No Why-ning!

You want to ask the big W-H-Y? Check out "Flying On One Engine", Joshua Weinstein's unflinching documentary about the complex and heartbreaking life of a terminally ill surgeon who barely survives in the U.S., but drags his oxygen tank to in India each year to conduct mass-surgeries on children with facial deformities.

Why does this 8 time Nobel Prize nominee live in poverty? Why must these children live with such unbearable burdens? Why do soft drink executives sleep in 600 count sheets while a volunteer doctor shuffles around rats in his apartment....Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (birth defects) Why? Why? Why? (starving children) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (roof caves in) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (car breaks down) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (moms with cancer) Why? Why? Why? Why?(no job in sight) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? (dad goes away) Why? Why? Why? Why? (tornadoes) Why? Why? Why? (floods) Why? Why? Why? Why? (fire) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? (greedy bastards) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (the Holocaust) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (war in Darfur) Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (deer ticks) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? (war, war, and more war) Why? Why? (it didn't work out) Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? (me). And so on.

So far, gnawing on it just hasn't proven fruitful. Karma? God's plan? Sadistic randomness? Greater minds than mine have contemplated the why's and wherefore's of Life's curve balls. I don't get to know the reason "bad" things happen. Besides, as a friend in recovery says, "'Figure it out' is just not one of our slogans.'" I guess what's more relevant, is...what now? I pray I can have even a thimble full of the courage and willingness displayed by the surgeon, parents, and patients in this film.

(But, if you simply must (whine), make it count! You can get a free hour to do so at Rob Brezny's Unhappy Hour where you can milk the why-ne for all its worth, and perhaps break through into the What Next?...

blessings all

green beds

I admit it, I'm a little jealous. My sweetie has been playing around in other beds.

Now why would he want to do that? We practically broke our necks and pushed our collective 100 years to the limit getting a mammoth mattress into the tiny loft of his cabin. It's now draped in deliciously warm and cozy blankets, including a moss-green one we affectionately call Green Acres, and a hand-dyed quilt that is somehow both rugged and gorgeous. Plus, a couple of days a week it has me in it. What more could he want?

Dirt. The man loves dirt. More accurately, he is in love with his garden and, like many garden-lovin' folks, spends as much time as he can between april and november tending to his raised beds with the devotion of a lover--tenderly placing seedlings and seeds in the warm soil of spring, weeding and watering and harvesting throughout the summer season, and, with the first frost, preparing the beds for winter with the tenderness of a dad tucking in his child.

This past Saturday, he solemnly led me to witness the hills of dirt covered in straw, ready to rest.

"They look like burial mounds," I said. "There could be bodies in there." I eyed him suspiciously.

"Look at this compost," he said, tactfully ignoring me. "This is good stuff. Come spring we are ready to go!" His face shines with satisfaction. I shake my head. You can't help but love the guy.

There are two kinds of people, garden people and non-garden people. I am of the non-garden variety, completely happy to enjoy the fragrance and visual appeal that edible landscapes add to neighborhoods, country roads, and even rooftops, but lacking any aptitude for the awe-inspiring process that brings juicy tomatoes and hearty zucchini from the earth.

Living in Asheville, home of all things green and progressive and organic, I'm admittedly self-conscious about this dirty little secret. (This is a gnawing feeling not unlike my fear that the Greenlife checkout gal will publicly shame me over the intercom for forgetting my canvas shopping bags, "Paper bag at line 2. She doesn't have her own bags." "I do have my own bags," I insist. "I just forgot them today!" Checkout gal rolls her eyes.)

Though I don't have the gardening gene, I do appreciate the hard work that makes the garden grow. I am a good appreciator, and glad to put in some sweat equity along the way. We devoured our summer feasts with gusto: thick slices of Cherokee Purple tomatoes, pestos bursting with the tang of thai and sweet basil, savory chutneys, and crisp yard-long beans. (Mustering enthusiasm about the steam on the compost pile is a little more challenging--this skill is for advanced appreciators--but I have diligently saved my banana peels and coffee grounds to do my part in building up the soil.)

Each summer morning before work, David would wade across the dewy grass to putter among the rows of beans and squash and herbs. Each night he would rush home eager as a suitor to visit the patch of soil on the south side of the creek.

"Are you going to see her again?" I teased.

While there are plenty of urban gardeners, my sweetheart lives out in the hinterlands of Western North Carolina. So when we first started dating (at the beginning of the growing season) I was a little skeptical about our country mouse/city mouse differences.

"I get allergic smelling hay," I sang in my best Eva Gabor accent.

How was this going to work? Could our attraction survive my pull toward urban activity and his pastoral past-times?

Joking aside, we considered the topic one day, sitting in the car during a spring downpour. I quoted Drew Barrymore in Ever After: "If the bird and the fish fall in love, where would they live?" Luckily I did not have to admit the source of the quote.

He stared thoughtfully through the windshield for a while, then finally answered in a quiet voice.

"Well, I know that we both need to be in a place that fits," he said. "And I also know that there's such a thing as a flying fish."

Well, he sure put that one to bed! How could you not love a guy like that? Compost, garden girlfriend, and all.

Scary stuff

These days we're way past worrying about tainted Sweet Tarts slipped to unsuspecting little Harry Potters and Hermione Grangers on Halloween.

What's REALLY scary this year? Germs.

Parents are spinning from warnings about contaminated costume masks. Or potentially germy candy wrappers handed out by careless, sniffling neighbors. As darkness falls on Saturday evening, legions of children will descend on neighborhoods toting paper bags and hand sanitizer. Maybe some will take the issue head on and dress as H1N1. (Thank you Laura D. in Seattle!)

It still remains to be seen whether the virus is truly a widespread threat or another highly successful viral marketing campaign based on fear. Despite the flurry of recent panic, experts still note that even in kids--the highest risk group for this strain--swine flu has been relatively mild. More people overall may get symptoms, but so far it's not even close to the impact of the garden variety seasonal flu which kills about 36,000 Americans a year. So far, the CDC has confirmed 1,004 swine flu deaths.

(Meanwhile, according to the National Association of School Psychologists, every five hours a child or adolescent in the United States dies as a result of suicide. Kind of seems like chasing a mosquito in your living room while a tiger is sitting on your sofa.)

I attended church last Sunday, not a regular thing for me in recent months, but being a card- carrying Episcopalian I get a hankering for the comfort of ritual and community. After the customary handshakes and greetings during the peace, we settled in for the communion portion of the service. The pastor paused before heading up to the altar.

"We're being mindful these days, so now that we've shared the peace, we are going to share the Purell. Just take a bit and pass it on down to your neighbor."

Huh? I hadn't noticed the little bottles tucked into the end of each pew. I dutifully squeezed out a blob, rubbed and handed it down the line. The sanctuary filled with the peppery smell of alcohol and citrus. My nose itched. I tried not to scratch it before approaching the rail, lest I be sent back for re-sanitizing. I imagined the scene with Jesus after healing the leper,

"Hey Peter, could you hand me that Germ-x?"

Maybe the flu is a real threat. Maybe not. Time will tell. But most days what can really infect me is fear. It sends me into hiding, into hoarding, into survival mode. It pits me against you. It's contagious. And it's on every channel, every news site, because it sells stuff.

But, fear not! Vaccines are available: Turn off the news. Hug somebody. Or at least go dress up as a germ.

spookily yours,
cj

Will the real idealist please stand up

Life only demands from you the strength you possess. Only one feat is possible--not to have run away.

~Dag Hammarskjold, Markings


A few days ago I was seated on a plane headed home after a week in San Francisco, where we had joined in the fun and celebration of my sweetie's daughter's wedding. I had felt a little torn about going, the internal voice that demands practicality and productivity really likes to be in charge. Especially when there's a chance to play or dance or relax. I decided to ignore it and go anyway.

As we were settling in for the long flight, I could hear the conversation of the two men behind us, their voices rising over the roar of the engines.

"It's been a tough year," one man said. "I'm an electrician and have been out of work. I'm not used to this, never had it like this before. I've been living on my savings."
"Where are you headed?"
"I'm on my way to my son's wedding. I'm not going to miss it."

I can read it in the headlines or hear stories on NPR, but somehow having someone sitting behind me on an airplane or the checkout line makes it more real. I'm not the only one wrestling with the uncertainties of this time. And every day gives me a choice about how to respond. Do I hunker down, get in my cave, try harder to fix it and figure it out?

Well, I could (and sometimes do) but people are getting married! Twenty-eight year olds who own playstations and work at software companies. And it's not just the chance to have health insurance. They're choosing to believe in love and commitment and a life together despite the odds and evidence set against success. Can you think of anything more deliciously idealistic and courageous than that?

It's true that the fairy tale ending is a myth. I think it was Alice Walker who said "There are no happy endings, only happy plateaus." This past few months I've been reading memoirs--not a genre that usually drew me, but the perfect one for this year--stories of people who wrestled with their own demons and challenges in between great moments of achievement and simple bites of joy. It's been a great reminder not to compare my insides with other people's outsides. Just about everyone has struggle and no one gets out alive. In weddings and memoirs I'm reminded that to show up for all of life is the assignment..and to share it is the reward.

FYI... here's my list: An Interrupted Life by Etty Hillesum; Reason for Hope by Jane Goodall; Fourth Uncle in the Mountain by Quang van Nguyen; The Story of My Life (restored edition) by Hellen Keller; My Name is Bill: Bill Wilson and the Creation of Alcoholics Anonymous by Susan Cheever. I'm currently reading Markings by Dag Hammarskjold.

blessings
cj

Postcards from Daisy

August 14
Dear Mom,

I can't believe you're going to be gone almost 3 weeks.--in canine time that is like 4 months! And who is this human you've left me with? What kind of name is CJ anyway? Are you sure she's qualified? You said it would be fun, but I'm not sure about this. I think I will go lie on my dog bed and sulk now.

your,
~daisy

August 16
Dear Mom,

I let CJ take me out today. It was a successful walk--even on the leash I caught a rabbit! I don't know why she made such a fuss and wouldn't let me take it home. I tried to explain to her that I am not a vegetarian, like you. Don't I get to have any fun while you're gone?

despondently,
~daisy

August 19
Dear Mom,
Things are looking up. CJ has a fun human friend that has a lot of hair, at least on his chin. And he likes to swim, too. Can we get rid of her and keep him?

Hiked on the Laurel river today. Good smells, high quality stuff--but the hairy one stops to check out more plants than I do!
your,
~daisy


August 20
Mom,
I think the training about the treats is going well. Not sure why she freaks out when I clean out the goodies in the cat box, seems like I'm doing someone a favor.

hygenically your,
~daisy

August 23
Dear Mom,

Spent the weekend in the country, at David's cabin. I guarded the front porch, and made friends with Rosie, the 3-legged shepherd next door. She showed me the neighborhood, where the groundhog lives, the best trash cans, etc.

Went on a couple of good adventures with the humans, rustled up a turtle and two deer; scaled a waterfall. I tried not to show off too much.

They still don't seem to believe me when I tell them you let me eat all I want.

hungrily yours,
~daisy

August 26
Mom,

CJ may be a little co-dependent, which is working out well. After some pitiful looks, I now have my breakfast served outside on the veranda. It wasn't my fault the screen locked behind her this morning. I watched her climb in the kitchen window in her butterfly pajamas. Usually tail wagging gets me a treat, but today I just stayed out of her way.

Back to the dog bed for a nap. I wonder what's for dinner?

your,
~daisy

August 28
Dear Mom,

It was fun to talk with you last night, though I don't know why she felt silly holding the phone up to my ear. I don't have hands, so what does she expect?

It seems like I'm doing most of the work around here. I was up every night this week at 3am barking at those troublesome neighbors. CJ seems to get a little agitated...doesn't she realize I'm doing my job? I'm going to take a nap now.

Can't wait to see you soon!
~daisy

August 29
Hi Mom!

Swam in a four-star waterfall today...I finally trained her to throw me that stick until I'm done.

Saw a bear and two turkeys. I tried to jump out of the car to chase a turkey, but she was too quick with the electric window.

Visited Mt. Mitchell. I had to be on the leash, but it was pretty cool to be at the highest point on the east coast. I consented to a photo.

You know, I think she's going to miss me when she leaves.

happily your,
~daisy

In praise of hay and fleas

My sweetie lives out in the "country", in a strikingly beautiful valley near the Smokies, surrounded by three different mountain ranges.

During a recent visit on a bright spring day, my eyes started itching. Then I began hacking and sneezing and coughing. Having evaded the endemic allergies during my 18 years in Atlanta, I was a little slow to realize what was happening. Finally it dawned on me as I sat on the porch overlooking the field next door.

"Is that hay?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yup."

It was official, I had hay fever! Graceful suffering is not one of my strong suits, so I kvetched and groaned my way through the next 24 hours, lamenting our proximity to the culprit grasses, until a good afternoon rain cleared the air.

That night I ventured back onto the porch to see the stars, cautiously inhaling and eyeing the field, prepared to bolt if it suddenly launched pollen missiles at me.

And then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the black night, I saw that the entire grassy expanse was alight with hundreds of fireflies, the first of the season. I can honestly say I've never seen anything like this vision. It was almost like looking at a reflection of the starry sky in a pond. I held my breath, and not because I was afraid of getting dusted.

The field of fireflies was a good reminder for me. I forget that I don't know what form blessings will come in. Sometimes they look (or feel) like misfortunes, especially if things aren't turning out like I think they should. Sometimes I curse the package and miss the blessing altogether, often until months or years later.

Many people have heard the story of Cory ten Boom, a Holocaust survivor, who in her book The Hiding Place relates an incident which taught her this principle. She and her sister, Betsy, had just been transferred to the worst German prison camp they had seen yet, Ravensbruck. Upon entering the barracks, they found them extremely overcrowded and flea-infested. Their Bible reading that morning had reminded them to rejoice always, pray constantly, and give thanks in all circumstances. Betsy told Corrie to stop and thank the Lord for every detail of their new living quarters. Corrie at first flatly refused to give thanks for the fleas, but Betsy persisted. She finally succumbed. During the months spent at that camp, they were surprised to find how openly they could hold Bible study and prayer meetings without the brutal interference of the guards that the other women's barracks experienced. It was several months later when they learned that the guards would not enter the barracks because of the fleas.

These past months have been challenging to say the least. But this morning, talking with my friend Kitty, I realized that my life has been, and likely will continue to be, filled with hay and fleas and all manner of things I can label as "bad", especially when I'm afraid, or uncomfortable. The invitation I hear today is to give thanks in all things...remembering not to pray to be relieved of hay fever, but to be able to see the fireflies.

Gamboling Problem?

It's great to be known, isn't it? My best friend Jenn Manlowe, an editor and author, has duked it out with me in many a Scrabble game. We actually call it "squabble". Not that I'm competitive or anything...(cough).

Anyway, she sent me yesterday's Word of the Day from dictionary.com. I love that she not only knows I would enjoy such a diversion, but the word itself: GAMBOL:

gambol \GAM-buhl\ intransitive verb

1. To dance and skip about in play; to frolic

2. A skipping or leaping about in frolic

What a perfect time for this to be the Word of the Day! Just when we want to hunker down, try harder, worry and fret, stare at our 401K statements, and do anything other than frolic. What's there to frolic about?

Skipping and frolicking are Pollyanna stuff, right? Things that only children do. And we are grownups, with serious business, life and death responsibilities, on our shoulders. If you went out today and saw an adult skipping down the sidewalk, you'd look around uncomfortably and cross to the other side, wouldn't you?

As this economic crisis has called into question the entire framework of our culture, what if this time also presents the chance to consider that we, as a people, have a gamboling problem? Sure as Americans we're famous for leisure and excess of show-stopping proportions. But are we capable of joy, of wonder? When all else is stripped away, can we surrender our fear, our need for security, long enough to gambol with delight?

Admittedly hard to do, when you're worried about where the mortgage is coming from or how to put gas in the car. But after all our best efforts, we are ultimately powerless over those things. What could it hurt to try something counter-intuitive? Like a lot of spiritual practices, a good dose of pointless giggling may not "make practical sense" but may be the best antidote to our woes. Could gamboling actually help strengthen my faith?

"Everything can be taken from a man but ...the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

--Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

Why not? Today I commit to gamboling...hmmmm, what would that look like? Dancing around my living room (private so nobody can call the guys in white coats), blowing bubbles (more public, but socially acceptable and enjoyed by most people who aren't sociopaths), maybe take a child to the park--let her grab my hand and skip. (You can get away with it, if you've got a kid with you!) Hang out with people who like to laugh and play for no reason at all.

"I've been told dolphins like to gambol in the waves in these waters,

and that sighting them brings good luck" --Barbara Kingsolver, Where the Map Stopped

Happy gamboling ya'll.

Making space for a change...one couch at a time

Where home is concerned, the tide is turning.

Worldwide, and even in these doggedly individualistic and territorial United States, people are surfing. "Couch surfing", that is. CouchSurfing is a worldwide network for making connections between travelers and the local communities they visit. A quote from the website says it best:

"We make the world a better place by opening our homes, our hearts, and our lives. We open our minds and welcome the knowledge that cultural exchange makes available. We create deep and meaningful connections that cross oceans, continents and cultures. CouchSurfing wants to change not only the way we travel,

but how we relate to the world!"

And I thought I was idealistic! I have found my people. This is a concept that makes complete sense to anyone who has ventured outside the cultural comfort zone and been immersed in the intimacy of visiting as more than a tourist. I have been privileged to be received as a teacher and professional exchange participant in Mongolia and Israel, respectively. The experiences transformed me, and my worldview, beyond what any guided 2 week/7 city tour would ever allow. And the couchsurfing trend is apparently working: last week alone 8,591 new couches opened up for like-minded travelers and cultural connectors.

The thing that interests me about this most today is the concept of sharing our space as one of our most precious resources. As economic hardship tightens its grip, and the prevalence of isolation becomes one of contemporary society's most insidious ills, making space on the couch or in the guest room makes good sense. For Americans in particular, the idea can be a foreign or downright threatening one. We hold tightly to the autonomy and the independence afforded by our own square acre. And there's no doubt that living with others can be a pain, there are risks, and the potential for conflicts and inconvenience.

In the past 15 months I have traveled in a pilgrimage that has taken me into the homes, guest rooms and even couches of 12 different households. Some were rented, others traded for, many others offered gratis. This nomadic existence was not the original intention of my journey, nor would I have ever signed myself (or you!) up for it in advance. Circumstances of sometimes seemingly Biblical proportions--floods, for instance--kept disrupting my best laid plans for putting down roots.

This time of mobility has stretched me in my capacity for flexibility and faith. It certainly lightened my load quite a bit--now I think twice before adding anything to my inventory of stuff! But mostly it has engendered a deep sense of gratitude and appreciation for the sacred art of hospitality.

The word hospitality derives from the Latin hospes, formed from hostis, which originally meant a 'stranger' + pets, to have power; the word hostire means equalize or compensate. In the Greek tradition, sacred hospitality is about compensating/equalizing a stranger to the host, making him feel protected and taken care of, and at the end of his hosting, guiding him to his next destination. This sense of caring for each other, and in turn accepting that care, punches a huge whole in the fierce self-reliance on which we generally rely.

In our current economic climate, when capital is scarce, we might benefit from sharing a resource that's right under our noses...our homes. It's true, and admittedly dismaying, that Americans are such conspicuous consumers, especially in the area of homebuilding. Industrial ecologists report single-family homes in the 1950's were built with an average of 290 square feet of living space per resident; in 2003, a family moving into a typical new house had almost 900 square feet per person. The new-home footprint increases each year, while families enjoy their rambling domiciles less and less as they work two 60-hour/week incomes to meet the mortgage.

It will probably take a huge shift in consciousness (nudged by the huge pinch we're experiencing now) to get us to change our ways. This week's story about a Florida congressman's family offering their spare home to a homeless family provides a great example of not letting our glut of space go to waste. You don't even have to offer it for free...lots of folks could benefit right now from some extra income. Progressive programs such as Housemate Match in Atlanta have been linking renters and older adult homeowners with extra room since 1984 (check out their great video).

Closer quarters may be a challenge for most of us. And they also may be a crucial step to facing into our mutual responsibility to care for the planet and each other. Surf's Up! What other ideas do you know about? ...I'd love to hear.

Talking is so out of vogue

Ok folks, I have yet to use this blog for a rant but here it is. Admittedly that's not the default of my temperament. As the moniker for this space implies, I value communication that goes both ways, and talk radio style blathering (which usually comes in the form of yelling) isn't my speed, even in writing. There are only a few things that can really propel me post haste onto a soap box. One of them is leaf blowers...don't get me started. The other is email.

It's not that I don't use it, or value it, for making connections, staying updated, coordinating plans and relaying information. Especially in business...it's efficient. It keeps things moving and speeds things up (not always a good thing), etc, etc. It's eco friendly, it's in writing. There are lots of benefits, and Microsoft would be glad to give us a white paper on them. Go ahead, google it!

It also goes without saying (but in a rant you get to say it anyway) that the notorious downside of email is the lack of social cues that you have when you communicate in person or over the phone. We're mammals--social, relational creatures--and those subtle intonations, expressions and body language shape the impact and meaning of what we say. In their amazing book A General Theory of Love, three psychiatrists explore the neurobiology of this connection and make the case that our very survivial depends on it. So all that goes out the window and we're left hanging in the breeze to interpret the words without the limbic phrase book.

But I digress. This is actually not the focus of today's rant. Today I am taking to task the cowardly cover that email gives people to not deal with each other like human adults when conflict arises. What is up with this? In the past week I have heard from at least two friends in business and another in a romantic pairing where conflict is occurring and misunderstandings are happening and everybody is trying to solve these relational issues with a form of communication that is for all intensive purposes just about as effective as a telegraph. Next thing you know we will be texting each other our break up letters...OMG UR DUN. Of course, even as I write this I realize this probably does happen with regularity and I have just shown myself to be oh-so 20th century.

Yes, it's easier to just shoot off an email instead of actually having to listen, reflect, deal with people's feelings (or our own). But you know, we're an evolving species. We can handle it. Strengthen that human courage gene in the greater scheme of things. By just using a little old-fashioned talking to each other. Pick up the phone. Lord knows everyone seems to have one. Better yet, meet at your favorite locally owned coffee shop. Chat a bit, discuss, straighten it out. You need to get out of the office for minute anyway. Still too scary? Get some skills! And guess what, you may find that in the end, things end up being more productive and satisfying to boot.

Agree? Disagree? I'd love to hear about it. Call me!!!

Dare to dance...average

The President inspires me. Ok, this sentiment is neither revolutionary nor unique. Our 44th Commander in Chief embodies "role model" as an orator, a leader, and simply as courageous human being.

But I'm talking about the dancing. When he and Michelle stepped into the Inaugural Balls on Tuesday night--in just about the brightest and most visible spotlight one can imagine--they weren't all that great at the foxtrot. Clearly that was one activity that was cut in the rehearsal department, understandably, say, after "delivering Inauguration Address", and "giving crisp salutes".

From my point of view it takes guts to be willing to "dance average", or even badly, in front of people. Especially when you're the President. I may also be saying this because I'm learning how to dance, so as I'm stumbling across the floor and tilting and whirling and occasionally crushing toes, it helps to think that even celebrities and role models can look a little stiff on the dance floor.

Still, one could clearly see that joy and delight in each other that propelled the first couple with slightly awkward steps across a global stage. The pundits may have declared that "the Obamas' performance level dipped in the dance department" (groan), but to me, it was just another example of how this leader and his strong and beautiful partner continue to invite me into challenges that may be just beyond my comfort level. That call me to stretch, twirl first, and let my courage catch up to me afterward. So I'm going to keep dancing, even if I'm average. Besides, I'm in it for the joy.

The image of the Obamas makes me want to make a slight adjustment to Elizabeth Alexander's beautiful innaugural poem: "praise song for dancing forward in that light". Indeed, "what if the mightiest word is Love?" Love that is forgiving, cuts us some slack, celebrates doing the dance imperfectly rather than sitting against the wall. What if as a country, as families, as co-workers, we chose this kind of Love--and to dance into it, swirling, tipping, dipping, smiling...average.

Laissez les bon temps roulez!

.


It would be wrong to disparage the rain--we so desperately need it in our drought-ravaged region. But today's weather in Western North Carolina was so distinctly Seattle-like that I was having flashbacks to the interminable days of clouds and wet during the winter months in the northwest. The good news in the southeast is that we are reasonably certain that the dismal skies today will yield to sunny ones before too long. This southern girl is soooo glad to be back!

Though the day was dreary, it also marked the colorful celebration of Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, ending the 12 days of Christmas and beginning the season of Carnival--a period dedicated to decadence that culminates in Mardis Gras and the beginning of the more austere season of Lent. Asheville is celebrating in high style with a festive night of costumes, masks, zydeco and great New Orleans fare with traditional King Cake at Ed Boudreaux's Bayou BBQ.

With the current economic situation as bleak as today's gray skies, it seems that the traditional Carnival motto, Laissez les bon temps roulez! (roughly translated "Let the Good Times Roll"), seems a courageous and faithful rebuke to fear and gloominess. It is an invitation to celebration, to abundance, to color, life, dancing and fun. In short, it may be what we need more than anything right now. I'm keenly guarding my attention these days--will I focus on the negative and link my well-being and future to the grim narratives of newscasters? Or keep my gaze open to evidence of a Universe of plenty that is all around?

In the past 6 days, I've witnessed numerous examples of miracles of opportunity and expansion:

• a friend landed a job within 24 hours of posting his resume online
• a neighbor transferred to a better position that is a mile from her house, in an organization where there are "never" openings
• a real estate agent closed on her 3rd home sale in the last 4 weeks
• a friend's daughter was contacted by a former client asking to correct a billing error in which they owed her $6,000.

I am not suggesting that we ignore the suffering, struggle and concern that so many of us are facing in these uncertain times; there are real challenges to be met now and in the days ahead. The brutality in the Middle East continued today, there is violence and deprivation all around. But, at least for today, I choose to put my faith in abundance, in joy, and to nibble a sweet bite of king cake, and declare (if only in a whisper) "Laissez les bon temps roulez!"

May they roll with you and yours as well.