Yellow

Every time I pull up at Lake Junaluska and cross the wooden one-way bridge to my little paradise, I say, "Oh, I miss you so much, Teri!"

It's not ritual. It's simply instinct.

I hold so many beautiful memories of my friend Teri here at the lake. She is a part of my story even today--six years after her death. If ever there was a life that expired too soon, it's T's. I will never understand. I'm grateful that I don't have to.

So as I sit in front of Lake J tonight, here's a poem I wrote last November in memory of Teri Hughes--my friend with the big laugh and even bigger heart.


I remember she laughed like yellow
it colored daffodils and warm honey and summertime
so loud and leaping

it lingered for some time after the fall of her breath—

which dropped like the first autumn leaf
that pirouetted to the grass
its yellow turned brown
its brown quickly crumbled
beneath the footsteps of toddlers chasing bubbles
brothers tossing pigskins
lovers kissing goodnight under the tree’s shelter
its crumble turned to dust—

and I wonder how the sun manages to find its yellow now.

Dark Hotel

K.S. Rhoads--a brilliant musician, poet, singer--is creator of a song I cannot stop playing. Your best introduction to it will be by listening to it on his MySpace page and then scrolling down a bit to purchase the CD, also available on his page.

In a time where we can iClick only one catchy song and ignore the full story an entire CD tells, you will not want to make the iMistake of only hearing this one song. His entire debut album is lovely in all of its melancholy/lamenting glory. I cannot stop listening to it.

And I cannot believe that I pay only a few dollars to experience a show where he shares his music right here in Nashville. His live performance is captivating. It feels like watching genuine emotion ask genius musicianship to dance . . . the waltz, hip hop and then ballet. Check him out soon, Nashvillians, before he blows up and wins a Grammy!

Ok . . . my Rhoads rave aside, let's talk about this song in particular. It's the essence of what I hope to capture in the lament book I'm writing--a simple, raw plea. I want to share the lyrics with you (as I hear them, so I hope they're correct because I have not found the lyrics posted anywhere):

Dark Hotel
K.S. Rhoads

my voice is broken, got a broken string,
a broken wing, and everything
makes me want to cry
and my only love is gone away to stay
can't even look forward to the end of the day
to come home to her at night

oh lord, give me peace
and put my sorry, singing, saddled soul at ease




and bring me hope
i need a little, just a little
and give me strength
i need a little, just a little
an offering of faith
i need a little, just a little
bring me hope
i need a little so I can hold on

dream of dying in a dark hotel
like a silver coin drowning at the bottom of a well
the bluebird’s back, singing in the willow
washing his wings in the water on my pillow

so wake me up
in autumn leaves
to the part of me that still believes
there’s beauty on the other side of the river

oh lord, give me peace
and put my sorry, singing, saddled soul at ease

and bring me hope
i need a little, just a little
and give me strength
i need a little, just a little
an offering of faith
i need a little, just a little
bring me hope
i need a little so I can hold on

get me out of this wishing well
dream of dying in a dark hotel
break me out of this prison cell
only love can save me now

Ali Farka Touré, musician from Mali, dies

I discovered Ali Farka Touré only about two months ago. He's amazing. Since downloading his music on iTunes, I've listened to it nearly every day.

This morning I read that Touré died in his sleep Monday in Mali. If you've never listened to him, I encourage you to check him out today in celebration of his life and his music.

Celebrating Virgil!

I met Virgil in South Africa. He dated Lynne, a cousin of the Pillay family I stayed with in Johannesburg. He's not someone I saw each day. He was always at church and at the house on weekends. He and Lynne reached out to me since we were all close in age. We watched movies together. He toted me around in his car at times, carrying my big red bag from house-to-house. I often had to ask him to repeat everything he said because his accent was deliciously thicker than the others. Lynne would laugh and say that they didn't always understand what he was saying, either.

Virgil insisted that I fall in love with South Africa. He wanted to make sure I tried all of the good sweeties, so he stopped at a store and purchased South African and Indian goodies for me. I'm certain I broke his heart when one sour candy nearly made me want to cut my tongue out of my mouth. I assured him I loved the country, though. He asked me what I'd tell everyone about Johannesburg when I got home. Virgil said he was sick of hearing how Johannesburg is one of the most dangerous cities in the world. He wanted to make sure I went home sharing how safe I felt in most places. He imagined it was like any other city--you just know where not to go and avoid those places. His little boy--about 4 years old--stared at me and laughed at my accent when we met. Payback for me asking his dad to repeat all of the time, I guess.

When I was there, Virgil was sick most of the time I saw him, coughing a lot and having to rest at times. When I finally asked about his cold, he told me he had Leukemia and was awaiting a bone marrow transplant. I received an e-mail this morning saying that Virgil succumbed to the disease Dec. 19. Today I celebrate Virgil--the few weeks of his life I was able to experience! I pray for his family and friends who are learning a new way of living without him right now.

Withering Calla

I love receiving flowers, and I detest when they wither.

My calla lily withered. It lost the freshness that made it beautiful, the vitality that made me smile and think that it just might live longer than its supposed lifespan.

As I detest the death of this gorgeous, lovely gift that is no more, I stop myself from thinking of what plant food I could've given it or how changing the water might have given it another day in the vase. I've done that with roses and carnations before.

This time it's a calla lily--a flower I've never received from anyone before, one of my favorites. I treat it tenderly. See I enjoyed every minute of how it made my room feel when it was alive. And I'm glad that I'm letting it go before it gets too old and stains the vase with mildew and yuckiness (also a thing I've done with roses and carnations). It's lived, and it's not living anymore. And that's life.

I love being given this calla lily, and I destest that it's withered.

And so it is . . .


Calla #3 by Allan Baillie

Soul Tears

The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.

-Native American proverb

*Art by Shelly Ritter: Soul's Rainbow. Check out her work here.

1913-2005

"The time had just come when I had been pushed as far as I could stand to be pushed, I suppose. They placed me under arrest. And I wasn't afraid. I don't know why I wasn't, but I didn't feel afraid. I had decided that I would have to know once and for all what rights I had as a human being and a citizen, even in Montgomery, Alabama."

- Rosa Parks, 1913-2005: Parks, civil rights hero and catalyst for the Mongomery Bus Boycott, died Monday at age 92. (as quoted in SoJo mail)

My great-grandmother was born two years before Ms. Parks in 1911. 1911! She's lived so much of the history I read in books. And I know she lived them fiercely! I received a letter from my Granny today . . . she is lovely!

Ms. Parks . . . in her 92 years of living is hope for all. She reminds us that one strategic action by one "tiny" person can start a movement for change. I hope we all keep a bit of Ms. Parks in our hearts when we face "the back of the bus."