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Be forewarned – this is a Christmas rant...

A silent minority I am no longer, at least on this blog.  Actually, in life I’ve never been accused of being demure, though living in the South has offered a fruitful exercise in patience and understanding.  If I don’t want to be ostracized during this season of joyful expression then I must accept the south’s assumption that everyone is Christian during December.

There are no Jews.  No Buddhists.  No celebrations of Kwanzaa.  No agnostic expressions of love and giving.  In fact there are no traditions worthy of recognition other than for those who believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ. You don’t get to play in December’s sandbox of love unless you share the belief in Jesus Christ the lord of lords.

Holiday get togethers I’ve attended start with a prayer in the name of “Jesus Christ our Lord” and, at times, end with an impromptu Bible study of relevant scripture.  That kind of agenda was not included on the invitation but, hey, that’s what this season’s about, isn’t it?

Frankly, I’m not bothered a lick that people believe in the divinity of Christ.  My feeling is that the spiritual path tends to lead to the same place regardless of the avenues taken.  And if it offers joy and peace for people to think Jesus is God, good for them.

It’s equally ok if you don’t.  

And I don’t.

My heritage is Judaism and my family celebrated Hanukkah – in December.  And it usually falls right around Christmas time.

As an adult I don’t identify as Jewish, certainly not as Christian either.  My spiritual tradition incorporates philosophies of Buddhism and Yoga flavored by a Native American appreciation for nature and all living things.  But it’s a personal practice that doesn’t include the assumption that you feel the same way.

I don’t need Jesus to save my soul, in fact, my soul doesn’t need saving.  My conscience is clear, my heart is full, my principles and values are in tact AND I celebrate the season of giving and love during December.  I don’t give thanks for all the grace in my life in the name of Jesus Christ.

If you’re Christian, enjoy the holiness of the season.

If you’re not –

Happy Holidays to you and yours in the name of your own traditions.  May we all absorb the warmth of this time of year and offer it out to the universe.

Namaste.

Carry on …

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oh christmas tree, oh christmas treeThrough the front door there’s a great view of a decked out Christmas tree basking in  white lights, covered with snow and dripping with big sparkly white round ornaments.  A white Christmas is definitely being celebrated in this house.  But the mood is somewhat blue.

My hospice patient and her caregiver husband live here.  They’re both seniors and have spent most of their lives together –  working their family business and traveling in the RV in which they expected a multitude of road trips during their retirement years.

NEW MEXICO 2006 RECREATIONAL VEHICLE plate

Image by woody1778a via Flickr

Four years ago husband sold the RV; wife could no longer negotiate the steps to assume her role as navigator in chief.  That act signified an admission of his wife’s fatal disease and the death of dreams that had been years in the planning.  That was also the last year she spoke; she hasn’t uttered a word since.  Not because she was disappointed, but because her Alzheimer’s had advanced enough to rob her of voice.  Now husband spends his days taking care of her.

Decorating the Christmas tree is something they always did together.  In fact, she bought this very tree and the ornaments.  It came adorned with white lights and snow. This year they decorated together again.  He set it up, he added the balls, covered the tree base, wrapped the presents and carefully arranged them at the bottom.  Wife slumped in her chair, sucked her lower lip, wrung her hands and nodded off.  That’s this year’s Christmas, at least until his children join them in a couple of weeks.

Husband cherishes wife.  She’s the love of his life and when she was diagnosed 8 years ago he promised he’d care for her until the end of her days.  He meant it, despite the sacrifice it entails.

Being housebound is one of those sacrifices, except for my weekly visits to socialize with him and sit with her during the couple of hours he goes where he wants.  His spirits are high, he laughs easily, he loves big.  He embodies the true spirit of giving.  And when he allows himself to think of how things were supposed to be, the twinkle in his eye grows dimmer.

He inspires me.  He fills me with admiration.  What inspires you this season?

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Christmas in the post-War United States

I love the Christmas holiday time, but only after Thanksgiving.  It annoys me to see Christmas upstage Halloween and Thanksgiving in all the commercial venues.

Halloween doesn’t do much for me now that I’m past the candy gorging years but I really enjoy Thanksgiving, what it signifies and the time spent with family.  Then I’m ready to move on to Christmas, playing my share of carols in the car and while decorating (a little bit) around the house.

English: Hanukkah menorah, known also as Hanuk...

The time span from Thanksgiving through Christmas is when I think a lot about friends, who they are and what they mean.  This holiday has no religious significance to me as a non-Christian with Jewish heritage, but it holds plenty of sentimental significance.

I don’t stay in touch well.  Not good on the phone.  Don’t entertain much.  And don’t really spend a lot of hang out time with people who are important to me. In fact, many of them live in different cities around the country. But they never lose their places in my heart.  My close friends, my “peeps” in today’s parlance, are people who date way back to childhood, college, early work years and later work years.  Each of them means something special and represents a certain kind of relationship, one that automatically resumes where we left off even it was a year or two or five or even 25 ago.  Our bond holds fast and strong and if any of them needed me, wherever they lived, I’d be there ASAP.

This is generally called a Christmas Cactus, b...

So it’s to them — you — that I wish happy holidays, whether it’s Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa or nothing at all. It signifies the closing of another year. They go fast and furiously these days so enjoy every minute of them with those you hold dear.

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During meditation this morning I started to focus on what it feels like to meditate.  How the process starts, progresses up to that point where I’ve quieted down enough to lessen my loss of focus and just be there.  Then, where is there?

As I start the process of slowing down I notice my mind racing with a million images and thoughts that accompany them, as though I’m in the middle of a collage as it’s being constructed.  It takes effort to focus on the breath – starting with my nose and then migrating to the abdomen where I can feel breathing in and breathing out.  Immediately, an image catches my attention and steals focus until I’m aware of gently re-guiding awareness back to the breath.  Then to hearing.  Then to breath and hearing as those two senses start to dominate.

Notice the blood coursing through my hands and now my feet.  Listen to my heartbeat while I become comfortable residing inside the body and not out.

Outside starts to drift away while the world inside looms large, growing more peaceful with each breath.  I notice a slight smile on my face while my tongue hugs the roof of my mouth.  Distraction comes and goes, more going than coming.  Peace settles within and my body rests contentedly.

And then I’m there.  Here.  Aware of the quiet.  Aware of sounds.  Aware of breath.  Aware of spaciousness.  Inside.  Not at all outside.

And your meditation experience?

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What Social Media Do You Use?.

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First morning coffee always tastes better on our bus, a 36 foot RV that we call home periodically.  Nestled in the tiny back bedroom, supported by fluffed pillows on the bed and a steaming cup of Joe, life is so much simpler and streamlined.

This home is maybe 300 square feet (with the living room slide extended) and has everything we need within its fiberglass walls, including two of our six member animal brood.  The tiny kitchen has all appliances within arms’ reach making it possible to prepare real meals, which we do everyday.  By applying some creative organization, just about any dish can end up on the kitchen table.

Recreational Vehicle

Image by *Grant* via Flickr

Ever since we acquired “Mr. Bus” back in 2000, I find myself yearning for the road periodically.  Its freedom.  Its adventure.  Its simplicity.  And its interaction with “salt of the earth” kind of people.  All facades are dropped on the road.  It’s as though this private world gives permission for authentic interaction among fellow humans.

A phone book sized guide to campgrounds in the U.S. and Canada allows us to wander aimlessly and still wind up at a decent place for the night, or maybe two or three nights – depending on our wanderlust mood.  It takes us about 15 minutes to hunker down, power up and turn Mr. Bus back into our vacation home.  He’s not fussy or fancy, nor is he shiny and new – but he is comfortable  and cozy.  Within these confining walls lies spaciousness for thoughts and dreams.  Then back on the road we go to wander some more.

So as I take the final sips of coffee on my last morning in Mr. Bus before heading home from our Thanksgiving getaway, I appreciate the opportunity to be here and look forward to our next adventure.

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It’s Thanksgiving and we’re visiting my father-in-law and the rest of the clan on his side of the family.  The yearly tradition brings between 16 – 20 of us together to catch up on the year’s events and see how old the kids are getting – now that many of them are starting to have children of their own.

My father-in-law spends the day beaming as he visits each of us.  He loves watching his brood grow and he takes his place at the head of the assorted tables cobbled together to make one long dining space that stretches from dining room to living room.

For him it’s bittersweet.  It’s the one time of year we all come to visit and feast together.  And in years past he would catch the eye of his wife seated at the far end of the table and blow her a kiss.  This is the second year that chair will be empty.

Dean was married to Susie for 63 years before she died, leaving him alone and unprepared to continue life without her.  For some reason he was blindsided by her passing, even though his kids had been expecting it for years.  He assumed she’d  come home from the most recent hospitalization just like every other time.  This time, though, she didn’t.

He’s been grieving for more than two years now, still heartbroken over losing his one great love. He tells us he talks to her every night to tell her of the day’s events.  He says he apologizes to her for not doing enough for her all those years they were together.

Myrtle Beach, SC Spring Break 2007

Image via Wikipedia

That confession astounds me.  I can’t imagine him doing anything more for that incredibly fortunate woman.  He created and maintained a beautiful garden in their backyard so she could see it through her kitchen window.  Bought a condo in Myrtle Beach to winter there because she loved being near the ocean.  Bought the house she loved in Pennsylvania because she loved it.  To me, their marriage was what fairy tales are made of, built on love and mutual respect.  And now – he bemoans what he thinks he didn’t do.

What he didn’t do is say goodbye to his wife of 63 years.  For him, she suddenly died.  While she was living he never said…

Thank you for a wonderful life together.  Thank you for our four wonderful, productive, achieved kids.  Thank you for working and supporting our household while I was earning a Ph.D in metallurgy.  Thank you for moving where my jobs took me.  And thank you for your never-ending support, friendship and love over the years.

Had he realized she was on a dying path for the last three years of her life, perhaps he might have taken the time to say to her then what he says to her every night now.

The lesson my father-in-law is teaching?  Don’t ever wait to say thanks to the people you love.  And tell them that you love them.  Today, tomorrow and future tomorrows.

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NY - the BroadwayEvery year or so we head to New York for an orgy of theater, one performance after the other.  We see more shows in 4 or 5 days than some people experience in their lifetimes.  It’s my favorite thing to do and fills me up until our next visit. Theater has always been my first love and I dreamed of being a star on a Broadway stage one day.  But reality took over and eventually my sensibility caught up to the realization that performing was not my strength.  That didn’t dampen my love for the performing arts, though, and attending top quality theater is necessary fuel for my soul.

This trip takes place pre-Thanksgiving, 2011, when we attended 7 stage shows in 4 days.  Here’s a snapshot to tickle the taste buds for the rest of you theater lovers with plans to visit the Great White Way.

Fantasticks has been around for 50 years and this is the first time I’ve seen it.  What a delightfully intimate experience in this small off-Broadway stage where our front row seats had the actors practically in our laps during some of their leaps.  It’s a sweet love story built around a contrived feud between two neighbors.  Songs are lovely and the performers are real pros.  Pop star Aaron Carter is in this show and while he’s adequate as the young love interest, he’s the weakest link on the cast.

Radio City Christmas Spectacular is a feast for the senses, in fact, it’s actually an experience of sensory overload.  Of course there are the Rockettes– but their backdrop is a 3 story high screen on which runs a variety of technicolor scenes from stars of the Milky Way to a computer generated tour of NYC streets.  More than 1200 costumes are worn in this show, all color coordinating with the sets, backdrops and lights.  The double-decker “tour NY” bus seen in one scene is 34 feet long and 12 feet high, yet is dwarfed against the scenes running on the LED screen behind it.  It’s an amazing show, impressive in every way!

Hugh Jackman at the X-Men Origins: Wolverine p...

Hugh Jackman on Broadway might have been my favorite experience this year.  This man can do it all – act, sing, dance, ad-lib and his breezy, natural showmanship is a sheer delight.  He’s supported by 6 gorgeous “dream girls” whose voices provide beautiful harmony and whose dance skills add sexy flair to his choreography.  Jackman is on Broadway for just 10 weeks before he leaves to film the role of Jean Valjean in the movie version of “Les Miserables.”  If you can swing it – his show is not to be missed!  Hugh Jackman on Broadway

Sister Act is a high energy musical after the first 20 minutes or so.  It was a good show, not my favorite.  The acting disappointed me and wasn’t Broadway calibre, in my opinion.  But once the music and staging kicked in I started enjoying myself, especially the large ensemble numbers.  Actress Patina Miller (Deloris) is the real reason to see the show.  She belts out song after song with a strong stylized alto voice that epitomizes a Broadway star.

War Horse is a stunning play staged at Lincoln Center depicting the 8,000,000 horses that were killed during WWI.  This is what theater is supposed to be.  Inventive and effective staging offer the perfect blend of “see what’s being said” vs. allowing your imagination to tell the rest of the story.  The Irish brogue is flawless and the horses … ah the horses…impressive life-sized puppets, each operated by 3 people who control all movements both large and small.  Subtle ear twitching, snorting, trotting and galloping all accomplished by the humans beside and underneath – yet all any of us see are horses.  Live, spirited, muscular, living-breathing horses.  Uncanny and incredible!  Definitely deserved its Tony!

Sons of the Prophet, a comedy that does provoke a number of laughs with the twisted perspectives of its characters, is well acted and interestingly staged.  But its story of relentless dysfunction among its characters grew tiresome for me – partly because the 1 hour 45 minute play had no intermission and partly because its circular story seemed to go nowhere.  At one point it just started, and at a similar point it simply ended as though the entire play was just a lift from a typical dysfunctional series of events among the participants.  I must say that there wasn’t a weak performance among them though, including Joanna Gleason who’s been seen in many TV series and movies in her career.

Billy Elliot is a really powerful musical about the dancing dreams of a young boy despite his non-supportive working class mining family.  This show has it all – strong story, powerful music, quality voices and effective staging and set design.  There are 4 boys who play Billy; we saw Peter Mazurowski who’s a killer little dancer at 11 years old but whose forte is not yet singing.  You’ve got to hurry to catch this show because it closes in early January.

Excellence at its finest is what Broadway is all about. It doesn’t matter if a show is happy or sad, you’ll usually find me crying in the audience overwhelmed by the sublime.

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The discouraged Nenene suffering from writer's...

I think I’m going through the phenomenon writers call writer’s block (although I just read a writer’s diatribe that it doesn’t exist.  He says if a writer can’t write, she’s not a writer.) Each time I sit down to write to an idea I’ve had, nothing but the first line comes out.  And when I push myself to continue, sentences form, sure enough, but they go nowhere with no point being made.  It’s maddening and it’s tiring.

It’s also unfamiliar to me.  As a professional developer of ideas that get concocted from thin air and build into television events or projects it stands to reason that the prolific creativity machine should be well oiled to avoid misfires.  It’s not.

Writer's Block

Image by thorinside via Flickr

This writing thing is a different medium.  And I’m not so bold as to actually call myself a writer; I’m not (see Mr. Writer expert?).  I’m practicing to become one.  To find my voice.  To develop a style.  To stumble upon a genre.  And to be honest, because truth-telling is one of those necessary virtues in non-fiction writing, which seems to be my preference.  At least for now.

After participating in a 4-week non-fiction creative writing series for women, I came away a little more practiced and fluid, but with no principles to stash in my back pocket to help with construction.  She said there were none.  Maybe that’s the case for creative writing.  But certainly there are things to remember when putting fingers to the keyboard with the intention of making the material interesting to people.

Barnes & Noble.

Image by _e.t via Flickr

As I write I’m sitting in the Barnes & Noble Cafe with a stack of writing and pop culture magazines to get my juices flowing.  This technique always worked during my TV years.  Bring a notebook, grab some magazines and books, peruse them and brainstorm new concepts.  And in fact, as soon as I sat down with my tall decaf and biscotti, this notion of spilling my guts occurred to me.  Maybe if I actually record my stuckness, I’ll become unstuck?

My years of television creation appealing to a mass public has taught me that if you want people to watch, you have to give them something they can identify with, become fascinated by, aspire to or become informed by.  And you have to target the right crowd.

Well my crowd is the boomer population, particularly boomer women with professional backgrounds because that’s where I am in my life.  Working to discover “next” that’s as exciting as what was.  And to share the process as I live life unencumbered by the daily routine of deadlines, expectations and management challenges.

But I digress.  My dear friend in California is in the throes of self publishing her first book.  How cool is that?  We worked together in radio many moons ago and she’s moved on to a number of things, one of which keeps her passion for writing alive.  I can’t wait to buy a copy.

For now, I’ll continue to muddle my way through.  I’m discovering writing to be an interesting challenge.  And I got a gig as a community columnist for our local daily paper.  I hope to make those pieces interesting.  And I really really hope I don’t experience this kind of obstacle with my deadline looming.  I have 3 in the can, so to speak, ready for tweaking.  Cross your fingers for me.

gif for avatar used on Webpages/Weblogs

In the meantime — tell me, how do you oil your writing machines?  Please oh please share!  Now on to my magazines!

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A comment by Annie Liebowitz has really gained a foot hold in my psyche, naming the amorphous ramblings in my brain about what might be next for me.  She has a new photography book out called “Pilgrimage” and she was recently interviewed about it by Dominique Browning in the Times.  She wrote it to “save myself,” she told Browning, “to remind myself of what I like to do, what I can do.”

She was looking for a way to nurture her creativity in a new raw, rather primal testament to where she stands in her life now – and she photographed objects instead of people.

For some reason the thought of Annie Liebowitz experiencing a creative crisis is anathema to me.  She’s certainly among the most well-known photographers of this era, amassing a healthy livelihood along the way.  And yet she reached a point in her life where she questioned, what’s next?

Her talent is photography; more importantly, she’s able to communicate a mood, attitude of a subject that transcends the page and penetrates our soul.

What is this nebulous noun, talent, and how is it recognized and, ultimately, grown?  According to Liebowitz it can disappear.  “It needs to be nurtured, taken care of.”  And that’s why she’s forging experimental terrain with her “Pilgrimage” subject matter.

Winfrey on the first national broadcast of The...

Image via Wikipedia

Oprah’s talent is communication and empathy.

Steve Jobs shows off iPhone 4 at the 2010 Worl...

Image via Wikipedia

Steve Jobs married intuition with innovation to realize his blazing talent.

Thomas Friedman, American journalist, columnis...

Image via Wikipedia

Thomas Friedman blends the gift of writing with insight and intellect to manifest his talent.

What about the rest of us?  How do we grow our talent, help it to blossom and bear fruit?

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