Spent

The notes rolled off my fingers, taking with them little peices of me. 

Each eighth note, each sixteenth that flew by took it's toll. 

I am left with music ringing in my ears, and a mixed voice of relief, regret, but mostly a job well done.

There were, of course, some wrong notes, some ill-timed ones, and some not as clear and confident. Of that I am painfully aware. 

We do not achieve perfection. We keep trying, knowing that we can get closer each time than we were before.

I did not run a marathon. In fact, I barely got my dishes done, but I did play a lot of notes.

The day is done, and I am done too. 

Such is the life of a pianist. 

An Open Letter to Republicans/Conservatives

Dear Ones,

We hold the last bastion of traditional thought. But blabbering it abroad indiscriminately is akin to holding a viper in one's bosom.

This viper will bite and suck until it has drawn the last drop of blood from our collective veins because the 'other team' and even some of our own do not include the word 'tradition' in their vocabulary except as a profanity. Tradition and by extension all of it's relatives, such as constitutionality, and reverence for the founding fathers of America constitute profanity against progressivism; a drag on the marketplace of ideas that frankly are the driving factor behind most big business.

Can you imagine for a moment what might happen to the most prominent market genuis of our day, if they used the idea of tradition as a marketing ploy? Yeah, well those who dis Apple, the ultimate model of success, do so at their own peril.

It's not that traditional values are the enemy of the modern world, because they aren't. In fact you probably agree with me that they are a big part of the answer for the onslaught of violence, poverty and pain in our world. However the perception that one is remaining in or returning to the past endgenders all kinds of nightmares including but not limited to, slavery, the oppression of women, and a world without, *gasp* the constant flow of communication and information.

Now, I know that for us T/C types this is not necessarily true, but it must be understood before any ground is gained on the poitical front. "Know thy enemy" was never more crucial advice.


If I hear another politician on the right use the phrase traditional values, I think I will zone out like a kid listening to a sermon on transubstantiation.

Recently I heard a sane voice calling on all candidates to "find the issues that transcend party lines" and it has been buzzing in my head ever since.

While the viper of the semantic of traditionalism is a real danger, the other is more elusive.

It is a lack of vision, a vaccum waiting to be filled by the left with a myriad of social issues that all hunker under one battle cry - "Fairness". Such a nice idea. I wish it could be legislated. While I remove my tongue from being embedded in my cheek, please take a moment to think how the idea of "Fairness" has stripped reason and initiative from the country. Lest you mistake, "with liberty and justice for all" as a substitute for fairness, may I suggest that "fairness" at least in our household of four daughters, is a dead ringer for dissension and lack of unity.

Here then is the vision that is so sadly needed. Unity. One people. All different. Life has not treated them all the same. It never does. Get over it. Get beyond it. We may have forgotten that we are one people, no matter our party affiliation. We must remember it lest we tear ourselves apart.

Let's go after a "more perfect union" and let's take everyone with us.

A Mother Only a Son Could Forgive

When Philip Oglesby's mother is in the room, the tone is unmistakably, well, not motherly. She has a demeanor that dominates by insulting decency itself. This is precisely why he did not really want to visit her on Mother's Day. 

But, in fact, he did. And that visit rewarded him with a trip to jail for being an accessory to Williemaye Oglesby's armed robbery of a church. But that's not the most insane outcome of the story that Vincent crafts from the sardonic tale of lost childhood, neglect, and dysfunction that runs so deep you can cut it with a knife. Amid the backdrop of the American south, complete with comfort food, nepotistic law enforcement, and what would be a comedy of errors but for the sobering fact that Vincent just might know about this firsthand, we are treated to a backdoor peep into rural America. But the most remarkable element of the story is the choice that Philip Ogelsby makes after the chaotic and  criminal way he has been treated by the woman who should have protected him, proving once again that evil can be overcome with good. 

Coming Back

A stranger for a time to the traditions and habits of my faith, I crawl back on tender knees and ask my Father if He has minded too terribly that I took a Sabbatical from the trappings of a world that had grown too narrow, too dusty, and too cramped for my bursting lungs. The only guilt I have is from the echos of mortals I can't seem to emulate in their self-flagellation, their view from the bottom. 

He seemed to say, "We've been here all along. But then, for that matter there's nowhere that we aren't. You haven't gone so far after all. Glad you got some air."

Does anyone understand this? 

Dr. Who?

The doctor makes house calls. In fact, he traipses through my living room almost nightly.

Yes. I'm hooked.

Cheesy? Yep. Unbelievable plot line and trekky-like sci-fi props? Yep.

British accents? Well, yes and more. Scottish and Welsh. American English and Dalek. Oops, I just slipped into that annoying fan habit of referencing a show as if everyone knows what I'm talking about,

But...if you are still reading, you probably do. 

So I'm among friends, then? Good. Just please don't respond with ANY spoilers about ANYTHING, since I have no idea what season I'm in or how much on either end I've missed. I've just been time-travelling with the doctor, and I can't always keep track of where I am.

Final Score

The flu and I tangled. There was pain. There was blood. There was phlegm. And an awful lot of tissue.

Flu lost.

I won.

Requiem For American Bread

 I came. I saw. I ate bread.

German Brot. 

I now, I know. I should have been wowed by the cathedrals, especially the monstrously big one at Cologne. 

the castles,

the autobahn, the beautiful and quaint old streets and houses,

the beer.

 

I was...but.

The bread. 

How do we keep a country running on Sara Lee, Wonder, Little Debbie, and Dunkin Donuts?

*Embarrassed pause*

I think I just discovered the secret of the universe. 

You heard the one about the tourist who walks into a German bakery and asks for a loaf of bread?

Yeah, never happened. It was always two loaves or three if I could get away with it. I smuggled three loaves through customs. Everyone told me I couldn't. "Hid" one in each piece of luggage and they all made it through. 

So now I am attempting to make this delicious hearty food of the gods. The problem is it takes about 12-14 days all told to make. So my sourdough starter is fermenting on the counter, and I am salivating as I type.

More on this later...

Highlights from the trip to Germany that were unrelated to bread.

Cobblestone.

Beautiful. Hard to walk on for hours.

The castle at Krefield. A medieval castle complete with moat, turrets and a dungeon. When I walked onto the grounds, I felt for just a moment that I was a princess stepping into a dream.

Until I had to climb the steps to the tower. I remembered  I wasn't in tiptop shape. This was painfully obvious by the last set of quaint, winding irregular stairs. 

The Brandenburg Gate.

The Bundestag.

The complete lack of homeless people. Ok well, I did see three. And that was three total in three major cities. But for the most part I observed a lot less fear of crime as corroborated by my amazing, wonderfully gracious native German hosts. We left cameras in our car, with no problem.

 I entered a metal flying machine and was whisked away to another world. I will never be the same.

I even used a little of the German I've been working on. Ein bisschen. 

And now it's a memory logged in my heart and mind forever. And if I can manage it, in my digestive system in the future. Pictures of my sourdough starter to come in a future blog.