No matter how many times I experience a museum of art, in today’s case, The Mint in Charlotte, I find a whole new range of sensory response.
Emotive.
The permanent exhibits speak differently as if to say, “I’ll bet you didn’t catch this before…” This hue, this movement, this texture.
The uptown jaunt was to witness the early exhibit construction by artist, Motoi Yamamoto. The exhibit is one of his “Returned to Sea” projects. His medium is salt. Just salt. Motoi works with surgical precision and a painter’s flow to produce an evocotive floor of beauty.
Return to Sea, Motoi Yamamoto
We stood silently watching as he sat quietly on a mat and delicately and rhythmically moved as salt flowed from a plastic funnel, like those used by bakers applying icing to a wedding cake. The room was silent but for the sound of grains as they spilled onto the surface. Motoi would turn his head here and there and move his mat back a few inches, adjust his position and pour over the next waiting area. The organic beauty and the silence and the craftsmanship in the moment were enough to fill a day. Once, just for a moment, he looked up and offered a smile and got one in return. Mutual gratitude.
Then, strolling through from room to room, the voices spoke from the canvas, the metal, the wood, the glass, the clay, the fabric, and all other manner of vessel for expression. They did what they do. Some whispered. Other pieces screamed out as if an anxious child demanding attention. Others, still, as if coyly inviting my interpretation. Peace.
Exiting the place of art brought an entirely new and unexpected joy. Snow. It fell from the sky in waves and quickly covered the cars and the benches and the streets of uptown. It blanketed the floor outside. It’s product equally beautiful and strikingly similar to the salt covering the floor only a few feet away inside.
The drive home was quiet and appreciative. Taking in the art of this soulful man from Ishikawa and the art of nature as she poured onto her canvas.
To my friends and debate partners and others who care to read what drips out of my mind and my heart…indulge, forgive, raise a brow, or simply pass over. I welcome your thoughts; I really do.
“Rights” irony at its best. On this day set aside to celebrate one of the great leaders of this country, this century, and this planet, the pages of facebook and the blogs and the airwaves are lit up with a critical mass consumed with protecting their own right to bear arms.
I have no issue with the second amendment. I believe it was intended to protect us from tyranny and abuse. The contemporary radicals in this argument would love to have us believe we have now arrived at that point because of the audacity of a few requesting a discussion. Moreover they fear executive actions as downright threatening to them. Really?
Until the last three weeks I have never known a single gun owner who waxed on that his cache of weapons was to protect against government. These once regular folk who wanted to protect their family or those who got some cheap thrill out of killing a helpless and unsuspecting animal and hanging its head on a wall (as if that is something to be proud of …. take a Viagra instead…I digress) are suddenly a band of militants circling the wagons of anarchy. I’ve heard this kind of rhetoric somewhere before…not too long ago…hmmm…oh yeah, it is called Al Qadea. Rage and fear and paranoia of taking something supposedly sacred is worth a jihad of their own. Their histrionics are enveloped in “revolution.” The irony thickens.
Martin Luther King had a dream. A damned good one. One where human rights trumped any other. He hoped we might move beyond a society where others, less than a hundred years before thought it was their “right” to own other humans. And they tried to disguise their barbarism by rationalizing the fight was about State’s rights versus an economic policy of inhumanity.
Yes, less than a hundred years later, only two generations, people like King were still fighting. Not to own a gun or a weapon solely designed to wipe out mass numbers of people, but to vote, or eat, or get a job fair and square, or go to a decent college or sit where they choose on a bus.
Still Dreamin’
Those 2nd Amendment radicals have passion all right. Good for them. Speaking out and calling for revolution. Threatening to shoot anyone who tries to pry their guns away. Irony multiplies; the only thing they are willing to die for is the right to possess an item (or many) intended to kill another.–or based on current laws–many others.
I wonder where they would be if Dr. King was sharing his dream today, for the first time? Would they be demanding time on Piers Morgan and Fox News and asking for facebook petitions to support human rights? Would they put it all on the line for real liberty…the kind that requires courage and compassion and respect and love for others?
The story today should be that civil rights, while still in their infancy, are experiencing some positive moves. To suggest that we are there is a myth. Injustice rears its ugly head in Asia and Europe and in Africa and in South America and in North Africa and the Middle East and yes, right in in the good ol’ U.S.A.
During a trip home to Florida recently I pulled next to a truck with a triple-gun rack inside the cab and a bumper sticker on window, “The South Will Rise Again!” Another sticker read, “Obama Go Back To Africa!”
I find the artifact and the sentiment often go hand in hand. To borrow an expression from a friend, this guy is a “waste of precious oxygen.” But, he has just as much right as I to take up that oxygen. My guess is that he would draw a similar conclusion about me. Gotta love the First Amendment…even if some of those that follow it (amendment, that is) are pretty bastardized; present topic at the top of the list.
My father fought and killed. He fought honorably but never thought war was honorable. He hated the idea of killing fellow man. He loved the idea of peace and justice and a life of good. He was an angry man though until just a few months prior to his death, when he found a peace with it all. He had seen a lot of death. He saw how strategic interests were used to justify removing life. It begins with and ideology and finds it message carried in and carried out with a gun.
I support the second amendment. My worry is over the motives and true self behind the radicals screaming revolution over removal of their weapons of mass destruction. Listening to them I am convinced they secretly pray for the opportunity to use them one day. It’s in their rhetoric and in their pictures.
Dr. King was asking for the most basic of rights. It took this country almost a couple of hundred years to add human rights to its sacred list. Would you triple-rackers have fought with the same passion for those rights if proposed today? Dr. King had a dream…it is still a dream worth dreaming.
Cleaning out Mom’s garage during Thanksgiving produced something more than a walk down memory lane. It was a full Swan Dive into some of history’s most intimate and dark and sweet and unknown places. Tucked in a shoebox with pictures and cards and and a P.O.W. bracelet inscribed with Capt. James Nasmith, was this letter to me from dad. Written to me on my first birthday. He was far away, working quietly, clandestinely, in Laos as we prepared to enter a conflict that would change us all. He knew it was possible that he might not return. I learned more about him in these three pages than I did in all the days of his life with me as my father.
I am writing this on the occasion of your first birthday. It will be many years before you will be able to read and understand this letter, but perhaps someday, when you have a son of your own, you will know what I mean and why I take this method of telling you.
At the moment of this writing, your dad is many thousands of miles apart from you, in a tiny, war-torn country call Laos. My purpose in being here, instead of by your side on your birthday, is in some ways rather complicated. In final analysis, I am her to insure that you and others of your generation may grow and prosper in peace. It is my prayer that you will never have to bear arms against your fellow-man, nor be apart from your son, as we are.
If, for some unforeseen reason, I never have the pleasure of watching your tottering steps; hearing you call me “Papa” for the first time; teaching you to play catch; and all the other little things that a father looks forward to; takes pride in, and thanks God for–then let this letter show you my love, hopes, and fears for you.
Having been born from a love that was surely conceived in heaven, it is a certainty that you will grow to be the man of whom your mother and I may always be proud. Always remember that what gifts you possess started in your mother’s womb. I will expect you to honor, respect, and watch over her in my place. I want you to know that no man was ever so blessed with a wife as I. Our love was a wondrous thing, and she made me the proudest and happiest man on the earth. When it comes time for you to marry, I ask only that you look for the qualities which make your mother so dear. Don’t look with your eyes–but with your heart. Once you have chosen, love without reservation or question.
When you have reached manhood, face life squarely–admit your fears and rise above them, and never compromise your self-respect for some imagined gain. Temper your life with the knowledge that you are one of God’s children, and live it as He would have you.
I enclose a picture taken this date. When you look at it, remember that I loved you very much, and I am grateful that God saw fit to grant me a son such as you.
The night was just cool enough to warm by the fireplace in Mom’s den. I opened a couple of bottles of red. Chelsea unwound a hanger and grabbed fixin’s from the pantry for S’mores.
We gathered in chairs and on the couch and on the floor around the fireplace. Four generations of Keyser DNA in the room. I turned on the mic and pushed “record.” This was a project planned long ago and long overdue. An audio legacy to treasure for years to come.
Mom has stories. Lots of stories. We’ve heard them for years and years. One day, when mom is singing and dancing and meeting and socializing with every angel in the next space, we will have her journal of life…to listen to and to treasure here.
Christmas 2012
We all had questions for mom. Some prepared and others offered on the spot.
“What was it like to be a small child during the Great Depression?”
“Tell me about your hometown…Horton, Kansas.”
“How did you and Dad meet?”
“What are the biggest or most significant changes you have seen in your life?”
The show-stopper question came from Gabi. At a precious 7 years old she is wondering about the less obvious. “What do you remember about snow?” The greatest question ever. Out of the mouths of babes…
Each answer led to string of more stories. A string that wound from childhood through wars and relationships and places and people and souvenirs.
Four hours later, between the wine and the fire’s warmth and the late hour, eyes were getting heavy and our bodies needed rest from the holiday fair. As I sit and mix the audio and add photos and a little guitar music, I smile. I think of a few hours in generational proximity and what that will mean in years to come.
Soon, Chelsea will be on the other side of the planet serving those who have been forgotten and discarded. Logan will finish undergrad and enter service as a patriotic officer and a healer and go to some place to protect the liberties that allowed us to gather in the first place. My heroes.
I will be here, for now, chipping away at a system of care for patients and loved ones and hoping that when I am done that it is a little better for them.
Today was my “long run” day. It’s all relative when it comes to working out. Up in the mountains of Eastern Tennessee, getting away to re-discover quiet. A chance to read, think, strum a six-string, write. No television. Out of the range of my Blackberry’s wide net.
It was early morning. The birds still pushing the snooze button. The spiders were pissed that I interrupted them spinning in their silvery hammock. The Sun barely peeked through the the pines and water oak that cover these mountains like Kudzu.
I stretched, tightened my laces, and began the trip that would meander through these mountain roads. Hoping my natural global positioning system (a landmark there, a mailbox there, a torn down road sign) would lead to a safe return.
I have grown to love the run. I love the ride more, but my Trikke was not built for mountain roads and their treacherous turns. At first, the mountain air and the mild burn was exhilarating. It felt great and I knew this would be a memorable run. I rounded a bend to negotiate my first incline. “No problem,” I said to myself. I reached to turn up the volume on my iPod and leaned into it. Minutes later I was saying, “This isn’t a Smoky Mountain road. It’s freakin’ Mount Everest.” I thought I was going to die right there become Nike roadkill. Just when I thought cardiac arrest would set in, a turn, a mild decline, an aerobic slide. It was just long enough for me to tackle another uphill trek. With each uphill stretch I cursed the mountain and my decision to take it on. With each decline or leveling-out I told myself I was King of the World.
I made it back to our little cabin without tire marks on my back or any known injury. The birds laughed and greeted the morning. The spiders were working the morning shift webbing away. I sat on the porch and overlooked the creek and thanked my God for His nature and for allowing my body to endure and grow from the mountain. My mind went immediately to this world and its challenges.
You see, we have had this place of comfort for so long in this country. For many, we were comfortable with our own roads and paths and porches and neighbors. It wasn’t that hard for a lot of us. The world’s problems were only as close as the paper or nightly news made them. But the mountains were always there. Just not as close. We could take the easy route; ignore or dismiss or rationalize that things are “their problems…we have our own.” I don’t understand anymore why we define ourselves by our geography, by our borders, by our language. The floods in Pakistan, the poverty in the Congo, the violence in Somalia, the unrest in the Middle East, the human rights violations across the globe should all be MY problem; OUR problem. The Long Run may be the one outside of my neighborhood. Outside of my state, my country, my continent, my fictional boundaries.
My prayer: Lord, take me on the Long Run. Prepare my heart. Give me courage and endurance and a great pair of shoes.
I was overwhelmed recently by the enduring expression of love from the man in the booth at Hardees. His wife, gone for months, but he still showed up on their special day each week to have breakfast with her and chat as they always had.
Equally enduring and so incredibly beautiful, I was introduced to the Childress couple last Friday. Lynnette, one of our patient relations reps at Presbyterian Hospital emailed to tell me about a couple who was with us and she heard it was their wedding anniversary: 61 years.
Well, she and the crew, Tiffany, Lindsey, Steve from Food Services, the unit manager, Anne, and others jumped to action. If this couple was to spend their anniversary with us it was to be as special as we could make it. I had to be there.
It was to be a surprise. A rolling table and white tablecloth. A beautifully prepared meal for husband, wife, and their son. Flowers and a card.
We gathered and wheeled in together at 5:30. Once they realized this was a party, their faces beamed in gladness. Mrs. Childress stood by her husband’s side and they bathed in celebration of their long life together.
Lindsey said, “I hear you are a singer, Mr. Childress.” She went on to ask if he wanted to serenade his wife on their anniversary. He pointed to his throat and mentioned something about his voice being a little “crackly” at the moment. We understood. His comment had barely landed on our ears before he began to croon for his beloved. The Desert Song (Sigmund Romberg / Otto Harbach / Oscar Hammerstein II). His voice broke just a little and he searched for a lyric now and then. As she watched lovingly, she offered a part of a line when it didn’t come to him, which he finished for her. It was a sort of handoff. “…Its voice enthralling…WILL MAKE YOU MINE” he closed in a romantic crescendo.
Smiles and tears filled the room. This was their moment. We got to be there. I wish they could have been in their home for this special day, but it was our honor…our privilege to celebrate their life together and care for them both. Happy Anniversary to the Childress couple. You are what is possible.
Sometimes the stars align. An alarm clock set accidentally to an hour earlier than usual. A last minute change in schedule. Road construction forcing an alternative, and quicker route, to my destination. I was headed to a funeral. Running about thirty minutes early, I decided to grab a bite and some coffee. I stopped at a Hardee’s down the road from the little country Baptist church where the service was to be held. After ordering a low-carb breakfast bowl and a medium coffee I took a seat at a booth. I can’t remember the last time I actually dined-in at a fast food place. It was meant to be.
I sat and scanned the perpetually streaming emails scrolling in the window of my Blackberry. Just a few booths away, next to the window, was this guy sitting and enjoying breakfast. He was engaged in conversation. A laugh here and a comment there. At times he was animated and then serious and quiet.
Here’s the thing, though — he was alone.
I tried to appear inconspicuous as I looked for what must have been his bluetooth device or earpiece and a cell phone.
Nope. He was just talking and listening … to no one. My mind went immediately to what must have been a troubled or mentally disabled older man. I wondered what psychological condition could be attributed to his imaginary conversation. I also thought maybe he just enjoys his own company and might be a little eccentric. Who cares?
I tried to drink my coffee and pay attention to my own small world.
One of the servers was wiping down tables. She smiled as she approached mine and said, “Good morning.” I returned with my own greeting and wished her a happy day. She glanced over at the man by the window and turned back to me.
“He’s really okay,” she said as she grinned. She went on to tell me his story. She shuffled salt and pepper shakers and promotional place-holders while she talked.
“You see, he and his wife came in here every Tuesday and Friday for as long as I’ve been here. That’s been at least ten years. He ordered black coffee and a biscuit and gravy for him, and a raisin biscuit for her. They shared the coffee.” She went on to say that they always sat in the same booth. “They stayed for about an hour and always seemed to have the best time.”
“She died about four or five months ago. We didn’t see him for a month or so after she died. But ever since, he comes in at least once a week, orders his biscuit and coffee. He sits and at some point just starts talking to his wife, like she’s sitting right there.”
“At first we were a little worried, but then I thought to myself…‘What’s wrong with that?’”
I smiled and thanked my new friend for sharing this story with me.
That kind of love…
She is still so much a part of his life that he meets her for breakfast and talks and laughs and shares his morning with her. It’s the stuff of movies. No, it’s the stuff of life for a loving husband on a morning in a small country town.
The stars aligned and I got to be a spectator in this sweet and enduring adventure of love.
“It’s just the end of the beginning, Sean,” exclaimed my Egyptian friend, Ahmed, during a Skype conversation following a trip from his home in Alexandria.
He was there. “Cairo was a circus.” My good friend had predicted this years ago. This land of people, whose blood traces to the most significant times in civilization, would experience another transformation in their grand journey. A warm people. A land that is home to one of the Seven Wonders and home to great oppression.
Like much of the planet, the gap between those with means and those without is more of a chasm. My friend, a healer, sees the political sea change as an opportunity to affect a better life…design a next era in the rich history of this beautiful place. People stood and voiced and yelled and chanted. With each day there was a renewed energy…momentum. The leaders, including our own, hoped it would just wane and eventually be a rolling headline skipping along the bottom of CNN.
Sure, it was likely to influence the leader’s–and the world’s policy—but much of the world hoped it wold just “go away” and get things back to “stability.”
There’s nothing stable about not being able to feed your family. The grandeur of the Pyramids cannot mask the void of dignity that accompanies joblessness. Thousands, hundreds of thousands said what needed to be said. Peacefully–as peaceful goes. Several hundred lost their lives in the end. One was too many. The price to pay for revolution? History would suggest it.
There comes a point when humans have no choice but to put their very lives on the line to stand up for what they believe. Human rights and civil rights run deepest. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness should be global values.
During my own lifetime, good men an women gave their lives in speaking out against the beasts who wanted them to separately dine, be schooled, be transported, and have no voice in their own government. They stood. We still have miles and miles to go before we sleep. To our brothers and sisters in this desert place that gathers its life from the Nile … Peace, Prosperity.
To my friend, Ahmed, thanks for making a point to let me know how you were and for being a voice in a revolution for human rights and patient rights.
It was seventeen days ago. I was running along the shoulder of Johnston Road headed for the Greenway.
A single penny, tails up, caught my eye as the sun hit it just right. I stopped and picked it up. I’m not sure about the whole “luck” thing, but I thought to myself, “I could use a little right now, it can’t hurt.” I tucked it in the small pouch of my running shorts and headed off.
The day was good. It got better. The next day rolled around and I went for a long bike ride. At one point I hopped off and walked a bit. There again, just at the turn into my little village, was a beaten and battered penny. I smiled and picked it up and once again dropped it in my pocket. It was a good day. It was a good night. 
The next day I wondered if another penny would be discovered along whatever path I chose. I found myself paying attention. Sure enough, I found two. The day was good. That was fourteen days ago. Since then, I have found a penny on the street every day since.
Yesterday was the first without a copper find. I resisted the temptation to get all superstitious about it. The days have been better.
My pennies were teaching me. Be aware. Create good fortune along with the days serendipity. They are all around. Everywhere. I just decided to pay attention. For me, I want to be aware of the good things around me. Look for them. Anticipate that discovery. Expect good fortune ~ not the stuff of economic wealth, but of the heart and the soul. The “value” of these one-cent wonders was in their symbolic message of what is out there if I look for it. That is some pretty valuable stuff, right there.
A restless earth centers its energy on this tiny country during this few minutes in time.
What was an already poverty-stricken island was virtually leveled. Staggering numbers dead. More missing and injured. Lives forever changed.
Meantime, Pat Robertson links it to a nation that is “cursed.” Rush Limbaugh suggests no support should be given since it was already via our income tax. And Conan O’Brien – this Irish Gumby – uses his own network to wax on about the loss of 1/2 hour and wants sympathy over his 40 million dollar mess.
What is the face of tragedy? What is more tragic, the sight of a young boy who can’t see his future through the dust of a collapsed city, or the sight of Rush Limbaugh leveling his twisted agenda at the expense of a suffering people. And Pat Robertson…don’t get me started on this self-described “humanitarian.”
A single day’s pay for any of these lunatics would probably take care of a significant portion of this country’s pain. It won’t happen. Ego is a powerful thing. Pat wants to scare people to a God who I’m convinced would rather operate from a place of grace. The God I know is probably disgusted with him.
Rush is so lost in his own lunacy that he would probably justify the holocaust if he thought it would make our President look bad. There is nothing American or Godly about these media monsters.
Call me out-of-touch; call me crazy, but I have this fantasy: something terrible happens… people die … a world is collapsing… and those behind the mic come together and leverage their position power to rally humanity. Then I wake up. Someone snuck in my room and put CBN and Rush on my pre-selects.
I change stations. Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds … what’s the difference?
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