Jim Croce comes out of my speakers to share wisdom in lyrics and calm in melodies. He will soon be followed by Seals and Crofts, America, CSN&Y and many more as I digitially copy old albums. What is happening is not simply posterity, but re-positioning me on the solid ground of my growing years. I learned a lot about myself by listening to tunes in my youth--as you likely did, too--and I re-learn and am re-minded (as well as reminded) of who I am in the re-listening.
In "those" days, I would write or muse while listening, and today I write with the perspectives of time past and time remaining. No matter our age, we only have a measurable amount of time remaining, and it seems to be a good thing to spend that time with surety of who you are. The tree does not stand strongly with roots solidly in the ground wondering if it is actually crabgrass.
I am assured of that message while listening to the tunes of my formative years. Sometimes because the lyrics suggest the message, but more so because the lyrics remind me of my thoughts and passions from then...which are the same things as now, though clouded by life's circumstances at times. What I was, I am; what I am, I was. Yet, I change though I remain rooted. Lyrics remind me.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Call to Words
I've begun reading again and reading anew "Atop the Underwood" by Jack Kerouac. I've read it before and enjoyed it greatly. This time to read is providing new perspectives. The book Jack's writings between the ages of 13 and 21. Even early on he believed that he existed to write.
The book provides great insights into the writer-in-progress, a boy-becoming-man who einjoyed stories (writing or listening), words, curiosity (his own and that of others) and expression. I remember hearing from a friend that words are my exhale (that friend hung around...she's now my wife!), and I've always appreciated that insight. I fell in love with photography at the age of six and with words not long thereafter through stories and conversation with Mom and Dad. Writing hooked me in 8th grade (Thank you Mrs. Owens). In Jack's words, I am gently reminded of my past, and therefore a better view of my future.
Let's not forget two things: 1. young people can feel strong urges about their abilities and purposes and we can play a role in encouraging them, and 2. we shouldn't forget the things that moved us strongly as young adults and adults-in-the-making...there is a rich source of energy, direction and affirmation there.
The book provides great insights into the writer-in-progress, a boy-becoming-man who einjoyed stories (writing or listening), words, curiosity (his own and that of others) and expression. I remember hearing from a friend that words are my exhale (that friend hung around...she's now my wife!), and I've always appreciated that insight. I fell in love with photography at the age of six and with words not long thereafter through stories and conversation with Mom and Dad. Writing hooked me in 8th grade (Thank you Mrs. Owens). In Jack's words, I am gently reminded of my past, and therefore a better view of my future.
Let's not forget two things: 1. young people can feel strong urges about their abilities and purposes and we can play a role in encouraging them, and 2. we shouldn't forget the things that moved us strongly as young adults and adults-in-the-making...there is a rich source of energy, direction and affirmation there.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Words Matter
Sometimes, all we really have are the words we choose to share that are supposed to convey our thoughts, feeling, emotions, fears, joys, sorrows and wisdom to selected, and surprise, audiences. Those are a gift when shared.
Dion (my eldest son...I do not talk about myself in Bob Dole style), went without sleep as his wife worked without sleep in the labors of...labor....to bring to the world the life they created in their daughter Lillian. As we chatted--he exhausted and his eyelids at half mast at best--he agreed that his getting sleep after a long day at the hospital would serve him and his mom-wife quite well. He smiled a depleted smile and said, "I will probably need to write some first."
He is an excellent writer, with the courage to share his ideas and his thoughts AND his feelings. I may be a bit biased, but he shares his words with nuance, skill and pride. That he would know in his heart that writing about today's delivery mattered to him, his family and perhaps some audiences indicates his understanding that words matter. His do, yours do...words matter.
Dion (my eldest son...I do not talk about myself in Bob Dole style), went without sleep as his wife worked without sleep in the labors of...labor....to bring to the world the life they created in their daughter Lillian. As we chatted--he exhausted and his eyelids at half mast at best--he agreed that his getting sleep after a long day at the hospital would serve him and his mom-wife quite well. He smiled a depleted smile and said, "I will probably need to write some first."
He is an excellent writer, with the courage to share his ideas and his thoughts AND his feelings. I may be a bit biased, but he shares his words with nuance, skill and pride. That he would know in his heart that writing about today's delivery mattered to him, his family and perhaps some audiences indicates his understanding that words matter. His do, yours do...words matter.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Time Flies
Again, I wonder how it is that so many months have gone by between posts. So much has happened. So much has stayed the same. Nothing stays the same.
Ah, and so it is that I haven't written here, despite it being now more accessible from my new web site designed by my talented son. The reason...
...things have been like a bicycle wheel spinning madly while its bike is coursing downhill at breakneck speed. How to stop it in order to show off just one specific spoke from among the many? That is the challenge of this blog.
There, stands the challenge. I am without an answer, however, as to which of the spokes to show you or how to stop the wheel of living for long enough to share something at this time.
Ah, and so it is that I haven't written here, despite it being now more accessible from my new web site designed by my talented son. The reason...
...things have been like a bicycle wheel spinning madly while its bike is coursing downhill at breakneck speed. How to stop it in order to show off just one specific spoke from among the many? That is the challenge of this blog.
There, stands the challenge. I am without an answer, however, as to which of the spokes to show you or how to stop the wheel of living for long enough to share something at this time.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Hi, Dad!
The other night, I woke up in tears. I couldn't have been happier. I was so very sad.
It is not unusual for me to have a dream or two a year about my dad who has been gone for 28 years now. This dream was unusual.
One of the things that I miss are the distinct memories of dad's expressions, movements, mannerisms, and such. I feel like I have lost much detail in those areas. The dream addressed those losses in a magnificent way.
The details that I lacked were very clear in the dream, to the extent that in the dream I took notes so I could remember them better, knowing that the dream would end. When I touched his hair and noted that it was not as gray as when he was in the hospital dying, the dream ended and the notetaking began. I awoke and wrote three pages of notes--details about wrinkle lines, smiles, gait and much more. The dream was a gift; the notes are a treasure.
I've never fully understood dreams (who does?), and many of my art heroes (like Edward Weston) struggled with comprehending the messages in dreams. This one was no struggle and the message was clear: "No need to ever forget." That's a happy thought.
It is not unusual for me to have a dream or two a year about my dad who has been gone for 28 years now. This dream was unusual.
One of the things that I miss are the distinct memories of dad's expressions, movements, mannerisms, and such. I feel like I have lost much detail in those areas. The dream addressed those losses in a magnificent way.
The details that I lacked were very clear in the dream, to the extent that in the dream I took notes so I could remember them better, knowing that the dream would end. When I touched his hair and noted that it was not as gray as when he was in the hospital dying, the dream ended and the notetaking began. I awoke and wrote three pages of notes--details about wrinkle lines, smiles, gait and much more. The dream was a gift; the notes are a treasure.
I've never fully understood dreams (who does?), and many of my art heroes (like Edward Weston) struggled with comprehending the messages in dreams. This one was no struggle and the message was clear: "No need to ever forget." That's a happy thought.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
"You Don't Suffer Fools Well...."
I believe it is safe to say that every one of my bosses would agree with my first one in higher education when he said that I do not suffer fools well. While there are those who believe I should correct that problem, I look at it as more of my charge and calling. Particularly when fools impinge on the development and expression of the God-given talents of the people in my charge, or when their actions diminish the potential of causes larger than their own simply because of their narrow-mindedness and pettiness. There are fools, and there are fools. It is the latter that I have a hard time dealing with but quite easily hold in disdain.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Talent
I opened my fortune cookie tonight. It said something about a talent that is not shared is not really a talent. Kim opened her fortune cookie. It said the same thing. I don't believe in fortune cookies.
I do believe in talent, and the call, the mandate, the requirement that we share whatever God has given us as a gift or an ability.
While I consider the cookies and their messages, I listen to the works of Cash, Chapiin, Croce, Haggard, Jennings, Bare and more. I consider Weston, Whitman and others.
Sharing ain't easy. But it is not an option.
I do believe in talent, and the call, the mandate, the requirement that we share whatever God has given us as a gift or an ability.
While I consider the cookies and their messages, I listen to the works of Cash, Chapiin, Croce, Haggard, Jennings, Bare and more. I consider Weston, Whitman and others.
Sharing ain't easy. But it is not an option.
Ignore Your Self at your own peril
I sit here, Maker's Mark on the rocks on the desk, and Johnny Cash's "Hurt" playing, and I consider many things, not the least of which is my oldest son's finding his voice in his blog, my middle son's finding himself in his work and adventures, and my youngest finding himself (and his Self) at the doorway to manhood. I consider this collision of realities and inhibition busters and remember why it was that God gives me breath. It is not to be a paper pusher.
I've been listening to Johnny Cash, Tom Rush, Arlo Guthrie and Harry Chapin over the past hour as I scanned my book draft about being a father and a son. The strange brew, or stew, of the influences inspires me, or reminds me.
It reminds me; my sons remind me; the artists remind me; my frustrations remind me: Ignore Your Self at your own peril.
May I pour you a drink and we'll talk?
I shared stories with a group of people at a meeting today. The meeting was about work, and the stories about the boys, about lyrics and about parenting. Only then was I alive today.
Ignore Your Self at your own peril.
I've been listening to Johnny Cash, Tom Rush, Arlo Guthrie and Harry Chapin over the past hour as I scanned my book draft about being a father and a son. The strange brew, or stew, of the influences inspires me, or reminds me.
It reminds me; my sons remind me; the artists remind me; my frustrations remind me: Ignore Your Self at your own peril.
May I pour you a drink and we'll talk?
I shared stories with a group of people at a meeting today. The meeting was about work, and the stories about the boys, about lyrics and about parenting. Only then was I alive today.
Ignore Your Self at your own peril.
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