Starting Over (We're About 9)

It's the last day of January 2020 and, despite the re-occurrence of my back problems and a few blips with family and friends, it's been a good year so far.  I really have enjoyed being off Facebook (so much sensory overload), being more productive, spending more time with Colin, and reading like a motherf*cker (more on that in another post...  :-)

My calendar is full, but with joyful activities and interactions, and I'm trying to create white space for breathing and introspection as well.  Who the h*ll am I without a job, a concert series, social media?!?  Stay tuned.

Thunder rolls in the distance and, if it does start storming, I'll probably make a cup of lemon ginger tea, with a swirl of honey, and go out to my lounge chair on the balcony to listen and smell the agitating air.  Feels like my heart, or the backs of my legs when the sciatica hits.  Electricity.  Shocking.  Awareness.


SONG:  Starting Over by We're About 9

BOOK:  The Book of Awakening: Having the Life You Want by Being Present to the Life You Have by Mark Nepo

POEM:  Burning the Old Year by Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.

QUOTE:  “And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been." ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Everybody Hurts (R.E.M.)

From Rob Brezsny's Astrology Newsletter
January 8, 2020:

"Play the game called "Tell me the story of your scars." It's best to do it with a skilled empath who is curious about your fate's riddles and skilled at helping you find redemption in your wounds.

"How did you get that blotch on your knee?" he or she might begin, and you describe the time in childhood when you fell on the sidewalk. Then maybe he or she would say, "Why do you always look so sad when you hear that song?"

And you'd narrate the tale of how it was playing when an old lover broke your heart. The questions and answers continue until you unveil the history of your hurts, both physical and psychic. Treat yourself to this game soon."


When I read this, I immediately thought of the scene in Jaws, as they regale each other, in a one-upmanship style, with show-and-tells of their scars.

Blogs are created safe spaces to share our pain, internal and external, as well as our pleasures.  All this to say that my sciatica has come back (two years after its first appearance in December 2017), and it is entirely my fault.  Not enough activity, too much sitting, lots of picking up of my 25-pound, 18-month-old grandson.  Retirement has its perks and drawbacks.

The last few weeks have found me in agony.  Mornings are always the worst, and I've been trying to focus on stretching before I get too far out of bed.  Shooting pains (electric shocks?) down the back of my legs are almost unbearable, but I know I can turn this around.  Had a massage last week with Karen, who should be canonized for her healing touch.  More stretching, more walking, a return to yoga, maybe even a few visits to the chiropractor (tomorrow?).

Knock on wood, I have been very lucky to have no/limited health problems, when I am surrounded by so many who have debilitating issues or illnesses. Tonight I will pop an Aleve, descend into a coma-like sleep, and awake tomorrow with a renewed desire to beat this, and come back stronger than before.


SONG:  Everybody Hurts by R.E.M.

BOOK:  Why We Hurt: The Natural History of Pain Hardcover by Frank T. Vertosick Jr.

POEM:  Praise the Rain by Joy Harjo

Praise the rain; the seagull dive
The curl of plant, the raven talk—
Praise the hurt, the house slack
The stand of trees, the dignity—
Praise the dark, the moon cradle
The sky fall, the bear sleep—
Praise the mist, the warrior name
The earth eclipse, the fired leap—
Praise the backwards, upward sky
The baby cry, the spirit food—
Praise canoe, the fish rush
The hole for frog, the upside-down—
Praise the day, the cloud cup
The mind flat, forget it all—

Praise crazy. Praise sad.
Praise the path on which we're led.
Praise the roads on earth and water.
Praise the eater and the eaten.
Praise beginnings; praise the end.
Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

QUOTE:  "Strength doesn't mean an absence of pain." ~ Aja Naomi King

To Live Is to Fly (Townes Van Zandt)

From the Writer's Almanac:

It was on this day in 1986 (34 years ago) that the space shuttle Challenger exploded 73 seconds after takeoff, killing all seven astronauts aboard. That evening, President Ronald Reagan eulogized the lost astronauts in one of the finest addresses of his presidency. He said, "We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved goodbye and slipped 'the surly bonds of earth' to 'touch the face of God.' "


SONG:  To Live Is to Fly by Townes Van Zandt

BOOK:  Truth, Lies, and O-Rings: Inside the Space Shuttle Challenger Disaster by Allan J McDonald and James R. Hansen

POEM: In the Lobby of the Hotel del Mayo by Raymond Carver

The girl in the lobby reading a leather-bound book.
The man in the lobby using a broom.
The boy in the lobby watering plants.
The desk clerk looking at his nails.
The woman in the lobby writing a letter.
The old man in the lobby sleeping in his chair.
The fan in the lobby revolving slowly overhead.
Another hot Sunday afternoon.

Suddenly, the girl lays her finger between the pages of her book.
The man leans on his broom and looks.
The boy stops in his tracks.
The desk clerk raises his eyes and stares.
The woman quits writing.
The old man stirs and wakes up.
What is it?

Someone is running up from the harbor.
Someone who has the sun behind him.
Someone who is bare-chested.
Waving his arms.

It's clear something terrible has happened.
The man is running straight for the hotel.
His lips are working themselves into a scream.

Everyone in the lobby will recall their terror.
Everyone will remember this moment for the rest of their lives.

QUOTE:  "And, in a funny way, each death is different and you mourn each death differently and each death brings back the death you mourned earlier and you get into a bit of a pile-up." ~ Nigella Lawson

Bring My Flowers Now (Tanya Tucker)

This post has the potential to go long, as I describe the adventure ("isn't that what you would call it?", sings Dar) that was the 30A Songwriters Festival last weekend.  I give you permission now to pull the plug at any time...  :-)

My husband and I flew up to Pensacola Thursday evening (1/16) to meet up with my college roommate Linda and her husband Craig.  I had booked our flights on Silver Airways, because it was the only airline that flew non-stop from Ft. Lauderdale (we hate Miami Airport).  I knew something was awry when I checked in the night before and saw there were only 48 seats on the plane.  Yikes!  We got to the airport, went to the gate and, when they called our flight, I looked out the window and joked to Chico that the little pink prop plane on the tarmac was ours.  Um... yup.  Taxied so far and long on the runway, my next joke was that we were just going to drive I-75/I-10 all the way to Pensacola.  Fortunately, we did take off at some point, and to be fair to them, it was a nice, smooth flight, as was the return trip ("and I'd do it again", Dar, different song).

Linda and Craig picked us up at the airport, we spent Thursday night, swung by Wendy (Linda's co-teacher before they retired, and her husband) and her husband Don's house Friday morning, ate lunch in Destin, and finally got to our cabin in Santa Rosa Beach about 3:30 p.m., whereupon we quickly got settled so we could hear some music.  The festival is named 30A after the highway most of the venues are on, with a few offshoots.  It's pricey, with an extensive line-up, and sets you up for failure in that you're never going to see everyone you want to, and basically have to decide on a venue to sit through for the evening, as opposed to bopping around from place to place. Wah!

We collaboratively agreed on a Friday night plan, and headed out to see two rounds: Eliot Bronson and Danielle Howle, both of whom I am familiar with (she opened for Ani DiFranco at the Carefree Theatre in West Palm Beach a bazillion years ago!).  Amazing set, and a great way to start our festival experience.  Next round was Sierra Hull and Steve Poltz, the first a discovery of Craig's at Merlefest and the second a Bucket List item for me (Jewel's boyfriend and co-writer a long-time ago).  She was a young, beautiful, mandolin whiz and he an older, energetic nutjob (in the best possible way), such that, even though I'm on a buying moratorium, I had to spring for a T-shirt.  Another great set, to end the evening...  :-)

Back to the cabin for late-night snacking and drinking, up again Saturday morning for coffee, then on to the outdoor amphitheatre, where the gates opened at 11 a.m., music beginning at noon.  The festival modus operandi for both Saturday and Sunday is to showcase three big-name acts at this large venue exclusively, with no other music running concurrently.  Saturday was Tanya Tucker, Indigo Girls, and John Prine.  Tanya is back on the scene after a 17-year hiatus, largely due to the support/encouragement of Brandi Carlile (and just had a showcase spot at the last night's Grammys).

The next two sets were Indigo Girls (Emily had a bad cold, which really affected her voice, but we did get to sing along to Closer to Fine and Galileo); and John Prine, who looked and sounded amazing, showcasing several tunes on his new CD, Tree of Forgiveness, which I need to listen to immediately.  He also called Tanya Tucker back to sing harmony with him on Angel from Montgomery and Paradise.

We all went on to the next venue, got there just as they were taking a break, and breezed right in, waiting only 10 minutes for a round with Sierra Hull (previously-described mandolin whiz), Allison Moorer (ex-wife of Steve Earle, sister of Shelby Lynne), and Mindy Smith.  All were great, but I was especially captivated by Moorer who, after decades of keeping it quiet, has recently written a book and a companion CD, about her father murdering her mother, and then turning the gun on himself, which she and her sister witnessed when they were children.  Her song Nightlight broke my heart.

Then... TODD!!!  When I discovered early in the festival that I was never going to be able to see everyone I wanted, I basically said that as long as I could hear Todd Snider, I was happy.  Mission Accomplished, in the best possible way!  His performances can go either way:  on-task, focused songwriting and storytelling, or off-the-rails, drugged-out, mumbling, stumbling, possibly cutting his set short.  Fortunately, he was more of the former, as Linda had seen him a few years back (exhibiting latter behavior), and was unimpressed. We got to sing along to Beer Run, and he did some introspective songs as well.  He also told a story about wearing shoes lately on stage, as he had performed barefoot all his life, which his doctor said was probably the reason for many of Todd's health problems.  "Well, that and drugs", he said, "but at least I met him halfway".  Hilarious!

Back to our cabin for more late-night snacking, drinking, and conversation.  I am fond of saying that I can still do everything I used to; it just takes me longer to recover.  That was the theme of this weekend...  :-)

Sunday morning, back to the outdoor amphitheatre to end up in the same place we were the day before, a few rows behind the fence of the VIP area. Good sightlines, plus they had a Jumbotron on either side of the main stage with close-ups.  I said before that this festival is pricey, and VIP tickets were even more so.  It's a wealthy demographic, and I joked all weekend about the plethora of animal prints in the women's clothing:  jackets, shirts, headbands, and boots.  Begone the rain of the day before; it was now sunny and cold.  I wore my pussy hat...  :-)

As I was headed to the food tent to buy a cup of coffee, I ran into someone I had met the day before, who told me that David Olney had died onstage the night before, and a feeling of such sadness overtook me.  From Amy Rigby...

The day's line-up was nostalgia:  Herman's Hermits with Peter Noone, Don McLean, and Brian Wilson.  Peter Noone was charming and spritely, saying that they didn't write any new songs for this gig; instead they would perform all the songs we knew and loved... and they did!  From Henry the VIII to Mrs. Brown to There's a Kind of Hush, they led us on a journey of our past, and muscle memory kicked in and the audience sang along to everything.  Such fun!  Don McLean was a big yawn/snore, ending up with American Pie (he didn't even do Vincent), which was cool but not enough.  Brian Wilson lent his name to the next set, and sang on about every fourth song, but all the "heavy lifting" was done by the other 10 guys on stage, who were amazing.  Brian just looked sad and cold, even wiping his nose on his sleeve a few times, and the camera crew soon learned to focus elsewhere.  There was a part in the middle of the set of "new" songs, which no one in the audience knew, and people began to leave.  Again, so very sad.

Back to the room to warm up and eat, then into town again to hear an in-the-round with four songwriters in the venue where Olney had died the night before, which set the mood for a very somber evening.  Then on to hear Mary Gauthier (who I adore), accompanied by Jaimee Harris, her accompanist/girlfriend, and Will Kimbrough (who used to play lead guitar for The Nervous Wrecks, Todd Snider's band, and is quite the talent in his own right). The night continued on a serious note, as Will shared that Olney was his across-the-street neighbor, and said that he would be going home to a very different neighborhood.  He then quoted the iconic singer songwriter Townes Van Zandt:  "Anytime anyone asks me who my favorite music writers are, I say Mozart, Lightnin' Hopkins, Bob Dylan, and Dave Olney. Dave Olney is one of the best songwriters I've ever heard – and that's true. I mean that from my heart", and then proceeded to play To Live Is to Fly, which I adore.  Not a dry eye in the house.

Back to the cabin for our ritual of eating, drinking, and yakking... then up the next morning to pack and check out.  The cabin was within walking distance of the gulf, so we of course had to do that, and we strolled along the beach for over an hour, witnessing the beauty of Mother Nature's blue skies, fluffy clouds, and sun sparkling on the water.  Tried to see a bit more music on our way out of town, but all three venues we stopped at were packed, so we bid adieu to 30A, and headed back to Pensacola.

The F*cking End!

SONG:  Bring My Flowers Now by Tanya Tucker

BOOK:  A Month of Sonnets by David Olney

POEM:  The Uses of Sorrow by Mary Oliver

Someone I loved once gave me

a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand

that this, too, was a gift.

QUOTE:  "When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh


P.S.  I think the hardest thing about coming back to blogging is going to be... not repeating songs, books, poems, and quotes I've already used.  Ack!

Reelin' in the Years (Steely Dan)

I am having a deja vu moment, in that I popped back onto my blog in January 2013 to resurrect it and then nothing, until today, seven years and 25 days later, I am making the same attempt.  Let's hope it sticks this time!

Allow me to re-introduce myself.  I'm Susan.  Wife/Mom/Lala, vegan, fanatical reader, music lover, eternal optimist.  I not only retired from my office job in June 2019, but also the booking/presenting of a 14-year folk and acoustic concert series.  I said to someone the other day that I've been scraping so many things off my proverbial plate lately that I almost don't even need a plate anymore...  :-)

At midnight on New Year's Eve, I deactivated my Facebook account, and I was a bit nervous.  Trying more to *Be Here, Now* (thanks, Ram Dass!).  It's actually been very liberating and exciting, catching up on reading and sleeping, and accomplishing much on my shorter-every-day To Do List, without the need to check the little blue f icon.

Still not sure if it's temporary (at least until the end of this month) or permanent, but I don't have to decide that yet.  However, I *really* missed writing on a regular basis, hence my move back to blogging.  I've always fancied myself to be a good writer, as well as a worshipper of words in most forms and fashion.  My goal is #9 of 40 Resolutions for 2020 by Ellis Paul (musician):

"Write. Then write again. Write songs and letters, quotes and notes, scribbles and doodles, to do’s and don’ts, lines with rhymes, lyrics and scripts, limericks and puns and one liner quips, zingers and ringers that spin round a phrase, and grocery list stories that run off the page. Write novels that grovel, unstable fables, a treatise of words that could break an oak table, a haiku, a sonnet, a speech, a play, a love song that takes the world’s tears all away. Write graffiti that makes a beating heart rush, write something so dirty Bukowski would blush, write comedies, jokes, and twenty act plays, tragedies with maladies only Shakespeare would say. Write like you’re bailing a boat with a cup, write like your pencil will never give up."

Sooooo much to catch you all up on.  Happy 2020 (what a f*cking great metaphor, right?), and Welcome (back)!

P.S.  I don't have Photobucket anymore to host my pictures, so I am leaving the ones on my past posts with their watermark, not having time to go back and fix them all.  Moving forward...  :-)


SONG:  Reelin' in the Years by Steely Dan

BOOK:  Becoming by Michelle Obama

POEM: Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

QUOTE:  "In my later years, I have looked in the mirror each day and found a happy person staring back. Occasionally I wonder why I can be so happy. The answer is that every day of my life I've worked only for myself and for the joy that comes from writing and creating. The image in my mirror is not optimistic, but the result of optimal behavior." ~ Ray Bradbury