Soul Shine

We like to control things.  Think about it: radio as an example.  My family labored on long driving vacations every summer.  Miles and miles of road beneath me and experiences forever en-grained in my memory.  Sounds a bit romantic now but fighting with my little sister in the cab of the Chevy truck squished between my mother and father was anything but glamorous.  We had a pick-up camper; the type of camper that slides into the back of a pick-up ---sounds quite simple but I mentioned that type of camper to a much younger friend of mine and the look on their face was as if I had mentioned a Disc-Man or a Boombox.

We had no control back then.  No control of the radio that is.  I was forced to listen to whatever the gods of the radio in whatever part of the United States chose for that day, that hour, that minute, that moment.  I sang ABBA's Dancing Queen with my father through the Painted Desert.  Glacier National Park's Going to the Sun Road, it was something Neil Diamond (I like to think it was Sweet Caroline but I was so panicked by looking over the ledge).  In Yellowstone, near Mammoth Springs, the radio blared Rhinestone Cowboy.

No choices provided me an internal playlist of songs that are diverse as the different landscapes we crossed.

The other day I tried an experiment:  I wasn't going to control the radio in my car.  I was going to leave it to the radio gods of fate.  There had to be something I needed to listen to; the radio station in a way was a conduit for my wallowing self-pity as of late.  God forbid, the first song was Michael Jackson's Thriller. This song was monumental in another way: big time trouble from my parents.  This new thing called music videos that killed the radio star became a fascination of mine.  My parents warned me over and over again that my sister, who is quite a bit younger, should NOT watch the Thriller video.  I couldn't help it.  My parents were gone.  I was in charge. She wouldn't hang out by herself in another room.  I didn't know when my next chance was to see the video and everyone at school had talked about how scary it was.  Temptation taken. Sister freaked out.  Grounded for what seemed like forever.

I was just about to take control of the radio and then it happened:  The Allman Brothers, Soulshine.  Here are just some of the lyrics:

[Chorus]

He used to say soulshine,

It's better than sunshine,

It's better than moonshine,

Damn sure better than rain.

Yeah now people don't mind,

We all get this way sometime,

Got to let your soul shine, shine till the break of day.

[Partial Lyrics]

A woman too, God knows, she can feel like this.

And when your world seems cold, you got to let your spirit take control.

My dad might say this whole thing---the experiment, the writing, the contemplation, and self-pity wallowing are all nonsense.  The world works in a bigger function than what one's emotions dictate on any given day. Some guy sitting in a radio station doesn't care if some chick in a Toyota Corolla is using her radio as a conduit to something greater.  

I'm not talking religion here.  I am not some hippie as my dad might say that is all flaked out on some who knows what. I just have to think that when an artist, as in this case, a musician, writes a song about a moment in their life, that can't be it.  That moment makes that Art because that moment happens again and again as each person who hears the song or reads the book or looks at the painting or cries at the end of the movie relates it to their own moments.  

I imagine Keith Richards and Mick Jagger perhaps understood a bit of this too.  You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need.

Four Letter Words

Hurt. Pain. Ache. These are the four letter words that have encircled my thoughts for the past few weeks.  It is almost the proverbial "circling the wagons". I want to feel safe in this shield of wagons; I need to know if I have to fight my way out or if I need to surrender and move on.  There is a difference, you know, between surrender and defeat.  Chief Joseph, after seeing all of his people---women, children, a few warriors that were left in that Montana cold field only miles from the Canadian border, surrendered not because of his hurt but the pain his people felt.  

That's the essence of hurt.  It isn't a solitary being. It's a ripple in a pond that leads to a river that rushes to another river and eventually there is a lake of hurt, a lake of pain where it sinks to the bottom. 

If it were Easter time instead of Christmas, there might be some sort of relief to know that the pain I feel is nothing compared to the pain of sacrifice. All the great leaders, movers and shakers, justice fighters, people savers, warriors KNOW that sacrifice is not a definition in some book; it is a scar beneath another scar that has weaken the tissue below it and is so vulnerable to infection.  

I am not that noble.  I am not that brave.  

I want to use other four letters words like......kill my pain.....take it away....damn it upon the person that hurt me....numb myself with distractions......burn it down with all my anger. 

Why is it when we are at our lowest or at our angriest we want those four letter words.  The streets are full of people using a dirtied display of those words at any given moment. The driver in front of you is too slow, out of nowhere a car pulls out in front of you, someone knocks into you spilling your coffee, you slip and fall, the wireless loses its connection, the boss asks you to do one more thing before you leave for the weekend.  At those moments we do not remember the vocabulary lessons of our school days; we do not remember the words our mothers washed with soap out of our mouths. We don't remember; we act. 

There are no rose colored glasses on this writer---in fact, I am blind without my prescription thick looking glasses that try to see a perspective other than what I feel.  My mother once told me to never count on emotions because they betray you; they are fleeting and changing. I know she is right.....I guess the older I get, I finally SEE that there are some truths that others have learned before me.  It still doesn't make it easy---there's a four letter word I don't often say. 

Here's another principle that my mother also shared with me: LOVE is often considered an emotion but since emotions cannot be relied on, it has to be more than that.  Love is Hope it is Hard it takes Time but it can Heal.  Don't let hurt Take your Joy. Release the wagons that encircle you and surrender to the Fact that we can choose Love.  Romantic poets had it all wrong. I want to let Lord Byron, Percy Shelley and the others know, that love is not fleeting nor beautiful nor something that is lost and regained.  Those are simple concepts of Love.  Love is a shield dented by hurt, tarnished by pain but worn day in and day out.  Sometimes we have the energy to polish it, take care of it.  The other times, well, it waits for us.  It is always there.  

Where are the Warriors?

I heard a story about a woman who worked at an event in which the Queen of England attended.  The worker opened the door for all of the dignitaries, royalty, famous writers, actors, etc., and lead them into the ballroom.  The Queen passed and did not acknowledge this worker.  To be expected, I might guess.  Then, a man came up and the woman showed him to a chair.  He looked her in the eyes and said something like Oh, so you think you can take my chair or are you afraid I am going to steal it?  I do not remember the exact words but he said so in a teasing, light-hear-ted way. They shared the small talk laugh and the worker soon went on to her other business.

This story has been "rattlin around" in my writing brain.  The Queen did not acknowledge her or in all probability even notice her.  Okay, so she is Queen and I get that.  The man who ended up being John Wayne, treated her as if she might be some relative racing him to the Thanksgiving table where one wants to sit next to the turkey or grandma's homemade mashed potatoes.

I like this story.  It says something about our American beginnings.  Our rebellious spirit.  Our warrior mentality.  In today's politically correct world, there have been some that marked John Wayne as a sexist or a racist based on his movies.  I wonder if those politically correct people realize that John Wayne doesn't exist in this world.  Literally, folks, he did in 1979.  Even us forty--somethings may not know who he was unless we were our family's first remote control and had to stand next to the television and crank the dial to the next channel searching for dad's favorite westerns.

Society today cannot understand the past's zeitgeist (spirit of the times).  We can only understand our own.  Yet, we judge what has happened in the past.  Our time is coming.  What will they say about this time, our actions, our societal judgments?

I wonder if they will ask who our warriors were?  Where are the people that are fighting injustices?  Are they too afraid of political fallout, being accused of some sort of ism, or not having the strength to battle ambiguity?

Is there enough of a warrior spirit to have a hunger strike for 25 days like Cesar Chavez which some say more than likely contributed to his death.  Enough spirit to know you are defeated but fight on anyway like Ellen Moves Camp, founder of the Oglala Sioux Civil Rights Organization when she called for action in removing a repressive tribal leader.  The warrior in her organized a public protest that lead to deeper actions such as 1970's Wounded Knee standoff.

John Wayne was just a man.  He wasn't a warrior like the Chavez or Moves Camp.  He played one in the movies.  Sometimes he was a good warrior and sometimes he was a bad warrior.  I never knew him but I sense he knew this.  He understood that he was playing a role.  That day when he walked in to the fancy event with royalty and other important people, he was a warrior---a simple man who remembered his original zip code which was based in humble beginnings.  He did not save a human from peril that night, he did not rescue a little child from danger, he did not even do anything heroic to be asked to attend the event, but he did warrior on.....he did that old trick that has been around since mankind remembers, that darn old Golden Rule.

Writers

Written after a week in Iowa City at the University of Iowa for a writer's workshop.

Writer’s Workshop

Dale sits across from me

in our Iowa City pow wow

deep in the wounds of the river.

He’s a mountain man Mark Twain

here for therapy

but, we all are.

The currents stop for him this week

his raft safely tethered.

Sherry’s next to me

trying to wean off her medication. 

If Sherry weren’t a writer,

she might be a trucker

with that kind of vocabulary.

Twelve souls scratch the wooden table

of our minds within this writing room. 

We search for words never put together before

and struggle.

But this isn’t Scrabble, 

this is the soul’s integrity

it reaches out beneath layers of skin 

toughened and hard-bitten till the first drop of ink hits the veins

of our loss, our memories, our hurt, our weaknesses.

I don’t want to know these people outside

of this room.

buy groceries with them

cash our checks or balance our debts.

I can’t sit with them in church 

can’t see their sins played out before me

can’t take their pain.

These mythical creatures---

These writers

Titans buried in the earth

Are best left suspended between the here

And the future now

And the place where memories script themselves on a long ride home.

German Girls

Big Mid-Western German Girls

My Scandinavian friends

don’t understand

us. 

Size 11 feet

no one under 175

weight spread out

broad shoulders.

No saunas for us---

we sweat without it,

winter cold

grandma, in just her housecoat,

grandpas big boots untied

putting out bird seed

in the feeder

for those that remain.

Wine made in basements for holidays,

but drink beer

unless medicine needed

whiskey in a small jelly glass.

Workers and drinkers,

Loud, hard laughs, face red

music playing

self taught musicians

crowded together in small houses

Saturday night,

Sunday morning coming soon.

Lutheran or Catholic

doesn’t matter,

raised the same

between brick and mortar----

prattled with discipline.

Big Mid-Western German Girls stand a foot taller in church

slump at dances,

work hard in fields,

in homes with husbands and babies

so next generations can have it better.    

Looking at those like myself in grandma’s photo box

black and white likeness shifting between my fingers

I imagine my kind’s past

and try to shape our future.   

Boxcar Willy

When I was younger more than anything I wanted to be Boxcar Willy.  I don’t remember how I was first exposed to who Willy was but I found him immediately appealing.  Boxcar Willy or Lecil Travis Martin was born alongside a railroad where he and his family lived.  He rose to stardom in the Country Music world when he took on the persona of a hobo living a life of freedom by riding the railroads throughout America.  He even had his own television show.  For me, he was appealing.  I imagined myself with bandanna wrapped belongings tied to a stick, venturing out into the world alone. 

                

He was a singer of stories---life experiences I had yet to encounter.  He was magical, he represented a world where rules didn't exist for everyone, a place where freedom was just a train whistle away.  I used to play in my backyard with the other neighbor kids and pretend to be famous.  Stephanie was always Blondie.  She only knew the “Call me” part of the famous song but she could do so with such conviction that we were always impressed.  One time she stole her mother’s satin jumpsuit and clogs which ended up being her best performance. 

                

Stacy was always Johnny Paycheck.  The only thing she really knew about him is from a record her dad kept in their panel-lined rec room next to his beer can collection.  She used to repeat, “Take this job and shove it” over and over again as we laughed.  Sometimes we chimed in loudly with the ‘shove it’ part feeling rebellious that we dared to say such things. 

               

I liked Boxcar Willy.  I might have shown Stephanie and Stacy my outfit that I wore when I played in my room alone, but they didn't know who he was, so I became Johnny Cash instead.  I held a stick like a guitar, have my back to audience and then I would turn around and say in my deepest voice, “Hello, my name is Johnny Cash.”

          

Boxcar Willy had the coolest name though.  He did whatever he wanted.  No parents said that this was wrong or this is right to Boxcar Willy.  When I was nine, I tried running away once in the spirit of Boxcar Willy.  I wasn't brave enough to go to the train tracks which were too many blocks away from what were my childhood parameters.  I decided that the park was a better option.  I took my mother’s train case filled with all of my white cotton underwear and tennis socks.  My freedom was short lived; no one came to find me, but the picnic tables in the park seemed lonely and without adventurous stories.  There was no journey scratched into its surface—no passing scenery---just the same as home. 

              

I have often wondered what happened to Boxcar Willy.  I imagine that in the reality we live in, his show was cancelled, record deals were eventually lost, and he had to move to Branson where most country music stars quietly exist with their families.  

Spying.....Yet

I am offended by how many of Europe's policy leaders are themselves offended at the mention of the United States spying on foreign leaders.   I am more offended that they found out.  Who didn't keep this information under wraps?  Yes, that dog gone Snowden again.  

Spying has been around.....well, I guess since humans started on this earth.  Perhaps, it was the first cave man looking at another cave's mans drawings of animals that inspired the drawing of humans.  On through history we have Mary Queen of Scots receiving poisoned garments from her cousin over in England; intercepted letters and correspondence helped Mary avoid that fate until her beheading.  Then, of course, we all know of the Nazi Germany and their spying escapades not to be outdone later by the Soviet Union. 

It amazes me that Germany is so upset by all of this spy business.  German Chancellor Angela Merkel has thrown in her rhetoric take on this through the use of sentences,"Obviously, words will not be sufficient", and "True change is necessary".


Really, Chancellor? Change is necessary? Hasn't change been the factor by which we have spied on you? Cell phones, computer hacking, GPS location systems.....is this the change you speak of? We didn't intercept your snail mail. We didn't tap the outlets in your office. We didn't put cameras in the light fixtures. Or, did we?

Chancellor, have you not heard of the Patriot Act?  Do you not know that we do this same thing within our own country? An argument that is repeated over and over again in the media lately is:  we are your allies.  I presume that in this country, our own citizens are considered allies as well.  The word ally in its most basic sense means cooperation.  Does cooperation negate the know your friends, keep your enemies closer?  Germany is not our enemy of course and it is a friend of ours in the common goal of freedom and democracy, yet, I graduated in 1989 and watched as the Berlin Wall crumbled....Take down that wall.  Yet, within the reach of my grandparent's generation, Germany has changed it appearances.  Yet, Paris has only been liberated since 1944.  Yet, Israel has only been a nation re-established since 1948.  Yet, Spain in 1978 adopted its democratic constitution. 

Winston Churchill remarked, "A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on". We know that there are good people and bad people. People use information for good and for evil. We, like all nations, have been caught with our pants down and it hasn't been a pretty sight. As for spying, yet another quote from Churchill, "The Americans will always do the right thing… after they’ve exhausted all the alternatives".

Never Satisfied

A week ago I was wearing sandals and this week, my winter coat.  I shouldn't be surprised considering I live in Minnesota and this always happens.

I often hear people say that they are looking forward to the cooler temperatures.  They are awaiting Friday night football, sweatshirts, and the turn of the leaves.  Like comfort food, the turn of the weather provides a potato and meat fullness.  We blanket ourselves in layers of clothing that conceal the imperfections and create a sense of security.

After the leaves have fallen and raked into piles and after the boys of Fall have scored their last touchdown, we tend to turn on this glorious season.  Windows that faced once colorful, leafy trees, now seemingly, reflect sticks stuck in brown earth. The sharp turn does not steer us in the wrong direction however because we look forward to a snowy pureness that might arrive any day.

We can make it through Thanksgiving with its abundance of aromas, food, and decorations.  The day after our own stuffing, we set up Christmas trees, send husbands outside to put up lights, reflect our children's homemade school ornaments that tell the story of their school years on the tree.  We exchange the orange, browns, and leafy designs that accompanied Indian corn, gourds and pumpkins.  Discarded, they are thrown into the trash or put away in plastic bins marked Fall Decorations until they are needed again in less than a year.  Red and green strip away the mayhem of Fall and now we are all prepared for Winter.  Are we actually?

Perhaps we are ready for Christmas and the holiday season?  Snow looks beautiful in December but we turn on it.  In January we are still a bit smitten and by February we need a break from it and by March, well, we are mad......it needs to go away.  Is it really the snows fault?  Shouldn't the fault be split between the lack of sunlight, the bitterness of the temperatures, or the lack of any holiday to look forward to?

If we are lucky, we get to have a Spring.  We get the smell of the muddy, watery aroma that permeates the air with hope.  Chilly air mixes with heated streams given out infrequently by the still timid sun.

Summer arrives and the sun dominates.  This overshadows any need for a holiday.  We forget the urgency to look forward because every day is like a school recess period.  The weekends are a field trip without supervision.  The possibility of fun seems endless.  It is the elementary school portion of weather.  It provides release until of course, we are ready to move on and have grown tired of the hot temperatures.

Sitting in the stands at a Friday night football game, during half-time runs to the concession stand for hot chocolate, someone in line mentions how nice the cooler weather feels. Another comments about the harvest and yet another remarks how beautiful the trees look on Fox Road. As the moon replaces the sun, there is a slight rustle of brittle corn and dry leaves.

Soul Stops

My friend lost her 20 year old son last spring. Her pain wears on her like a fevered headache that complicates the most basic of daily living.  There is no medicine that will cure this.

Every parent says that it is not right for a child to die before the parent.  As a society we seem to be okay with death when it happens after a long fought struggle or a life well lived.  We don't want to see people in pain and sometimes death is a release.  But, losing a child is a different matter.

We console ourselves with religion, spirituality, or hope that all the understandings we have about life and death somehow end up being true.  We find solace in words that are written in Hallmark cards. We find kinship in those who can identify with the hurt---they have their stories too.

Two days ago, there was yet another accident outside of our small town.  A young man, age 23, lost his life.  We are asked to pray and to keep the family in our thoughts.

I do not know how to describe what happens when news like this hits those not directly involved.  The whole community is in pain.  The ripple effects are endless.  Every mother and father runs through the scenario---what if this happened to me? Night time prayers become lengthier.  Young drivers are constantly reminded by adults the need for driving safely.  There is nothing anyone can do. Helplessness takes over.

It is almost like when my grandmother said that you have a cold in your back when I would sleep with my window open in the late fall when daytime temperatures were warm and night-time temperatures hovered just about freezing.  You need to close your window at night--the cold gets into your bones. A cold in your back doesn't stop you from doing your daily activities; it is almost like a pinched nerve.  But, it hurts. It is constant and deep and changes your focus on daily life.  You suffer through each day just hoping it is going to get better.  Just hoping you do not have another one.  Just hoping you never experience it again.

The loss of these young adult men is a type of Soul Stop.  It is like the soul had too much.  The soul jolts back but it is different.  The windows of life were left open too long and now the soul has a cold in it.  It hurts, its focus changes, and it is constant.  My soul stopped and re-started but it hurts and it is constant. But, I have no right to complain of my hurt because mine is minor compared to those directly involved.

Small communities can be both blessing and curse---ask any adult raising their children in a small town and ask any teenager trying to find a way to get out.  What I know for sure is that the small town I live in has had their soul stopped too many times.  We are all in need of a bit of therapy.  Perhaps that is being selfish?  As if other small towns and big cities do not go through the same thing.

My friend who lost her son last spring said something to me yesterday......   She told me that the sun still rises and sets. She cannot stop working, raising her other children, buying groceries, taking the dog for a walk, paying her bills, getting ready for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and so on.  Pain is like that.  It hides behind the sun in the morning and the the sunset at night.  It conceals itself in the clothes she wears, the car she drives, the work she does.

If someone had a broken arm in a cast, the hurt shows.  If someone is cut, the bleeding is covered with bandages.  The soul stopping?  It just downright hurts.

Can Crafty Ideas be a Dangerous Thing????

Due to my job, Twitter, Facebook, SnapChat, etc., are off limits but Pinterest?  Can crafty ideas be a dangerous thing?

I don't know if it is because I am in my forties now or the fact that I see these idyllic young mothers who stay home with their children and still manage to look put together and have time to be crafty, that I have decided that maybe I need to up my crafty game.

My children are teenagers and are not impressed with this whole "crafty mom" aspect.  In fact, my daughter reminded me that Pinterest is more than crafts.  I decided to investigate this phenomena---more than crafts.  What I discovered added to the time sucking that I had already given to Pinterest; now I have to care about how I can braid my hair and how to make a slutty-cut-out shirt from an old t-shirt?

Growing up, we didn't really craft at my house.  My mother was a Girl Scout leader and that seemed to fill our quota of crafting.  In fact, my mother didn't start quilting till after her children had left the house.  (Apparently, my mother knew how to sew before I was conceived and took a few years off!?)  My mother also worked outside the home.  I grew up never questioning the fact that I was going to work and be a mother.

I am not dissing (hip word choice?) the young mothers that stay home with their children; this is the hardest and yet most admired of jobs. I am not saying that if I stayed home with my children, I probably wouldn't shower each day and I would slop around in my sweats---well, I guess I am saying that.  I don't believe that I could get up each day, make myself into the representation I want society to see of me and still have time to create cute pallet signs, burlap monogrammed place-mats, and picture collages of my children.  I don't think I would have the energy to research Home Schooling options because the public schools have gone to hell--literally.

Am I weak because of this?  Perhaps, I will do the things I know I can do.  I will be the mother I am and pray my children do not need therapy as adults.  I will go to work everyday and continue the work ethic that my mother instilled in me.  I will pay my taxes. I will vote so the public schools receive funding and good teachers.  I will pray.  I will pray.  And, occasionally, when I need to suck up some time, go to Pinterest.