who I am, instead of stopping at my quirkiness. But I worry. What if our child is a nerd? What if there's a girl or boy in second grade that treats our little Apoc the way that girl treated me?

In second grade, I didn't know I was a 'nerd,' I only knew that it hurt when people didn't include me, teased me, and made me feel unworthy of their friendship. I wasn't smart enough to understand that actually, they weren't worthy of mine.

Being a nerd is just one kind of 'person' you can be in school, or life in general. It seems to me, having such a classification called out on a piece of clothing for children sends the wrong message. Yeah, I know, it said "I love Nerds," but for a child that age, wouldn't it be better for it to say "I love my friends?"

It's just a thought.

Defying Gravity--Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth

December 6, 2011--Don't be sad and unispired.

So, around a week or so ago, my closest friend posted the following Facebook status: "inspire me."

I have been thinking about that simple, yet impassioned plea ever since, and today, I am watching something that prompts me to respond with the following: "look around."

I sit watching a report by Richard Engel on gold mining in Mali, West Africa. Gold mining in Africa is nothing like mining during the Gold Rush of the American West. It's not the adventure of men hoping to strike it rich. It is backbreaking work done by children and women who often receive little if any payment for their efforts. Engel speaks to one boy on his first day who has no plans to be working the mines forever. He aspires to be a student and a soccer player. Families work side by side for at most, four dollars a day. The young boy Engel speaks to will be paid a bucket of dirt for his first day's work--it might have gold in it, if he's lucky. It's heartbreaking to watch as children lie on the ground exhausted at the end of the day, with nothing to show for it. Engel himself climbs down into one of the mines, which have footholds near the top, and then as he describes it, "nothing to hold onto" as he goes down.

And that's the truth of it, there's nothing to hold onto. The people working the mines of Mali have nothing to hold onto. Everyday, their hopes are chipped away like fist-fulls of dirt. Every bit of inspiration, lost, like the footholds that stop as you go down.

It's easy to be dragged down by the day to day grind of life. It's easy to get lost in hopes and dreams that sometimes seem completely elusive. I know that I often feel that. I have the "gift" of experiencing hopelessness, but fortunately, even I sometimes forget what that truly means.

I forget that not getting to do something I really want to do so badly is not the same thing as being without hope. I was reminded of this last night. I desperately wanted to see Florence and the Machine, but the show was completely sold out. There had been no hope. As Florence says, "it's always darkest before the dawn," because as it happens, I scooped up a couple of tickets at the last minute. Impossible. When Jeph and I were discussing what I thought of as good fortune, he said "There's no saying 'no' to you."

I wasn't sure how I felt about that statement. On the one hand, perhaps it speaks to my perseverance: when I really want something, I do everything I can to make it happen. On the other, it speaks to a possible sense of entitlement. I know Jeph knows that for a great deal of my young life, when most people are making all kinds of mistakes, and running wild, I was told 'no' at every single turn. It's probably why he works so hard to make sure 'no' is a rarity and that as many as my "have to's" happen as can.

I have a great life filled with amazing amounts of opportunities. In some respects, every opportunity stolen from me in my childhood and youth has been returned to me in spades as an adult. As I sit here and think about the fact that there's no saying 'no' to me, I think about that boy in Mali who looks around him and wants more, and I wish there was someone to say 'yes' to him. I wish there was someone to give him footholds so he will never stop trying to climb to his dreams.

Even under the worst of circumstances, being born and raised in the West affords one the option of living a life built on inspiration. Having the freedom to try and overcome our most difficult of origins is more than most people in other parts of the world can even dream of. We literally have the opportunity to dream, and often, there are people and things all around us to plant the seeds.

Another friend posted a link about a book he recently read and recommended to his friends. It prompted a brief discussion of a couple of teachers we had in elementary school who planted the love of reading within us. For two of us, it was Mrs. Johnson reading "James and the Giant Peach" in first grade, for Bob, it was Mrs. Highfill reading "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," in fifth grade. Imagine if you lived in a world where a teacher was akin to that fictional witch. While it's true that we all want and expect more from our education system, just the fact that we have one is something we never should take for granted.

A few weeks ago, I took on the second of my required shifts at a local emergency veterinary hospital. It was the hardest day of work I have ever had--hands down. For days, I fought to recover from the feeling that I didn't do nearly enough. Every moment of the ten hours I was there, I was both painfully aware of, and awed by how amazing those who do it every day are by comparison. Even though I felt like a failure in many respects, that day of work increased my awareness and it makes me want to do better in my regular job.

Inspiration can be practical and impractical.

Yesterday, I watched part one of the new Syfy miniseries "Neverland." Though we've never talked explicitly about it, I think "Peter Pan" must always have been a favorite story of my grandmother's. As a child, I remember every time she would come to get me to go someplace, I would ask how to get wherever we were going and she invariably answered the same way: "Second star to the right, and straight ahead 'til morning." As a result, I'm kind of fond of "Peter Pan" myself. Over the years, there have been many treatments of the J. M. Barrie tale. I've enjoyed most of them, and to a degree, "Neverland" is no exception. It gives a little bit of the backstory behind how Neverland came to be in the first place and how the characters came to be there. Admittedly, the story is much "thinner" than the imagery and effects, as is not atypical of Syfy's attempts to be "epic." That said, as a lover of "eyecandy," I still find it wonderful. What strikes me about it is that this old story has captured the passions of people who work in very modern industries.

You  just never know where inspiration is going to come from.

Another story from my childhood that never failed to capture my imagination was "Charlotte's Web." Every year, the animated version worked its way onto television. Most people gravitated toward Wilbur or the beautiful Charlotte. I found myself drawn to Templeton. I remember the character voiced by Paul Lynde, a favorite of mine from--yes--the Donnie and Marie show. Templeton was the brains of the outfit. He collected tidbits and scraps of--everything! Each little scrap of paper or packaging was potentially valuable to him, and thanks to his pack-ratting ways, Wilbur never had to worry about the slaughter house. So now, Jeph, you know why I can rarely throw anything away.

Inspiration can come from that piece of trash you're getting ready to throw away.

It can also come from giant and fantastic displays of talent and beauty. Last week, I watched a movie I hadn't seen in quite some time. As I watched Julianne Moore, Meryl Streep and Nicole Kidman bring "The Hours" to life, I was reminded of a story I have to tell and where pieces of it come from. There is something about tragic, haunting stories that touch me in a way that nothing else does.

Last night, I didn't have to hear the word 'no.' Last night, I got to watch Florence Welch wail like Boudica in one of the most beautiful venues in Kansas City. Based on her lyrics, I think Welch is also moved by the tragic and haunting. There's a fragility in her strength that I can't compare to anyone else in music right now. Her extreme talent fills me up like a gas tank that was hanging at a quarter full.

It's as simple as looking around. It's as simple as selecting a play list. It's as hard as dreaming, and it's as hard as stretching to reach the footholds that can allow us climb to those dreams. Never overlook the availability of inspirational opportunity. For some of us, it's easier than mining for gold.

"Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up)" Florence and the Machine

November 27, 2011--Purpose gives you...purpose.

So, Jeph and I are into the whole steam punk scene. We love anything that fits into the category of "Neo-Victorian." Naturally, we were drawn to the movie "Hugo," and happily, there was just as much substance as there was style.

Hugo is a Martin Scorsese film about a young boy living in a train station in Paris. After his father dies, an uncle who maintains the clocks at the station takes him in, but it's clear he has no desire or ability to be a caregiver. Hugo ends up left to his own devices and gets by on whatever food he can steal. The only thing that seems to drive him is continuing to repair a machine he was working on with his father before his death.

The machine is an automaton--a mechanized human figure. Hugo believes that if he is successful in repairing the machine, he will receive a final message from his father. In the effort to repair the machine, Hugo stoops to stealing toys and parts of toys from a toy shop in the station. Little does he know how close he is to the very spirit of his father.

Through the course of the film, his thieving gets him into plenty of trouble, and the owner of the toy shop takes one of his prized possessions away to punish him for stealing--a small notebook with drawings and diagrams his father had made of the automaton and how to repair him. In desperation, Hugo finds himself working for the grizzled and grumpy toy shop owner, and he is soon befriended by the man's god daughter.

As their friendship grows, Hugo and Isabelle learn the secrets of her sullen godfather, and they come to believe Hugo's purpose is to fix Papa Georges.

Purpose is something very important to Hugo, for his purpose is the only link that remains between him and his father. His purpose is the only thing that prevents him from absorbing the gravity of his situation--that he is completely alone in the world.

As I watched Hugo explaining this ideal to Isabelle, it occurred to me that like connection, as I discussed in regards to the pack and family structures in the Twilight Saga, purpose also can be our saving grace. Purpose gives our lives meaning, and when we feel our purposes slip away from us from time to time, we feel as if we are losing ourselves, or losing our connection to things we hold dear.

It's not always about being the leader. It's not about having a title. It's not even about having a job. It's about fitting into a keyhole--unlocking the door to who we are. It's about the pieces of our lives fitting together like Hugo's automaton. It's about being a working piece within our own lives.

Another gem within "Hugo" is its exploration of something Scorsese and anyone who has a love for the movies should care about--the early days of film, and the way they are a doorway to our dreams. Images of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin in the early days of the movies are heartwarming to see through Scorsese's lens. I am sure I don't love them as much as he does, but I do love them.

Jeph and I saw a review of "Hugo" this morning, basically describing it as disappointing and not being as magical as it should be. But how can you define magic? 

The imagery of "Hugo" alone makes it cinematic eye candy--one of my favorite film genres! But it's the passionate purpose of a little boy trying to hold onto any shred of his father that he can, that is truly the heart of the movie. It's the reminder that we are all trying to live our purpose in whatever it is we do, and without it, our lives are broken.

If you're thinking about seeing "Hugo," you should go. It's more than just magical enough.

A Kind of Magic--Queen

November 20, 2011--It's the unnatural love story, stupid.

So, the Twilight novels frequently receive criticism from "serious" writers and "serious" people for various reasons. Over the years, even I, in all of my swept up lovingness of them have identified things about them that I find ridiculous. Certain turns of phrase make me cringe because of their absolute absurdity, like when Edward is discussing his view of his wedding night with Bella and how it was "the best night of my existence." Now, come on, would a one hundred-year-old really talk that way? I don't think so. I don't think a one thousand-year-old would talk that way.

That said, there's something that strikes a chord with Twilight fans that allows us to ignore the fact that some of the themes are redundant and trite, and at times, not even as well executed as they could be. I mean, how many girl meets vampire, girl falls in love with vampire, vampire falls in love with girl and complications ensue stories are there? A cajillion.

So why is Twilight the one that got thrown at the wall and stuck? I don't know. I only know why it stuck for me, and why it seems to have stuck for my small circle of friends. It's because of the complete unreality of the love story.

Let's forget for a just a moment that Edward is a vampire. Let's forget that Jacob is a werewolf. Let's pretend that these guys are just two average Joes. Doing that strips away the first layer of "fantastic," but even if we strip away this layer, you still have two guys behaving over a girl in a very unnatural and unrealistic way. Neither one of them walked up to Bella after class and said, 'hey, do you want to grab a bite and go see a movie?' Both of them approached her from the extreme--essentially throwing themselves at, and then desperately pulling themselves away, in spite of their deep longing, from her.

Now tell me girls, when was the last time your significant other expressed their undying love for you with this kind of angst? I'm pretty sure it's never. And now tell me, how many times have you dreamed that someone would fall so desperately in love with you that even against the most unmanageable odds they would do absolutely anything for you--even involve themselves in massive "gang" fights to protect you from certain death? How many times have you dreamed that someone would make you the entire center of their world and cater to your most absurd whim at a moment's notice? I'm pretty sure it's everyday, even if you're in a relationship.

We dream of the the absurd, and Twilight is, well, the absurd. Even some of my more grounded and down to earth friends support this idea.

As the days leading up to the "Breaking Dawn" premiere trickled away, one such friend speculated on how much of the wedding night would really be played out on film. In my opinion, one of the strengths of the books is the fact that there is so much ridiculous sexual tension, and the actual consummation of the Edward and Bella relationship might consist of a paragraph. Now, most of us in long-term, committed relationships have sex, but there's something desperately intriguing about this couple who does not. My friend who was most interested in this aspect of the story even sought out Twilight porn in hopes that it might fulfill the fantasy. Interestingly, the reason it failed was because there was no plot.

Now I think we all know that, in general, porn usually doesn't have a plot, at most it has a theme. The Edward and Bella theme isn't strong enough to carry a porno flick. Why? It's because we are after the absurdly ridiculous and unnatural love story. If dressing up as Edward and Bella and "doing the deed" was enough, there wouldn't be any reason to read the books or go to the movies multiple times.

If the wedding night was the best night of Edward's existence, then for many of us who follow and love the Twilight series, this story is at least one of the best that can never really exist, and it's not just because vampires and werewolves don't exist, it's because this kind of love doesn't really exist.

Now I know that my saying that makes me a Debbie Downer, and I will probably incur a tiny little wrath from my lovely and devoted husband, who makes a damn fine effort to love me absurdly. But hear me out.

What are Edward and Bella going to do for an eternity?

We already know that for about a hundred years, Edward has been going to high school and college over and over, and that he wasn't even really interested in dating anyone. We know that he and his family never sleep, they have no interest in television. They don't use their time to get into politics or make the world better, unless we all give Carlisle the hero award for becoming a brilliant doctor in spite of his obvious handicap, or we recognize Rosalie as the most staunchly pro-life vampire ever. It would seem that the only routine connection to contemporary life Alice has is with fashion. Who knows how Emmet, Jasper and Esme pass their time?

Yes, they have ridiculous amounts of money and can do anything they want. But at a point, what is left to do after hundreds of years besides eat and stand around looking devastatingly beautiful?

Life and the kind of love we mere humans find are real. Reality is getting up in the morning, splashing water on your face to get the sleep out of your eyes, realizing you wish you'd shaved your legs last night, and brushing your teeth. It's going to work and getting through your day. It's coming home and recapping the mundane with your partner and hitting the sack early because you have to do it all again tomorrow. It's a vacation once a year if you're lucky, and figuring out how you're going to fund it, and who's going to watch your dogs. It's an occasional night out for dinner at a fancy place in fancy clothes. It's occasionally thoughtless, and saying things you didn't mean, or even failing to realize you should have responded in the first place. It's ordinary and mundane at times, and at others, it's the only thing that keeps you going in the wake of other disappointments and despair.

Edward and Bella are the fictional characters inside our souls. They are who we would be if we didn't really exist. I'm okay with the fact that I'm not going to be kicking around looking for something to do for the next thousand years, because that means I have to find a way to fit everything into my short life that I can, and I have to appreciate every good thing that comes along before I run out of time.

Would I love for Edward Cullen to come along and brush his cool marble hand against my cheek? You betcha, but I think it would be hard for me to compete with a mountain lion for long, and even though I'm totally enamored of it right now, I'm sure I'd get really tired of Isle Esme. So, I'm going to visit the Cullens from time to time and I am going to continue to breathe in and out, and do all of the things they don't have to worry about.

A Thousand Years--Christina Perri

November 18, 2011--We belong.

So, it was probably a given that I would write about "Breaking Dawn" this weekend, but even I didn't anticipate what would strike me about the movie.

Of course, there's the beautiful wedding. There's the love story. There's the drama of death giving birth to new life. There are so many possible topics.

But what really grabbed my attention about the way "Breaking Dawn" is brought to life on film is the story of belonging, and the significance of that feeling to our lives.

The most obvious portrayal of belonging is the Quileute wolf pack. Because of the tight bonds within the pack, one member can't think without the other members hearing the thought. They operate as a unity. They belong together.

Less obvious, but equally compelling as the substantive bonds are tightened, is the sense of belonging within the Cullen Clan. The members of the Cullen family are related by venom, not blood, but as they struggle to support, love and protect each other, their bonds are no less strong than if they truly were family.

When Bella's seemingly foolhardy decision to follow through with her "vampire" pregnancy puts the Cullen Clan at even greater odds with the Quileute pack, the two groups seem destined to rip each other to shreds. Up to this point, the two have endured a quiet and uneasy peace--both groups honoring a treaty that allows both to coexist in an otherwise intolerable scenario.

Bella believed she was trading her human life with the potential of traditional marriage and family for a forever fantasy as a vampire. Her fantasy comes crashing to the Earth as the impossibility of motherhood creates a connection with something even stronger than the connection she has with Edward. The connection of motherhood and family is actually strong enough to die for.

We watch as Bella's connections to her human life seem to be unraveling. As she leaves for her honeymoon, she is saying good by to her human family. Until this point, Bella's connection has appeared to be loose at best. It is only when she must cut her ties that the choice of giving up those connections becomes real. She seems only to truly understand the meaning of her connection with her family group when she is leaving it behind.

These kinds of strong connections become a common theme in the book as well as the movie, but the movie projects the theme so profoundly that it is easy to identify with the pain and struggle we all experience when those kinds of connections come under threat or are coming apart.

As Jacob watches Bella wasting away, the connection he has with her begins to deteriorate as well. As he struggles to cope with Bella's choice, he forms a bond with his enemies that becomes stronger than the bond he shares with his fellow pack members. The bond is strengthened because everyone is pulling together to save Bella's life. The bond within the Quileute pack strengthens because of biology and the threat that Bella's choice presents to the greater humanity the wolves have vowed to protect.

Sometimes connections falter because of such choices. Sometimes our strong bonds are challenged by our convictions and what we know in our hearts is right. We find ourselves on the outside--on the periphery of the "packs" of which we have long been a part. At those times, we find the pain of our struggle to do what's right equal to the pain of the connections that loosen.

Bella's decision to sacrifice herself for the life of her child, destroys the uneasy peace between the Quileute pack and the Cullen Clan. Two groups who had worked together to turn away the threat of Victoria and her newborns find themselves at irreconcilable odds and the only solution is to fight each other to save what each group is unwilling to sacrifice--be it principle or family, respectively.

The chaotic struggle is difficult to watch, in part because ultimately both groups actually share the same values, but express those values in different ways. Both share the desire to protect innocent life, but they differ on the definition of innocent.

I think we all find ourselves in those situations, though probably not to the same dramatic degree. We're often trying to go the same direction as others, but have different ideas about how to get there. We sometimes let those differing ideas separate us, instead of working hard to protect our connections and to pull together. Our group dynamics and connections with each other become fragmented and torn.

If you've read this far, it's probably because you know the story of Edward and Bella, and you know that Bella survives her gamble and that the child from her union with Edward survives. If you know all that, you also know that Jacob finds himself irrevocably connected to Bella and Edward's child.

In the end, it is connection that saves us. It is connection that gives us our sense of hope, meaning, and self. Whether those connections are with our family groups or with groups of close friends, they are no less invaluable for us. In those moments where the connections are injured, we don't always know how we will be drawn back together. Sometimes, we are restrung by the shared values we have to rediscover, or a future that arrives before we know how to see it.

We belong.


We Belong--Pat Benatar

November 12, 2011--We've got game! Now, where is our human decency?

So, I don't care about any sport or any game of any kind.

I play a few computer games on Facebook, but I won't allow myself to obsess over them. I play them to unwind my brain at the end of the day, not to fill time. I used to like playing kickball and soccer in elementary school, but I was never athletic, and I was always picked for teams near the tail end. I was always destined to be...more...academic.

For a few short years, I enjoyed the Tour de France, but that was before I realized how completely out of the realm of possibility it was that these guys could actually climb a mountain on a bike without chemical assistance. I still have my very favorite French cyclist that I want to believe is clean, but I know that this is just denial on my part.

I know a lot of people who are obsessed with different sports and teams, and they spend a great deal of their time following them. I'm not going to lie, I find it annoying. Until this week, I was content to keep my feelings about sports and games to myself. For one, who really cares what I think? For two, is any of this really hurting anyone?

I'm perfectly fine with nobody caring what I think, but to be honest, after this week, I really do believe that all of this is hurting people.

As the reports from Penn State have flooded the media, something I've often thought but never voiced seems to be screaming at me. Football at Penn State was so important to the university and the community that instead of protecting children from abuse, these incidents were swept under the carpet and ignored. The value of football was greater than the value of these boys. It makes me really sad, and it speaks volumes about a wide reaching problem in our society.

As kids grow up and play games, sometimes, their very futures are tied to the success they achieve in relation to the ball by their foot, or the one hitting the rim of the net. Some kids have no hope of being able to afford higher education without scholarships associated with games. Sadly, when they get to school, they often struggle to balance purpose. On the one hand, they are in college to pursue an education and create a better future for themselves, on the other, they are there to play ball and bring dollars to the schools they represent.

In recent months and years scandals have rocked several athletics programs. Kids barely have enough money to pay for food and essentials, they can't receive additional gifts or funding, but universities are welcome to watch the dough roll in for ticket sales, concessions and merchandising on the backs of these young men and women. I recently heard an interview with a former college athlete who mentioned not having any groceries in his fridge during a radio interview. He got in trouble because someone gave him a bag of groceries and this infraction was discovered. Now, I'm not saying college kids should be paid to play basketball or football for their schools--or any sport for that matter, but I don't think it's ethical for schools to benefit so greatly as their athletic scholars struggle to make ends meet.

I also understand that not every student riding in on a football scholarship has the commitment and intent to complete any degree. Many are hoping to be scouted out for professional teams and going to college is just a pit stop on the way to bigger, better things. I wish the financial benefits for schools were not outweighed by their original purpose--educating people. It makes me sad that "students" like these get a full ride scholarship while a non-athletic 'B' student has to saddle themselves with student loans or settle for community college in order to get an education.

At the end of the day, I think alumni and fans forget that universities were founded for something other than games. I often wonder what sacrifices other programs have to make in order to financially support this addiction that is completely unrelated to education. And I know some people will say that team sports impart a kind of education. They help those who truly are committed develop discipline, work ethic and a sense of teamwork, but I can think of a thousand other ways to instill those lessons that don't require a coach to be paid a million dollar plus salary. And I certainly don't think it's required that these individuals should be so valued by their communities that when they fail to protect a child and are fired for it that we should all be outraged.

Professional sports aren't any better.

I mentioned cycling, but many other more popular sports are dogged by allegations of substance abuse. The public's hunger for stronger, faster, longer, tempts athletes to inject themselves with steroids, growth hormones, testosterone and a whole host of other things. Some are so obsessed with winning and beating the tests designed to catch them, that they will go to insane lengths.

We delight in giant, fat men pounding into each other like mountain goats during mating season--probably in hopes that we will see one of them fall and potentially suffer horrible injury. I know that sports can lead to injury and these athletes choose to play professionally, knowing full well the possible consequences, but if we didn't watch, they wouldn't be paid millions to have the crap knocked out of themselves and their brains scrambled. I used to blame the athletes--after all, if they are arrogant enough to think that they can receive concussion after concussion and not suffer long term health concerns, they're the fools. But without the blood, where's the show?

When you think about it, all of this sports spectating isn't all that different from the "fun" of another arena--the Roman arenas. You know, the ones where gladiators hacked each other to bits and slaves and Christians were fed to animals? All in the name of entertainment.

What kills me about all of this is the fact that it isn't killing anyone else. Nobody is looking at what happened at Penn State and asking the important question: When did money and entertainment become so important that the safety of children, the education of our students, and the well-being of our fellow humans became an after thought, and are we going to do something about it?

I realize that I might be picked last for this team, but from a purely academic standpoint, it seems to me that addressing this issue at its core is a no brainer.

Games Without Frontiers--Peter Gabriel

November 9, 2011--Achtung: In order to tear down walls, you have to build them.

So, I know that I've written about U2 a time or two, and while it may seem a little bit self-indulgent, it seems like every time I turn around, they have something to teach me.

"From the Sky Down" is a fantastic documentary about the making of one of the greatest U2 albums ever made--"Achtung Baby," and it's a revealing look into a world of creativity that is both unusual, and hardly ever seen.

"Achtung Baby" is the album that almost wasn't, from a band that almost died an early death. Interestingly, I always considered its great predecessor "The Joshua Tree" to be raw and gritty, but in retrospect, I think it was so conceptually gritty that it became diametrically polished and it tried to turn U2 into something they weren't ready to be--superstars. For all of its deep, earthy soul, it was slicker than a wet banana.

I don't want to discount "The Joshua Tree." Sometimes, I think it saved my life; as I lay flat on my bedroom floor with it blaring out of a speaker next to my head, day after day, in hopes that it would somehow carry me away from my mad existence. Its haunting imagery and heart-twisting melodies are undeniably some of the greatest music of my time. No one was prepared for something so great from a band that had just barely squeaked through to the mainstream. "The Joshua Tree" was the foundation to a career and a life that would have overwhelmed anyone. The boys of U2 thought they were smart. They thought they could build something real on top of something that became a legend. Legends are like the great pyramids--built on sand.

While the film "Rattle and Hum" may have appeared to be a self-indulgent, somewhat mind-numbing fiasco, I think the premise was sincere. It documented the growing pains of these four young men, and opened a window on their discovery of American music that had not quite reached them--they were probably listening to the Ramones turned up way too loud. Its soundtrack opened the window to some of this great American music for me as well. B.B. King didn't even register with me before "love came to town."

By the time the tour supporting "The Joshua Tree," and the release of "Rattle and Hum" had left them in a anti-climactic daze, U2 couldn't go back, and they didn't know how to go forward. It's as if they had sunken every bit of what they could be into eleven tracks that were now too far behind them to be seen in their rear view mirror. What else did they have to say?

When they met in Berlin, just about a year after the wall had been brought down, it appeared that four new walls had gone up, presenting barriers every bit as strong as the stone structure that had separated East from West. Everything they tried fell flat. Nothing they threw at each others' walls could get through. They struggled, nearly failing. At a point, not one of them knew if all the fighting and struggle was even worth it, or who they even wanted to be anymore.

If not for the riff on a guitar, these four walls would have brought U2 crumbling down.

As someone who writes, I am in love with words. Sometimes I see or hear them in my mind and know that they are something special. I've always assumed that most people who write probably feel the same way. I've always assumed that lyrics and melody get matched up like the edges of two pieces of fabric and they are just pinned together before someone comes along and stitches them up. Under the influence of Edgar Allan Poe, I picture most music as nothing more or less than poetry set to music. Bono proved me wrong. He doesn't create in lyrics, he creates in melodic intent. Much to my surprise, he doesn't so much scat, as he moans and wails, all in an effort to take the melody in the direction he wants his voice to go.

And that's what he did with the song that probably saved them--actually one of my least favorites, probably because in its anthem-like nature, it has become one of the most overplayed, over utilized songs ever written. "One."

We're one, but we're not the same.
We get to carry each other, carry each other... one
"One" U2

Yeah, "One" is a love song, but it wasn't written about a woman, it was written about the walls--the divisions between people who are so close that they get in each others' way while they're trying to share a great love.

What makes "Achtung Baby" so special, twenty years on, is the fact that as heavily layered, synthesized and piled upon as the music is, it's actually a stripped down version of U2. It's U2 in the raw. It's U2 trying to figure out where to go from the well-done slab of "The Joshua Tree." They strike at each other and everyone else, and they connect while they tear down their own walls.

U2 got to the end of "The Joshua Tree" in a fast car, only to find out they ran out of road. They had to decide whether to drive off the edge or to drive into the ditch. Over the years they have been criticized for everything. They've strayed too far from their foundation. They've driven in a circle. They've leaped off the cliff.

U2 is an awful lot like the Berlin Wall. In one of the online histories about the wall, it is said that the fall of the Berlin Wall began with its building. You can't build something without the pieces, and sometimes, you have to tear something apart to get the scraps you need to put it back together and make it something real.

As much as "The Joshua Tree" saved my life, "Achtung Baby" gave me a new birth. It was delivered twenty years ago as I was trying to figure out who I was going to be--finally without anyone else's help. I'd spent nearly twenty of my own years building walls. "Achtung" was the beginning of me learning how to tear them down.

When I was all messed up and I heard opera in my head
Your love was a light bulb hanging over my bed.

Baby, baby, baby, light my way.
Oh, come on, baby, baby, baby, light my way. 
"Ultraviolet (Light My Way)" U2

I like to think that in some ways, I am currently under construction--or at least renovation.

"Ultraviolet (Light My Way)--U2 (Rose Bowl 360 Tour)

November 6, 2011--Friendship finds you, even if it's not supposed to

So, a few months ago, I went to see "The Help" with a friend I hadn't seen in a while. One of the things that struck me about the story is the fact that in certain working situations, it's impossible not to develop bonds with people, even if those bonds are not in our own political interest.

The African American women working in the homes of the Southern elite developed strong bonds with the children they cared for. In many cases, these care givers also provided the core foundation of values, self-worth and nurturing their biological mothers would not or could not. The terrible thing--as they reached adulthood, those bonds unraveled in favor of what was deemed appropriate within that societal construct.

It seemed to me a cruel injustice on top of equally cruel treatment on a day-to-day basis.

There were many elements of "The Help" that triggered feelings within me. It's a powerful story. Sometimes, I think, some stories are so powerful, it's impossible to know what to do with them because there are too many messages there for us to process at once.

I work in a field that can be very emotionally charged. One moment, I'm saying goodbye to a patient I have known for many years, and in the next moment, I am meeting a new patient that I hope to know for many years. And every place in between, I am filling the gaps and holes that providing care to all of these patients creates--always in support of my doctors.

We do all of these things together, and everything I do is in support of them. I am not a doctor. I thought I wanted to be for about half a day around twelve years ago, but I looked at the list of classes I didn't want to take and decided that it was definitely not for me. It doesn't matter how many people tell me that I could do it, I choose not to. I prefer to be part of the mortar that holds everything together, because it affords me the opportunity to help communicate and put into action how much the doctors I work with really care.

In my field, doctors are always considered leaders, even if I worked with them while they were still in school, learning their practice--even if I was there the first time they saw a patient with a broken toenail and didn't know what to do. In my field, I help bring new doctors up right, and I do my best to step away into the background when they find their own way. I usually come to love them, like they are "my own." The lines of leadership and friendship blur.

I'm guessing it works much the same way in human medicine and in fields where people rely on each other for the kind of support that can save or change a life. I don't want to diminish the relationships coworkers form in other kinds of work, but I just don't think it's the same.

In "The Help," Skeeter comes home from college to find that the African American maid in her household has been let go because her visiting daughter is impetuous enough to ignore decorum and walks in through the front door of the house, instead of the back. Skeeter and Constantine's shared bond was so strong, that Constantine presumably dies from a broken heart over the loss.

Skeeter unwittingly becomes the champion of all of the African American maids in her Southern community when she decides to tell their stories and shine a light on the inequities of the culture. She breaks the mold. She befriends these ladies, even though she knows doing so will only garner her ostracization within her social circle and community.

What makes Skeeter a hero is the recognition of the power of the relationships these women build, and the critical role they often play in the lives of the children they help to raise. She recognizes their humanity in a culture that lives under the doily covered table of inhumanity. Through the course of watching these women suffer through their lives being turned upside down by Skeeter's book about them, the true revelation is the value of these lives, and the value they impart to the lives they touch. It's clear that those tightly woven bonds serve a purpose--they are integral to creating trust, independence, and a sense of shared destiny.

Sometimes, as I am supporting my doctors, and even my coworkers, it occurs to me that we are all going through the same horrible and wonderful things together. We are all impacted--sometimes in different ways, and sometimes at different times. Yesterday, for example, was my first day back at work after ten days away. I was horribly inefficient and by mid-day, my back hurt so bad I just wanted us all to get through. My doctor's back was horrible too. We had to say goodbye to a patient way too soon--a crushing blow to my doctor, who was heartbroken. At the time, I couldn't think about it. I was busy filling any holes I could. This morning, as I met a new patient with the same name as the one we lost yesterday, the loss hit me like a freight train.

I was really glad my friend--my doctor--was there today.

"With a Little Help From My Friends" The Beatles

November 1, 2011--"If you don't expect too much from me, you might not be let down."

So, I think maybe I understand where disappointment originates. I don't mean anger, I mean disappointment.

Each of us has a standard norm that is built into our psyche by the way we were raised and the events that shape our lives. Expectations are a part of that.

Some examples: when I was growing up, it was the expectation that I would eat foods I didn't like, brush my teeth twice a day and clean my room. But things happening around me also shaped what I think people should be able to expect from me. I've often talked about my rough growing up years and how terrible my stepfather was, but I credit him for establishing many of those aforementioned expectations as well as a few he never explicitly told me about.

He was the the kind of person who never did anything halfway. If he worked on something for you, he was going to do a really good job on it, or keep doing it over until he got it right. He adored his parents above anyone else in his life and always wanted to please them. I remember that they had an old chest that had belonged to I think his great-grandfather and it was in horrible condition. My step-dad decided to turn this beat up hunk of junk into something my step-grandparents would be proud of. He spent weeks repainting it, down to the very intricate and delicate ivy pattern that covered the top. Soon after, he refurbished a chair for them with similar dedication and at a ridiculous cost in relation to our family's income.

He didn't really know anything about doing these kinds of things, but because they belonged to people he cared so deeply about, he was willing to stretch himself to learn and to spend almost all of his free time working on them, and whatever extra money he had. He did a lot of other things for his parents that were much less elaborate, but it was from acts like these that I learned when you really care about somebody, you go out of your way for them, even to the point of putting yourself out.

Sometimes, I think that feeling spills over, to perhaps a slightly lesser degree, for me in other relationships. Of course I would painstakingly seek out the perfect something for Jeph or for one of our family members, but sometimes, I would do the same thing for someone who I am not as close to. I have often gone overboard for someone else.

I think expecting this behavior as a norm for myself often translates to a disappointment in others. I'm sure we all have things we expect from ourselves that make us feel very confused or disappointed when other people don't share them with us.

We just came back from a trip we had been planning for months--three days early--all because our expectations did not align with those of someone we relied upon to care for the little creatures we care most about. We know the quirks of those little creatures better than anyone, and never sugar coat how annoying some of the things they do are, mostly because we want to set the real expectation that one of them has to get up very early in the morning to go out, sometimes multiple times, and neither one climbs or goes down stairs anymore. All the "things" were getting done, but the person we trusted not to make us worry about them so we could shut down for a week unleashed a multi-paragraph e-mail listing all the things they do that were giving her difficulty. We had expected more. We were horribly disappointed.

On the other hand, one of the great pleasures of our trip was to return to a restaurant I had eaten at in Salem, and enjoyed so much. I take as many opportunities as I can to let them know how much I enjoy their food and their service. We got to meet the general manager Friday night and had a lovely dinner. I expected nothing more than just to tell her personally how great everything was. When we received our check, we were surprised to learn that she had paid for a round of our drinks for us. We hadn't expected that.

In Philadelphia, the woman giving us a free tour of the Edgar Allan Poe National Historic Site recited lengthy passages of Poe's works to us as she took us throughout the house. The interesting thing about that is the fact that she only works at the site two days a week. I wouldn't have expected a park ranger who only spends two days out of her week there to be so enthusiastic. She even recommended an easier adaptation of "Eureka," a prose poem that is hundreds of pages long and extremely difficult to read. She advised me that it had made the work much less cumbersome for her to get through. I hadn't expected anyone to care about that work besides me, let alone a park ranger who only spends two days a week caring about Poe as much as I do.

We had expected the awkward conversation with our dog sitter when we got home. It went exactly the way I expected it would. I hadn't expected a wonderful package from a friend that gave me something to smile about besides the faces of our hounds. 

So, I guess, in the end, expectations are a give and take. Sometimes we have to understand that our own expectations are frequently unrelated to, and completely unaligned with the expectations of others. It turns out our dog sitter had no idea anything she said to us in that e-mail had come across as negatively as it did. She hadn't expected that her words would make us give up three days of our trip. And you know, maybe we shouldn't have. But at the end of the day, you love your "kids" more than anyone else ever will, and even when they are royal pains, you don't want to hear that from someone else. It was nice to wake up with a dachshund practically Velcroed to my back, and another one pacing around the room because he wanted on the bed too.

All of this reminded me of the Gin Blossoms tune "Hey Jealousy," and one of the best and most applicable lyrics ever written: If you don't expect too much from me, you might not be let down.

I don't want to stop expecting good things from other people, but maybe setting the bar a little lower wouldn't be so bad.

Hey Jealousy--Gin Blossoms 

October 18, 2011--Something in the Way He Was--Reflecting on the "quiet" Beatle

So, I think it's easy to write about John and Paul, because they were such obvious front men. They were the song writing duo of a generation. They were the voices of the Beatles.

The year John Lennon died, I was about nine years old. My mom and I had talked about the Beatles many times over the years. She was an avid music fan just like me, but felt like she really wasn't old enough to be part of Beatle Mania. Sadly, she gravitated more toward the American Pre-fab four that was created for television--The Monkees. The times we talked about the Beatles, she always said that of the four, George Harrison was her favorite. I think she picked him just to be different, not necessarily because she really understood the merits of such a choice.

I think many people my age remember George Harrison's "Got My Mind Set On You," from the album "Cloud Nine." I owned that album on cassette. My favorite track off that record was "Someplace Else." It was a great album, but not the quintessential George Harrison album.

A great music loving friend of mine, Kat Hodes, reintroduced George Harrison to me about a year and a half ago. We spend a good portion of our days working together talking about our musical passions, and she urged me to listen to "All Things Must Pass," and I trust her taste so much that without hesitation, I pretty much immediately walked down the sidewalk to Best Buy and picked it up.

It's an album that splits open your heart and fills it at the same time. Those are always my favorite. George Harrison had the ability to pour himself, like a fine whiskey, into your soul and give you heartbreaking joy.

Over the last few days, I have been watching Martin Scorsese's "George Harrison: Living in the Material World," and again have been realizing what a great gift Harrison was.

He may have been the "quiet" Beatle, but in the early days of their first recording, he is described as being the first to voice opinions about the direction they were going. Paul McCartney credits Harrison for showing John Lennon that a guitar should have six strings--not just four. And he created one of the finest riffs ever for the song "And I Love Her." (If you're a Beatles fan, you know the one.)

Eric Clapton is arguably one of the greatest guitar players of all time. He was friends with George Harrison. He talks about Harrison strolling the grounds of Friar Park playing his guitar, and of Harrison writing "Hear Comes the Sun" in a matter of moments. There was an innate greatness in him that, perhaps, required a quiet nature. His low key persona never out shined his music.

As the years wore on, and the happy days of the Beatles were drawing to a close, George Harrison had been preparing. Through the years, he was lucky if maybe one or two of his own songs ended up on a Beatles album. John Lennon recognized Harrison's gift when he advocated that "Something" be a single, instead of a B-side like most of the other George songs that were released. Lennon's advocacy was dead on. Several years ago, I had the opportunity to work with a young man with some learning disabilities. He may not have known all of the words to "Something," but there was literally something about the melody and chorus that moved him. It resonated with someone for whom memorizing a list of simple tasks was difficult. He frequently hummed or sang the chorus as he worked.

The trials, tribulations, drug use, and misadventures with the media associated with the Beatles are pretty well documented. These were four young guys who did what most of us can never imagine: they got very famous and very rich--practically overnight--only to discover that this wasn't the destination they were trying to get to. Harrison may have come to that conclusion sooner than his band mates.

In Scorsese's documentary, Harrison talks about walking through a park where a large number of young people had gathered and the atmosphere of "free love" and drugs was all around. People were offering him a plethora of drugs. It occurred to him in that moment that the whole situation was completely messed up. It occurred to him that there had to be something more--a place that one could get to where you could achieve the feeling without the chemistry.

I'm not a religious person. In the words of Bono, "I still haven't found what I'm looking for." George Harrison started searching. I may not embrace what he found, but I respect the idea that he felt like he found it. I always respect anyone who finds a sense of faith and spirituality and is able to make it the foundation of their existence. George Harrison did that.

As he discovered what was true about himself and what he most wanted to be connected to, I think it was easier to look at what was going on around him and say 'hey, you know, I don't think this is for me.' Sadly, finding his own truth was part of the unraveling of the Beatles. He was the "quiet" Beatle, but I want to think that his truth was so bright, it shone a light on the dark truths that existed within the group.

For years, George Harrison had quietly done what he was asked to, even when he was hearing a different song. For years, he had quietly taken a back seat to John and Paul. He had literally been the B-side. At a point, even when you have believed in something that is fundamentally great, sometimes you have to believe in yourself more. You have to find and know yourself.

"All Things Must Pass" was George Harrison's invitation to the world to do just that.

"While My Guitar Gently Weeps"--The Beatles (written by George Harrison)

October 7, 2011--Stop using sex as a weapon: Women are the mothers of peace

So, a couple of weeks ago I was on my way home from work after what I thought was a crazy, rough day. I'd finished my shift in the evening, and was lucky enough to catch part of Public Radio International's "The World." They often bring to light stories that most of us never hear about, and many of us would never want to hear.

Unfortunately, we live in a world where violence against women runs so rampant that it sometimes seems like it gets mentioned in passing. I know I have written about violence against women and sexual abuse on several occasions, as well as sexual inequality. On a day-to-day basis, there's plenty that happens in my world that reminds me that men and women are not treated equally, and they probably never will be. I don't like it. I know most women feel the same way. But the one thing most of us who find frustration with inequality between men and women in the United States don't always realize is that we are so fortunate. By chance of birth, most of us live in a country where even though things often are not equal, many horrible and violent acts perpetrated against women are viewed as just that--horrible and violent.

"The World's" Lisa Mullins was interviewing a journalist from the Congo about the horrible sexual violence against women directly related to the ongoing conflict in the region. Congolese journalist Chouchou Namegabe spoke to Mullins about the frequency with which rape is used as a means of terrorizing villages. Women are often killed in front of their children. In the most horrific instance that Nabegabe described, a woman and her five children were kidnapped. Everyday, her captors raped her; and everyday they killed one of her children and forced her to eat the flesh.

I was pulling into my driveway when I heard this story being recounted, and it stopped me cold. I work with animals every single day, yet, I could never identify any animal I work with being more base and horrible than these so called "humans." I can't even make sense of such a violent and horrific crime being perpetrated against another human, no matter the perceived "reward."

A woman in Saudi Arabia recently decided to stand up--or sit down as it were, behind the wheel. By law, Saudi women are not allowed to drive cars. They aren't even allowed to ride bicycles. Women are required to have a male guardian with them everywhere they go. One Saudi woman has openly defied the law against driving, and faces a punishment of ten lashes for her "crime."

Can you imagine living someplace where women can't get in a car and drive to the supermarket to buy a gallon of milk? Last fall, I flew to New England and drove all over the place on my own--no husband; no guardian. I appreciated doing it, but not because I knew or cared that there were women elsewhere who don't have that same right.

As recently as two years ago, twelve women were burned on an hourly basis by their husbands. This crime is often perpetrated, either because it is felt that the dowry offered by the woman's family is inadequate, or the man simply wants to be free to remarry. The practice is illegal and if convicted, the crime can result in a life sentence, but only about thirty percent of these burnings are ever reported. Many such burnings are passed off as "accidents."

Domestic violence isn't as uncommon in the West as I wish it was, but my guess is that most of us don't live in fear of our husbands setting us on fire to end a marriage.

In many areas of the world, women are essentially property. If they are "damaged," they bring shame to their families and are turned away to fend for themselves. In Africa, young girls are often forced into marriage and become pregnant far earlier in life than they should. They receive poor nutrition and medical care, and they often have difficult childbirths. Some of these attempts at delivery result in a fistula that prevents the women from being able to control urination--they leak and are humiliated by the problem. Oprah brought this issue to light years ago, and fortunately there is an organization helping these women, but the origin of the problem remains. Girls are not valued. The sooner they are out of the house, the sooner the family is not burdened with caring for them. Imagine being a young woman who has had a horrible delivery, resulting in a horrible medical complication and being turned out into the streets because you are "damaged goods."

In countries such as China and India, female infanticide and abandonment were widely accepted for centuries. It may happen less often now, but the fact that a specific gender has been identified as less worthy of life is unfathomable to me.

In light of all of these horrible stories, it can be difficult to hold out hope for our patriarchal society. With men "in charge" how is it even possible to conceive of a time when women will achieve equality? At every turn there are men all over the world doing everything possible to reinforce how worthless and disposable we are. Violence against us is acceptable and promoted. We are no more than livestock.

There was a time that it wasn't so. There was a time when women had power and their value was never in question. Sadly, we live in a world where this is no longer so.

But, today, a ray of light. Three women were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Tawakkol Karman, Leymah Gbowee and Ellen Johnson Sirlea were awarded the prize today because of their efforts to promote peace, democracy and women's rights in their respective nations.

In their press release regarding the selection of these three women, the Nobel Committee stated the following: "It is the Norwegian Nobel Committee’s hope that the prize to Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Leymah Gbowee and Tawakkul Karman will help to bring an end to the suppression of women that still occurs in many countries, and to realise the great potential for democracy and peace that women can represent."

When I heard about the selection of these women on National Public Radio this morning, and the reason behind their selection by the Nobel Committee, I saw hope in a world where the deck seems to be hopelessly be stacked against us.

Women are the mothers of our species. We are the mothers of the future. We cannot wait to be given the power to achieve peace and equality, we must give "birth" to it ourselves.

"Love and Peace"--U2

September 25--"I was enchanted to meet you:" Confessions of a Closet Taylor Swift Fan

So, we all have secrets--things we don't want everyone to know about us. I don't know anyone who doesn't have at least one guilty pleasure. Aside from food and shopping, I guess most of my guilty pleasures involve music.

For the most part, my favorite music taste falls into the "alternative" category--whatever the word alternative means. You won't get into my car and hear Britney Spears blaring. Kings of Leon (even though considered alternative by some) won't be "using somebody" on my iPod. That said, there are a few things that worm their way under my musical skin. I'm often ashamed to admit these intruders have found a place in my music collection.

It all started a few years back with a New Year's Eve special featuring Maroon 5. "This Love" was being played on the radio at a rate of frequency that produced infectious annoyance. But there was something different that clicked with me when I saw them play it live. And yes, the fact that lead singer Adam Levine is freaking geeky hot doesn't hurt. I picked up the album "Songs About Jane," and was obsessed with it for months on end. I still think it's one of the best pop/rock albums ever.

I think my soul swore that I wouldn't let anything else in, but my ears are weak. Most recently, Lady Gaga and Katy Perry chewed their way onto my iPod like vermin. I'm scared Ke$ha might end up there too. Oh, the shame of pop music! I blame my parents.

Growing up, my mom and stepdad were music junkies. Their music collection ranged from Kiss, to Neil Diamond. One of my good friends loves "classic rock." When I grew up, "classic rock" was pop music. It was what everyone was listening to because what's "classic" now is what was new then. And I think there's something to be said for that.

At some point, everything in music is alternative. Rock n' roll started as an underground movement. Parents wanted to keep their kids from listening to "that trash." Country music started out as something way more risque' and inappropriate before radio arrived on the scene (Can you even think about a time without radio?!).

As an "alternative" music lover, probably one of the most shameful confessions I have to make is that I have been infected with Taylor Swift. I blame, in part, my current profession, and the fact that I grew up during a period where pop music had a love affair with country music and for a while, it was pretty difficult to tell the difference. From Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers singing Barry Gibb's "Islands in the Stream," to Eddie Rabbit's "I Love a Rainy Night," it was hard to know whether I was liking country music or pop. It was a very confusing time. When I found myself in the veterinary profession, it was almost inevitable that I would be locked in a room or car with someone who exclusively listened to country music--again during a period when country was crossing the line. But I think this time around, country artists were seeking out the affair.

From Shania Twain and Faith Hill, to Keith Urban, country and pop seemed destined to rekindle their romance. I liked what I was hearing in spite of myself, and even found myself listening a little deeper. It's hard for me to admit that some of the country I like most is also the most hard core. Montgomery Gentry's "Daddy Won't Sell the Farm" is worthy of being blasted, and the smokey and seductive heart-wrenching twang of Gary Allan easily makes me weak in the knees.

It seemed for a while, however, that some distance had come between country music and me. But, with a hair flip and the goofy grin of then eighteen-year-old Taylor Swift, it all came back. I didn't want to like her. She wasn't "worthy" of my musical snobbery. So, I tried to ignore her.

I think it's important at this point to remind the reader that I started off talking about secrets and guilty pleasures. Among the ones I listed for myself was food. I know that it is important to eat a balanced diet and that I shouldn't overindulge. I know I should drink water instead of Dr. Pepper. I know that a poached egg or a protein shake would be a better breakfast than a cherry Pop Tart. But here's the deal, sometimes, you just want a cherry Pop Tart, even if it isn't good for you. There's something about the frosting meshing with the cherry filling when it's warmed that creates a perfect balance of tart and sweet. It's so bad, it's good. There's almost no nutritional value.


"Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone
I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run
You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess
It's a love story, baby just say yes."
"Love Story" --Taylor Swift

Those were the words. Those infectious cherry pop tart words. For one, I couldn't get away from them, for two, why wouldn't they make you smile? It found its way onto my iPod. Drat! But I didn't tell anyone, so nobody had to know.

Around the time Swift released her most recent album "Speak Now," she appeared on a television special to promote its release and the upcoming tour to support it. I DVRd it and watched it alone. A few years older, her lyrics had matured as well.

"Oh, holding my breath
Won't see you again
Something keeps me holding onto nothing"
"Haunted" --Taylor Swift

"Speak Now" has a very different vibe than "Fearless," but oddly, maybe it's more fearless than "Fearless." It's an album that explores the darker emotions associated with love--mostly lost love.

I found myself downloading the album based on the special alone. Again, I told no one.

A couple months ago, I secretly DVRd a special about her "Fearless" tour, and I found myself kind of wishing I had gotten to see her. I kind of hoped I might find a chance to see her this time around, but I really didn't want to admit that I wanted to go. Luckily, a few of my coworkers wanted to go too and I could slip going under the radar. I joked with everyone that I would go, but would tell no one, and that if I ended up with a t-shirt, it would never be paired with anything but pajama pants.

As it started to circulate that a few of us were going, my fellow music snob at work confessed that she, too, couldn't hate Taylor Swift--against her better judgment. She listened to her talking about what she does and found her "endearing." And that's the problem, for those of us who have crossed over to the "bright side," she's oddly endearing.

Some days the job I do is fairly easy. I get to help puppies and kittens (and their older counterparts) all day. And then, there are the hard days--the days that I see things I can't reconcile or make sense of. Some days, the world is a pretty tough place. Human beings are capable of inhumane cruelty to each other, and I hear about things I can't even believe to be possible.

Last night, in nearly nosebleed seats, I spent two hours with a few of my friends watching a silly twenty-one-year-old flip her hair and stare at the audience with wild-eyed expressions that bordered on absurd theatrics. But, there was a woman in the row in front of us with her daughter and one of my best friends looked at me and said "That's going to be me in about seven years." My response, "Maybe it will be me too." I felt myself choke up just a little bit and feel a little teary-eyed in the moment.

If I am fortunate enough to be that woman in about seven years, I'm sure I will want my daughter to eat her vegetables and listen to U2. I'm sure I will still be protesting that she will not be going to see Ke$ha with her "aunt Meg." But, maybe we'll be taking her and Maci to see Taylor Swift together. And that would be all right by me.

In a world that often seems to have gone crazy, and sometimes only wants to take you down with it, what can be so bad about an adorable twenty-one-year-old that writes her own silly love songs while playing her own guitar, piano or banjo? It may be cherry Pop Tart music, but you know, sometimes,  you just need a cherry Pop Tart.

"Enchanted" Taylor Swift

September 10, 2011--We will never have another September 10.

So, it was a phenomenally beautiful day. It was so beautiful, it nearly sparkled. It seems like that's one of the things we all seem to remember the most.

I was getting ready to leave for work--as usual, running late, and only caught a snippet about the planes from National Public Radio. It wasn't possible for me to begin to process the information--there wasn't time.

Within a couple of hours after my arrival at work, leaders from my company were calling and telling us we were welcome to go home if we wanted to. We didn't. I remember a co-worker of mine saying that nothing would change here--by here, she meant Kansas City. Before long, I think we all realized that nothing would ever be the same.

People trickled in and out of our hospital that day. But mostly it seemed like people were just someplace else. By the time I got to leave that evening, I still hadn't seen any of the images of the planes crashing into the towers, the Pentagon or in that open field in Pennsylvania.

I'll never forget the news shows endlessly replaying the video of the planes hitting and the towers falling. It was almost as if they couldn't make the event real, no matter how many times we all saw it unfold--time after time. It was a macabre and horrible instant replay. For hours, they showed footage of people taking to the streets of New York, walking away from where the towers used to be. Paper, dust, debris and smoke flew around like the tiny plastic pieces floating around in a snow globe. The surreality of everything made the event seem impossible. It was the worst disaster movie brought horrifically to life.

As people began to realize their loved ones were unaccounted for, the night brought images of the fliers and photos--the fliers and photos posted and held by family and friends desperately seeking their missing--their dead.

I remember that we huddled on the sofa, watching. It seems to me that we actually were watching MTV that night because they had people in the streets talking to New Yorkers about what had happened and where they had been. It was the first time in years MTV was relevant to me. Sadly, it hasn't been so since.

As I reflect on that night, it seems like I can't remember a time when so many people gathered--came together--outside of events like Live Aid or the George Harrison concert for Bangladesh. I'm not a patriotic person by any means, but in those moments, I was an American, just like everyone else. My heart bled for those lost, and those left behind.

In the months and years that have followed, many things have changed. For the last ten years, we have been in a constant state of war. At every turn, new threats create new security efforts that baffle many of us, and seem ludicrous at times. I'm in that group of folks who is willing to sacrifice a lot to be safe and stay alive. Take my shampoo--please! I've lost a Leatherman that Jeph gave me for my birthday that I forgot was in my purse, and mailed my bandage scissors to myself for the same mistake at another point. I've been the arrogant American waiting in the customs line in the Dublin airport as two men of Arab descent were being screened more thoroughly than the rest of us--and horrible person that it makes me--I was glad. I've been the seeking American, trying to understand where all that hate comes from, and what we should have done, and still need to do, to build bridges instead of fueling more hijacked airplanes.

On the one hand, in the days following the attacks, the terrorists lost their battle--we pulled together instead of tearing each other apart. On the other, our economy is still crumbling around us, not unlike those two towers; our leadership is divided and at war with each other; and we as a nation could not be less unified. Ten years of war have added to the death toll of that day--on both sides. And as we prepare for bed tonight, a terrorist threat looms over us again--taking us back to those horrible moments of vulnerability and uncertainty.

For many who had loved ones in the towers, at the Pentagon and in Pennsylvania, time stopped. National Public Radio has an amazing project called Story Corp, and they have worked in conjunction with the National September 11 Memorial and Museum to help loved ones document their stories. This week, I listened to a father talk about his two sons--one a fireman, one a policeman. He had spoken to both of his boys within a day of the attacks, and he had been fortunate enough to do what so many of us never get the chance to do--he had told them he loved them--not knowing how significant those words would be. No unfinished business. I also listened to a boy talking about his grandfather who died in the attacks. He said that his grandpa was the only grandpa he wanted to see and broke down. The tears of that young boy stopped me cold, and I nearly had to pull over.

I think of a friend who was in the Pentagon and injured in the attack. I can't imagine what emotions are hitting her tonight, and what she has gone through every year. I know there isn't a day that passes for her that this event isn't with her.

For many of these people, every day is September 11, 2001. A piece of their lives is gone that they can never get back. Nearly three thousand people were just lost--as if misplaced like an earring or cuff-link. You see the match everyday and it constantly reminds you that the pair--the set--will never be complete again. But it feels like it should be, and no matter how much you try to remind yourself, it just doesn't make sense. Your heart is forever searching.

As much as things changed for a moment in time, everything actually did stay the same. With the exception of those trapped on September 11 forever, the rest of us went on with our lives. We changed jobs, had children, started new diets, bought new wardrobes, or let the last ten years pass like an absent minded blur. We're back to our selfishness. We're back to looking at the rest of the world around us and when people need help, we're back to saying "that's not my problem, take care of yourself." We're back to calling people who disagree with our political views names and defiantly struggling to do anything but work together to find common ground.

In spite of what is the same, and even what's different, as we see and hear the specials commemorating the anniversary of the attacks, that same pain and horror will flash through our minds once more. Every one of us will think about that day--where we were, how we learned of the attacks and the extent of the horror, and how we vowed to stand together against terror. Every one of us will probably feel that lump rise in our throats when we hear the individual stories of last conversations, or of parents watching as the plane their son was on crashed into Tower Two in real time on television.

And the one thing that could bring us together again is remembering another day--a day we will never have again. We will forever be the post 9/11 America. There will never be another September 10 for any of us.

I hope you will click the link. Live didn't write "Overcome" about September 11, but it became an anthem for the moment. The only video I have ever seen for this track includes footage from New York in the hours we were most together. As the last ten minutes of this post 9/11 September 10 pass, I know I will be thinking about those hours on my sofa, those people in the streets who would receive word their loved ones were gone, and those survivors who ask "why did I get another chance?" For some questions, there are no answers.

"I beg you...to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer..." Rainer Maria Rilke

http://youtu.be/jpCa7Ay596M

August 30, 2011--I want to hear your story, I really do, but...

So, today my company sent out a mass e-mail asking each of us to complete a twelve-question survey that basically boils down our level of job satisfaction. It's one of those "on a scale of one to five, with five being that you strongly agree" kind of deals.

It's true, the last year has been way less than "five" for me. As the day of this e-mail was approaching, I debated what I would do or say. There was great disappointment in the "turn out" for this survey last year, and so the build up has been pretty intense, including daily "coaching" e-mails to make sure each of us understands each of the twelve questions. I've actually had to endure training seminars on communication, and having it acknowledged that sometimes we just really need to be able to vent to our "Q10." (In case you're not aware of who your Q10 is, it's your best friend.)

It's a little bit like the "Twelve Days of Christmas" without the pleasure of singing the long drawn out "five golden rings."

I think I made my decision when I hit the delete button this afternoon. As I went on through the rest of my day, I still thought about it a little. Did I do the right thing? Should I have "engaged?"

Sometimes people ask us to tell our stories just to be polite. They don't want to seem uncaring or disconnected. Last night, I attended a dinner thanking a group of us from my company who assisted our veterinary hospital in Joplin, Missouri following the tornado. Very important people from our main office came along to meet and thank us. Among those attending was the owner of the hospital who received our help. He was asked to share with all of us what it was like to be involved in the crisis.

Everyone likes a good story, right?

Well, he proceeded to tell every detail of what happened, from the mundane and irrelevant to the pertinent--or at least what I felt was pertinent. As I sat there hearing his tale, I kept silently thinking "When is he going to talk about the hospital?" It took him a while to get there, but he did finally circle round to the part to which we could all relate and in which we were most interested.

I found myself feeling a little bad about the fact that I only half-listened to him talking about people and situations I didn't really know or relate to. After all, it was his story to tell, not mine.

Nobody else volunteered to say anything about their experiences. I'd intended, if asked, to remind everyone that the people and pets of Joplin still need help, and that we shouldn't lose sight of the enormity of the disaster just because it's now three months down the road. I think I didn't volunteer because part of me felt like just as I hadn't cared about all of the details of the veterinarian's story, it was likely that nobody would care about what I had to say either.

It's a horrible feeling when you have a story to tell and no one seems to want to hear it. As someone who wants someday to make it as a writer, nothing really matters more to me than being heard or being read. When people hear that you are writing a book or that you have written a book, they often say they can't wait to read it and they will be only too happy to give you feedback. They're often just being polite.

Sending out a mass e-mail to thousands of employees sounds like a nice thing to do too. After all, don't we all want to be heard? Don't we all dream of the opportunity to tell the people we work for what we really think? The problem I have is that assigning my feelings and thoughts a numerical value just doesn't work. They want to hear my "story," but only on their terms. I don't think the number two adequately conveys my opinion about anything. And, yes, I realize that perhaps it's a little arrogant of me to think that anyone should want me to wax philosophical about the disappointments I have about my career, but I also think it's arrogant to ask me how I feel without giving me a format in which I can adequately express it.

In the Druidic tradition, bards were well respected. Their charge was to guard and transmit the oral history of Druidic belief and tradition. As our technology becomes more and more advanced and aimed at less information in more portable formats, I think we are losing an important part of the soul of humanity. In the Druidic tradition, the bard would share stories and songs with a gathering of his people. A connection was needed in order to ensure that these stories and songs would live on in generations to come.

When I was approaching the final semester of my mass communications degree, whispers about "the internet" could be heard swirling around the newsroom of the paper I interned for over the summer. I didn't know what it was, but as people started to say that someday there would be no newspaper to hold, I, like Joan of Arc, declared my undying loyalty to the hard copy. To this day, I can't bring myself to read a newspaper online. I need to feel my news in my hands. As Kindles and Nooks are becoming all the rage, I know that they afford me the ability to carry a library with me anywhere I go. I love that portability, and the fact that if I decide to read something and it turns out to be really horrible, it won't be taking up space on my already over-crammed bookshelves. But when I reach for "The Complete Poems and Tales of Edgar Allan Poe," I want to feel the hard cover and binding as I flip through the pages to find "A Dream Within a Dream." Like the cord that attaches to my Kindle to charge it, I know that given the choice of reading the "Twilight" saga in its original form, or by push button, I still want to curl up and connect with the real books.

The fast pace of today's society allows us to stay constantly "connected" wherever we are. We can "connect" with our friends via social networking. We can text in order to stay "connected" to our loved ones as we travel.

We can download movies, concerts, music and books anywhere we go. We can fast forward through commercials, skip songs on the album we don't like and scroll through to the "good part" of the book. We can hear the "story" we want to hear, not necessarily the one the story teller told. When we do that, aren't we really making the story our own? Aren't we really saying, I know I asked to hear your story, but can you get to the part I wanted to hear and skip all the rest?

Thanks to technology, we have the potential and ability to really connect. But what is the price of all of this "connection?"

Can you wait a sec, I've got to update my status?"

http://youtu.be/uibMMmcr3rc

August 27, 2011--The bigger we are, the harder we may fall.

So, I ran into a great friend today. She's someone who has meant a great deal to me over the years and from whom I have learned so much.

It was a rushed reunion, but in catching up a little bit, it wasn't long before we were both expressing a similar concern about the direction that we all sometimes try to take in business, and in life. Today, we happened to mostly be talking about business.

I've talked about expansion and growth before. I know that the business-minded person would argue that if you aren't growing, you're dying, but sometimes I wonder how worthwhile it is to outgrow your britches. Many would argue that if you are growing, just buy bigger britches, but at a point, getting infinitely bigger leads to one result--being unable to lift yourself up without the rescue of someone else's crane, and removing the front door.

As a registered veterinary technician, I am required to earn a certain number of continuing education credits every year to maintain my licenses. I invariably attend a large conference to get as much bang for my buck as possible. Along with days filled with lectures on everything from dentistry to how to calculate cardiac output, there is a giant hall filled with nothing but people who hope I have the power of the purse in my practice, and that I will go back to my hospital and strong arm my veterinarian into purchasing either a lot of something, or something really big and expensive. The joke is always on them--I work for a large company and have nothing to do with any decisions about purchasing. The fun thing about this giant hall is that in the effort to get my attention and "influence" over my doctors, these folks are trying to give me leaflets, samples, pens, magnets and any number of different things--oh and bags, lots of bags.

The funny thing is, I remember the first years of attending this conference. To me, every pen, magnet, leaflet and squishy stress heart was absolutely necessary. By the end of each day, the strap marks (from all the bags) cut deeply into my shoulders, and I was in need of massage, chiropractic or osteopathic therapy from carrying all the crap around. In time,  I thought I'd solve the problem simply by getting the CD Rom version of the proceedings book instead of the hard copy, but soon realized I just had to take less stuff.

This many years later, I still see the amateurs struggling with multiple bags of stuff that they had to have. Somewhere in the middle are the really hardcore attendees who bring the rolling luggage in which to cart everything around. Over the years, I have developed a strategy. I get rid of as many paper products as possible before I even start. After assessing the "valuable" crap that I could potentially pick up, I have greatly narrowed the amount of paper I have to carry around.

Today, I take great pride in the fact that I was able to limit myself to pamphlets about only one product, and the rest of the stuff I ended up with was ultimately very cool. I have two new books, four T-shirts, a new ball cap, dog slippers and three stuffed cats (yes, I really did need three). I did not pick up one pen, magnet or squishy organ!

My left shoulder still hurts like a mother (and not the one who made you cookies after school) and I am sure I still have things I really don't need.

It's natural to want more, but what if when you get more, you are able to hold onto less? I was pressed for time this morning, so I started the day off without a tote bag, and I didn't have time to grab anything to take notes on or with. Luckily, my writing portfolio was in the car, and a pen was handy. My writing portfolio has no shoulder straps. At lunch time, I found myself in a line with a book in one hand, and my writing portfolio in the other. There was no third hand for me to pick up and fill my plate, let alone grab a drink. I managed, but it was pretty tough. When I'd been sitting through the spiel that earned me the book, I hadn't considered how I was going to carry it and manage other things without a bag--all I had cared about was getting that damn book.

I think we often neglect to look beyond the horizon when something seemingly wonderful is being dangled right in front of us. In business, what could possibly be the downside to being offered a way to have more buying power with less of our own capital and effort? In life, what could be the downside to being offered an adjustable rate mortgage that allows us to buy more house than we can afford to pay for right now?

When we look at our current global economic crisis, much of it is the direct result of someone wanting more--much more. In many cases, this "more" has been at the expense of someone else less able to recover from the sacrifices needed to get this "more."

In the American automobile industry, the major car companies got tunnel vision and poured all of their resources into producing the larger, gas guzzling SUVs that were flying off of car lots. (And to think that many of us are outraged by the broken promise that we would be in flying cars by now. ha-ha) It never occurred to them that anything could change, and they were so big, that like the Titanic, they couldn't steer away from the iceberg of unrest in the Middle East and rising gas prices. Who wants to drive a tank when they can't afford to fill the tank's tank? In the quest to get more, more, more money, right away, the industry was brought to its knees.

The American automotive industry lost touch with its market because it was only focused on the easy money. It almost literally lost sight of itself. The banking industry suffered a similar fate, though because of its ability to bring everything crashing down on everyone, it hasn't met with many of the consequences most of us wish it had.

The quest for more often leads us down a primrose path. The problem with primrose bushes--they have thorns, so I imagine the paths do as well. It's hard sometimes to weigh the pros and cons of opportunity. When having more and being bigger supersedes all other goals, we have to realize in that place of more and bigger, there will inevitably be more distance between ourselves and the people and things that helped us achieve those goals. Our intentions may have been great, but in giving up some of what we have built and held so dear, we can't hold onto the things we were hoping to share--there's not enough room in the bag, and we only have so many hands.

When we find ourselves suffering the aftershocks of the giant expansion crashing around us, we're left to remember, with nostalgia, how simple and manageable everything was before. We remember that we were building things together and sharing the load. Everyone carried a small portion, so everyone felt a sense of ownership in the endeavor.

A small portion...with larger, sometimes giant heart.

http://youtu.be/F0FBi5Rv1ho