volunteer sunflowers

WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #32

Back when I would sneak out of my bedroom window to write poems about fairies in the Midwestern moonlight, someone told me I couldn’t just write about things that were beautiful; poetry was more than just beauty. I remember thinking I couldn’t write poetry if I had to add politics to it.

Not long after, my father died unexpectedly and everything I wrote was tinged with that introduction to death. Ever since, I have been trying to write only what was beautiful with the result that somehow, death, impermanence, dissolution was always lurking just beneath the surface.

For nine months in this blog I have given myself the permission to write just about beauty for beauty’s sake. And now I have come to that time of year—fall, when nature’s impermanence is so clearly manifest. And yet, the events that have marked this season are the epitome of heavenliness.

As a writer of beauty, I must log that I have my first paid writing gig of the year: content development for a garden designer’s web site. It is not every year that I am paid to write anything, so I must celebrate it here with you.

As a viewer of beauty, I have purchased my first “real” camera. My subjects this week have been what I can shoot without leaving my backyard. I have been focusing on a pair of volunteer sunflowers that grew up in my son’s garden out back. Their heavy heads are bent toward each other with care as their seeds turn from soft gold to hard black. In their graceful swaying in the winds and brave tenacity and sunny deterioration, they remind me of Ronnie and me.

As a promoter of the beauty within others, let me announce that Ron started a new job today in a field where we all know he will bloom and grow. What more important work could he begin than learning water management? We should all find ourselves in just such an indispensable position.

Lastly, as a lover of technological beauty, tonight I sit with my new 17-inch MacBookPro in my lap, loving the speed and ease with which I can do the things I do a hundred times a day. Thanks to so many people who helped me define my business and my plan, who trusted in my ability to create work, I have been able to assume a business loan that has made these advances possible for me.

Although my dream of my own office is still a dream, and my DIZZY SUSHI manuscript floats “out there” looking for its true home, I can create my virtual office here with you.

And perhaps your imagination is better than mine and you can tell me what color the walls are, and what dimension my desk is and we can dream it up together next year.

i heart al

WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #31

The signs of autumn are rampant: the Maximillion daisies unfurling their yellow fingers in the rain, the squeaking breaks of the school bus in the morning, and Al Michael’s voice calling the latest down from the NFL broadcast booth.

Last winter I decided to give up football when I learned as the 2005 season ended that Michaels—the announcer of Monday Night Football for two decades—had signed with Disney-Owned ESPN to call the games. I wasn’t about to buy cable just to watch Monday Night Football, and I didn’t want to watch football without Al.

His controlled tenor, his wry wit, his extensive experience hidden behind a cool exterior had become synonymous with the game for me. When Al left—my translator, my guide to the highs and lows of the game, my effortless statistician—I was as lost as Dante would have been without his Virgil, left alone or with an inferior muse to guide him through the circles of hell. No other announcer would do.

And although I told my family it would be better for me to give it up, truthfully, I was dejected that Michaels could leave us, be bribed by money, betray the American public. He was a traitor and we’re used to them. Every celebrity that has sold out, every independent thinker who compromised their individuality to corporate image, every small business that went global and forgot its roots has taught us to accept these attritions to power and money; Al was no different.

But what is it about someone’s voice that attracts us, captures our interest and makes our lives more special? Is it just the beauty of tone and modulation? Or is it the particular personality that is carried over the vocal chords and is defined by that physical limitation that entices us? How much humanity can you express in your voice? How little?

I don’t remember when my obsession with Al and football began, though certainly the roots came from growing up in the Chicago area in the 80s. Who couldn’t be a fan then? It may have been Al’s description of wide receiver Ed McCaffrey’s near-magnetic attraction to the end zone: He will not be denied, I remember him saying.

Football is both grace and brute force; intelligence and dumb luck; superstars and sidelined heroes. I discovered intent and planning in the game that I hadn’t seen before. Every character from the brain on the sidelines calling the play to the field goal kicker in his spotless jersey had a part. There were moments of unparalleled physical beauty combined with heart-breaking mistakes that I looked forward to each week. Viewing the game through his eyes, Al instilled in me a sense that all of humanity can work and play together in an exacting and nerve-wracking environment.

Now the unbelievable has happened: Al has returned to us, the non-cable masses. In February he was “traded” to NBC like the hot commodity that he apparently is for rights to sporting events and, of all things, Disney’s first cartoon character.

Why did he do it? Some say he wasn’t going to “slum it” over at ESPN. Maybe his contract wasn’t big enough, maybe he was going to miss his big buddy John who was already signed up for Sunday nights at NBC. Maybe he was offered even more money to flip-flop.

For whatever reason, he’s back. And now fall can properly begin.

a great nation deserves broccoli

WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #30

As a high school student in a suburban Chicago neighborhood, I received a rich education in the arts. I made films, wrote short stories, directed and acted in plays, was published in the literary magazine and editor of the weekly newspaper, had private voice lessons, sang in concerts with the Chicago Symphony and even made records of original music written for our choirs.

When I was 16, my father became very ill. I was unable to share what I was going through with my friends, but I wrote every day, sometimes two or three times. When he died of lung cancer and I returned to classes, it was a wrenching experience. My solution was to hide in the choir room. In choir we didn’t face each other, or have to talk. Sometimes I would open my mouth and nothing would come out because my throat was clenched up tight, but that was OK. Writing and singing helped me plod through the day-to-day banality that covers your life when that kind of trauma happens.

I don’t think my experience was unusual. In fact, the ability to express yourself creatively is a common path through grief—and for me—a graceful and fulfilling one. I can’t imagine how one could make it through a troubling time without a poem from a friend or poring out their heart into a painting, or singing a dirge.

It’s surprising how little my own children receive in the way of publicly-funded arts programs in their schools. However, because of city-sponsored events and my own volunteered time, I have been able to take them to world-class operas, to jazz shows, to art galleries, chamber music concerts, dance recitals, art classes, theatre—all for free or for very minimal costs. In this way they have been able to experience the power of art.

I don’t believe that NEA tagline that says, “a great nation deserves great art.” That makes it sound like you put together this great place and add art later; like you get desert because you ate all your broccoli.

More truthfully I think is the fact that great art creates and defines a great nation. Art is the broccoli, the main course—or at least a dietary staple.

Art also tends to tell you when a nation isn’t so great anymore.