Camouflage Backpack, Crew Cut & Blue Eyes

He said his name was Todd and that he felt at home in the Dallas Airport. We were wandering among a sea of men and women dressed in BDU’s. It was the middle of October, and I was loaded down with my guitar and a backpack full of music gear.

We had crossed paths in the terminal when he asked, "What do you do to carry one of those around?" He was referring to my guitar.

I replied, “I play music for a living. What do you do to carry one of those around?” I pointed to his camouflage backpack.

"I blow things up."

I wasn't sure exactly what to say to that. And as I looked at him in a loss for words, he offered to carry my guitar.

"You want to walk with me and carry my guitar all the way to my gate??"

He said, “Well, of course, we don’t just kill people.”

My heart fell. That's not why I had asked that.

I stumbled on my words, “I know…I know that’s not why you do what you do. What you do is really…hard.”

He shrugged apathetically. “It’s not that hard anymore.”

My words left me. I wanted to wrap him in a blanket of light and take the walled-up angst out of those blue eyes...those blue eyes that had their “coming of age” in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was younger than me in years, yet, with the toll of war, his eyes were older.

We talked about music and how we both play Tom Petty on the guitar. We talked about where he was stationed, his two deployments to the Middle East and his nicotine habit. I told him about my journey from nursing to music, about playing a very heartfelt show at Ft. Hood in '07, and about my childhood memory of catching a snake while visiting my Uncle at Ft. Riley.

When I gave him my card, I apprehensively said, “You can check out my tunes online, I don’t know if you’ll like them. They might not be your style of music.”

He replied, “You’d be surprised by what I like and what I listen to.”

My mind stopped. “You’re right. I don’t know.”

He walked with me to Starbucks, waited for me to feed my caffeine habit, and accompanied me back to the gate with my guitar in his hand.

In the space between our words, we walked side by side in silence and respect, honoring each other’s stories. I imagined that my carrying a guitar and backpack on tour must be much lighter than what he carries on his tours.

But really, what do I know?

I know that I’m grateful to have carried my guitar off the plane that day. It was a doorway for the guy with the camouflage backpack, crew cut and blue eyes to share his story with me, and for me to do the same with him.

On this Veteran’s Day, and in the trail of days before and after, I honor the stories of those who serve and have served in our military.

It is in the sharing of our stories that we come home.

Six Feet of Clay: Reflections from a Cemetery in Missouri

"Six feet of clay makes every man equal,"

the epitaph reads.

I stop in my tracks.

That's quite a final statement to leave to the living.

My mind spins. What would inspire this?

A lifetime of events epitomizing human "inequality"? A country freshly emancipated from slavery with Jim Crow laws "regulating" racial discrimination; a Women's Suffrage Movement; World War I with its genocide and ethnic cleansing; the Great Depression and its economic fall-out drastically devastating minority groups; World War II and the annihilation of millions of Jews and those deemed "unfit for society" by a dominating class; Rosa Parks' big stand; and Martin Luther King Jr.'s early work in the Civil Rights Movement?

Yes, Mr. Warren's time on Earth had plenty of fodder for such a statement.

It's a beautiful Fall day in Springfield, Missouri. I wander through Hazelwood Cemetery to the once segregated south-side where "people of color" were buried. I find graves marked by cinder-block-like stones with no epitaphs, some with faint letters scratched into them.

There's a timeless quality to the words "six feet of clay makes every man equal".

Fifty-three years later, I am bombarded by headlines of hate-crimes, bullying, suicide, war, genocides and more.

It all seems ridiculous and insane. Because when all is said and done and lives are gone, what's left?

A gravestone maybe.

Often a family.

Always a lesson.

And the web of energy woven by a life-thread.

Fifty-three years later, Mr. Warren's life-thread weaves from a stone inscription

into my thoughts

into this blog

and now into you.

And Hazelwood Cemetery is no longer segregated.

I find peace here. In the lessons of transformation. In being part of the transformation.

And in the poetry of epitaphs and gravestone art...Symbols of human love and connection. Threads of energy that emanate timelessly.

"Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only change forms." ~First Law of Thermodynamics

Every step is a choice in how I transform my energy.

Singing with Vern

So...I've gotten a bit attached to a cricket in my house.

It's the singing thing.

We both do it, and his chirping from sunset until early morning sounds like a lullaby to me.

Maybe it's because it reminds me of growing up on the farm and the intense connection that I felt as a child to nature.

It's different in the city--much more subtle...

But Nature makes her way through the concrete and human boundaries:

from the ants who dare to venture through my kitchen,

to the grasshopper on my rose bush,

the hummingbirds and butterflies outside my picture window,

the bats flying overhead in the Fall during my evening dog-walks,

and the coyote that taunts the neighborhood dogs...

To the cricket that chirps in my bathroom at night.

There's something calming about his song... especially amidst the incessant sirens and occasional domestic disputes of neighbors nearby.

I'm not sure if it was the creative side of my brain, or the crazy side (besides, I think the two are connected)--but my brain decided to name this cricket Vern.

He reminded me of one of my favorite childhood books The Mouse and the Motorcycle by Beverly Cleary--about a mouse named Ralph who had many adventures with human encounters living in a run-down inn.

All this came about the morning that Vern decided to crawl on my toe while I was taking a shower. It was one of those moments for me, where I was startled to feel something on my foot, and then wondered if it might be the gecko that occasionally sneaks into my shower.

But sure enough, I looked down, and it was Vern.

And he was NOT in good shape.

I hoisted him onto the tile outside my shower. He wasn't moving. By the time I got out, he was on his back, and I thought that he had bit cricket dust.

I flipped him over, but I admit--I didn't have much hope for the poor little guy.

As I made coffee afterwards, I hummed away in honor of Vern...thinking about how I would miss his evening chirping and how his exodus into the shower must have been very tragic.

An hour later, I went back into the bathroom. Vern's legs were responding to touch, and his antennas were no longer waterlogged and stuck to the tile.

I was amazed...a cricket resurrection!

The last couple nights as he's chirping from different corners of my house, I just smile knowing that Life has an uncanny way of transcending my expectations.

AND...I've started to make music with him.

He's got a great sense of rhythm and sings in the key of D.

Two Springs

I just returned from the Midwest.  It is May, and the Spring season is in full bloom there.

In Arizona, we had our "Spring" season over a month ago, and now, the temperatures have already climbed into the triple digits.  

In Iowa, however, the season is definitely "Spring".  The apple blossoms are in full bloom.  The violet lilac flowers have opened and are spreading their sweet fragrance. Fresh (and freshly picked) rhubarb pie and asparagus casserole are the dishes of the season.  The little green rows of baby corn have emerged through the black soil.  And my family just finished planting the last bean fields (Yay!  It's always a relief when the crops are in).  

I am reminded of the "Spring" season in Arizona a month and a half ago.  I love the Spring, and this year, I was fortunate enough to experience two of them.  I want to share my reflections that I wrote in late March about this time in my desert home... 

New Moons & New Beginnings: Spring in Arizona

March 26, 2009

I sink into reverie as I awake amidst the morning song of the birds outside of my window.  It's the breaking of the day.   I love this time.  The awakening.  The cheerful birds celebrating the dawn and return of light.  

This is the time when I feel most open...to the world, to my senses, to possibility. It's the "in between" time...when the peace of what's passed is laid to rest, the opportunity of the day that lays ahead is waiting, and all that's left is the present moment of being...completely open.

It is Spring now.  The first new moon was two days ago.  I feel my instincts resonate with the season...urging me to plant seeds and grow roots in the wide openness, and watch in awe as the green sprouts emerge and flowers open.  

It's the season of possibility.  Of planting seeds and growing roots in the "in between".

Every moment there is the chance for birth and for re-birth...to create again or to start anew. To take every part of what was, fully integrate in to what is, and transform into what will be.

It's the dawn of possibility.  No wonder I hear the birds celebrate each morning in song.

Pressing "Send"

"Once I press send, I cannot take it back."  The fearful thought runs through my mind.  

A simple click of the mouse or a brush with the send button on the cell phone stirs a bit of that internal anxiety of committing to the choice. 

And it's so symbolic of life.

Standing on the crossroads...the inner turmoil between what the heart wants to do and what the mind fears doing.  The anxious struggle on the inside, the internal chatter that gets louder amidst the unknown.  "What path do I take? Will I regret taking this path? Will I miss out? Will I always wonder what lies down the other?"   

And then I remember...

I remember to let go and breathe.  One breath at a time.  

And I remember to open my eyes and step.  One step at a time. 

How is it that I am here, in this body, walking upon this little blue planet?  This little blue planet that has just the right concoction of 21% Oxygen, 78% Nitrogen and miniscule amounts of other gases that resonate perfectly with my body?  My body that takes it all in and lets go of what it doesn't need?  

We've come a long way since the days of flight or fight, running from tigers and chasing down our dinner.  Yet, not so far.  The human stress response is still the same.  We just have more time to think about the choice.  And oftentimes, there is much less gratification in making the choice, since the release of clicking a button does far less for relieving the physical stress response than running from a predator.  And so, the anxiety lingers.  

Until I step back and remember.  I remember to breathe.  I remember to go inside, and then to step with courage, honesty, passion and commitment to the path.  Because every path is worthy. And every path entails lessons and a perfect concoction for what I need at the present.  I cannot control the weather along the way, but I can control who I am and what I do when I come face to face with it and my belief and trust in the greater concoction.

Because in the end, somehow, it all works out.  Or, if it hasn't, then maybe it's not the end...if there really is an end. 

The journey can be amazingly breathtaking and beautiful, incredibly messy and tragic, blissful and frustrating.  Yet through it all, in a grace so often beyond comprehension, evolves the human spirit...and the journey, and the story, and the song and the dance.  

Walking the Labyrinth

Passing through downtown Santa Fe, I walked my first labyrinth at St. Francis Cathedral Basilica.  The tradition of walking labyrinths dates back farther than 20,000 years, and I've always been curious about the experience.  

As I made my way through the repetitious twists and turns, I lost all sense of time and was consumed by an overwhelming sense of presence.  It was all I could do to focus on each step. Looking forward or behind made me dizzy.  And with every intention being on my next step, there was no room for my mind to wander in thought.  

The walkers were of all ages.  We kept time and step with each other, all walking one path, to the heart of the labyrinth and back out again.  

Looking from the outside, it seems a bit daunting--the circles encircled by circles connected by passageways.  I had mistakenly thought it was like a "maze."  But that is not true.  There is one lone path.  And on it, you are never lost--for it all leads to the same place and back out again.  

Very symbolic of life.  It is no wonder people have walked labyrinths for centuries both in grief and celebration...a communal portal to "being."  I would've thought that in the last 20,000 years, we would have some how evolved to have that "being" down by now...but in our multi-tasking, cyber-searching and cell phone talking, it's so easy to walk along dazed in the buzzing and beeping and ringing and clicking.  It seems we still need a tool to help transport us into the moment.  

And thus, the medicine of the labyrinth...walking the twists and turns, passing through the ebb and flow, a sense of togetherness, each step in presence...a sacred ritual and human-made passageway, mimicking the patterns of nature, leading us "home."

Communing in the Muse-ic

It takes a village to build a music career. 

(L to R: Mary, DD, Amber, Michelle, & Nancy) 

Here's the Tucson-gang post our (or my) performance at Weststock (Woodstock re-hashed at the Westward Look Resort in the desert, as opposed to Yasgur's Farm).  I got the privilege of being the "folk-singer" for the evening, which seemed to be quite the appropriate title since I got to sing and share music with a bunch of "folks".  

Speaking of "folks", the picture above is of the "folks" who travel with me from the West to the East, coming to my shows, hauling my gear, air-brushing t-shirts, selling tickets, hanging posters, and memorializing the musical journey through their time and talent creating art, photography and videography.  

I am continually amazed at the community that muse-ic brings together.  

Is it the common vision? Is it a metaphysical phenomenon--everyone connecting through the vibration of melody, harmony and rhythm?  Music transcends time, distance and language. A good song survives through decades, and ancient drumming seems to course through our most primal vein. Tones and rhythmic vibrations can inspire deep meditation and healing. We use music, song and chanting in our diverse spiritual practices.  Sound waves have the potential to travel into infinity.  

What type of butterfly effect(s) do we create through our sound, through our music?   

We, as a human species, seem to be drawn to it (the music, that is); and in cases like me, I crave it.  I used to think it was an obsession.  But now I realize that it's my way of commune-icating, sharing my soul and making a path in this world.   

As I learned folk songs from the 60's, I realized that a lot of them incorporated minor keys such as Em and Am.  Communing with songs of the past allowed me to feel a connection to the artists who created them, almost like a sacred communion through time and space.  The messages are Universal - struggle, hope, war, release, and faith that one day "we shall overcome."  

I find it very interesting that the Native American flutes are also created in minor keys.  It seems that this type of "sound" resonates very deeply on a soul level.  This "sound" seems to symbolize all those Universal feelings and messages that the folk-singers of the 60's commune-icated, the same themes that still run through our society today.

For thousands of years, humans (folks) have been brought together by creating muse-ic through drumming, tones, melodies and chanting in cadence.  

Maybe it was our first language...before the spoken word.  And maybe it still is the primary language of creatures like whales, birds, wolves and crickets.

Obviously, we crave that sense of community and communion--Commune-icating through tones, rhythm, and messages in cadence.  Through this, we open to each other. And somehow, the music connects us ("folks") in a way that transcends the illusion of separation - whether it be differing viewpoints, cultures or lifestyles.  

That was the magic of the original Woodstock.  500,000 people.  Not enough water, food or bathroom facilities. Everyone had to work together for a common purpose.  

And amidst the weekend of communing in hardship, there was music...and there was peace.  

I am honored to be on this path.  And I am honored to be part of this community--as we strive to open our hearts, connect with each other and build commune-ity through the muse-ic.