You say goodbye....I say hello

A simple pleasure in life is picking up a loved one at the airport.
A complex pain in life is dropping them off at the airport.

It's not about the time of day or day of the week that inspires this post.  It's about recognizing the unexpected changes that dangle in front of you when loved ones live far away.  For me, it is having two brothers who live 5000 miles away - one on Maui and one on Big Island.  It is also about my daughter living 300 miles away at college.

The brother closest to me in age, Vincent, moved to Maui on November 1, 1978.  At the time, it was as though he was heading toward another planet. (In an effort to describe her feelings about Vincent's long distance move, my mother stated, "I hope you have children who move to Australia!" She then paused, dissatisfied that her point was not pointed enough and changed the destination: "Not Australia - To Mars!") Vincent tried to relate his move with that of our grandparents who came here from Italy in the early 20th century.  That did not, as they say, play in Peoria with my mom. 

Vincent was just shy of his 25th birthday at the time, so he has lived on Maui much longer than he did on the mainland.  I think I can say with confidence that he is staying. 

I drove him to the airport back then and recall feeling simultaneously exhilarated for him and awful for myself. I had graduated from college just a few months earlier and was upset that my expectation of spending more time with him was being squashed. I don't recall the actual goodbye at the airport or whether I stood at the gate (ah, remember those days) and waited for the plane to take off.  The searing memory for me is returning to my parents' house and seeing them crumble into tears as I walked in the door without Vincent. Talk about reality TV!  I often remind my brother he owes me one for that emotional wreckage.

My older brother, Joe, landed on the Big Island in 2000 after several years of wanderlust travel, post divorce.  I struggled to get my footing with his departure (and divorce) as well, partially because I struggled with him living so far from his incredible girls and partially because he was leaving me, too.  It took me a long time to understand that I was profoundly sad for myself.  Here was another older brother whom I treasured blowing out of Dodge.  The fact that it was also to a tremendously exotic new home sure added some spice. My life is richer because both of my brothers continue to share their lives with me and my family.  I've learned it is a simple continuation of what they did years ago when I was the pesty little sister who always wanted to be part of whatever they were doing.

I have experienced some splendid vacations in our 50th state with the added bonus of sharing it with each of my lovely brothers and, eventually, their families.  I have often said they doubled the chances of receiving visitors due to their home locations. And the once exotic long distance phone call has been trumped by today's much improved "reach out and touch" social network technology - another bonus.

However, for the real-life connection, a trip to or from the airport takes me back to my original thought.  I have written about the equal joy that anticipation brings to realization. http://asubjectforconsideration.blogspot.com/2011/07/vacation-expectation-anticipation.html  Driving to the airport to pick up either of my brothers oozes with glorious anticipation.  One voice tries to mollify my feelings with "You know, they are going to leave again."  I ignore it.  This is my moment to live in the moment. It never, ever disappoints.  

Would I like my brothers to live close by?  Definitely.
But I don't know that I would trade it for the moments we've spent together in Hawaii or here. When we visit each other, we really appreciate the time together because every moment counts. I've learned much about myself in their absence as I temper feelings of being abandoned.  Understanding their choices has come slowly but steadily.

As I rode to the airport to pick up my oldest daughter, Alison, last Friday night, a Christmas morning excitement buzzed through me.  It took some self control to not dance in place as I waited for her to appear. I reveled in all the 'candy' of the moment. Sweet indeed.  Sunday night arrived so quickly.  I find myself getting cranky even after we've enjoyed a full, long skype session because the reality of her being gone slams into me again. So, a visit home has even a stronger down side when the return trip to the airport must be made.  (Of course, she insists we drop her off at the departure curb because she does not need us to check in. Whatever.)

Photo by Idea Go of Free Digital Photos

I spoke with a friend this weekend who is anticipating her eldest child's departure for college next year. She expressed her anxiety over his leaving home and how she wants to spend this year with him. I dreaded my daughter's departure. It's hard to admit using this word but, for me, it felt like a kind of death occurred.  I am acutely aware and grateful that my child is alive, but the loss of something precious was profound. My 'mommy' time with Ali was making its biggest, and most necessary, leap yet.  To use the word death made me really understand that something had to end for the next thing to begin. 

I had to view her departure in a dark way so I could face it with no pretense.  I guess I gave myself some tough love.  Surprisingly, it opened up some necessary space in me to appreciate the emerging adult she is becoming. I guess we are both growing up in different ways.

These growing pains showed up at the airport when, to my surprise, there were no tears at the dreaded curbside goodbye.

Well, this time, anyway.

What's Religion Got To Do With It?

One of the first caveats of free speech I learned long ago came up in a college journalism course and it was, "Don't yell fire in a crowded movie theater." Intentionally starting panic and causing baseless fear crosses the free speech boundary. Some free speech purists may take issue with this, but I am comfortable with the exception. It makes sense to me. 

 
Causing fear is cruel.  This recently came to mind as I tried to understand the boogie man tactics used as the Republican candidates for president try to separate themselves from the pack.  No one is crying "Fire!" but fear is a gambling chip widely used.  The most recent topic in this "be afraid" approach is the fact that Mitt Romney is a Mormon.  I know things are headed off the rails when religion seeps into political discussions.  It's as though a grenade is tossed into a building already on fire. (For the record, I am a registered Democrat.)

 
What is the purpose of being fixated on a candidate's religion?  We elect public officials to run governments.  We sometimes elect, but often are handed, religious officials to manage/lead our faith based groups. It's naive to think the two are easily kept separate, but it is frustrating to hear religion become the focus of a political race - it actually takes the focus off what needs to be addressed.

Photo by Dan of Free Digital Photos

I was in a Catholic grade school when President Kennedy was elected. It was not unusual to visit my friends' homes and see separate framed photos of Pope John XXIII or Pope Paul VI as well JFK, often side-by-side.  These images in many homes sent me the message that it was a big deal for a Catholic to hold the highest office in the land.  I also recall the repeated concerns of non-Catholics that Kennedy's religion would open up a papal influence in US government.  As unfounded as it may have seemed for the 20th century, there was a true historical model of why that fear was raised because many popes were very much political forces in Europe in the past.  Henry VIII's break from the politically powerful Catholic church in the 16th century resulted in today's Church of England. It was a battle of megalomaniacal proportions. European history is fraught with powerfully obsessed popes whose political potency marked the course of many countries.

The fact that people were talking about Kennedy's religion as a factor in his presidency feels odd to me today. What did it have to do with running a country?  As the Republican candidates wrestle for top position in every news cycle, the message varies but the goal is to get the message to stick.  In her op-ed piece the 10/18/11 NY Times, Maureen Dowd cites a Washington Post-Pew Research Center poll which asked voters  the question "what single word came to mind for Republican candidates. For Herman Cain it was 9-9-9; for Rick Perry, Texas; and for Mitt Romney, Mormon."  Romney is quoted in the article as saying that choosing people for their religion as "repugnant." I don't know that I'd go that far but it does raise some insight into the voter mindset.  http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/19/opinion/dowd-anne-frank-a-mormon.html?hp

This made we wonder, do we:
- use religion as a first cut when choosing candidates? Or
- regard it as one of many facets of a candidates background? Or,
-consider not considering religion when listening to candidates?

I believe many Americans consider the first and second statements and I think the third option falls far behind, yet it is the one that most intrigues me because it's the one that seems most foreign. Our government prints "In God We Trust" on our currency and uses a Bible to swear in public officials to office as well as witnesses in civil and criminal trials.  Our Pledge of Allegiance contains the phrase, "One nation, under God." Yet, we are also a country that goes to sometimes awkward extremes in separating church and state. We often trip over our own clay feet. 

None of this disturbs me.  It just highlights the raw edges of who we think we are and who we want to be. Thankfully, it is a bumpy road.  So let's walk a little further down this path.  What if an atheist was a bonafide presidential candidate?  How much would the non-belief in a supreme being factor into the candidate's viability?Historically, very few non-Christians have become a US president.  There have been no Jewish presidents.  The website Monticello.org notes that Thomas Jefferson was reluctant to make his religious beliefs public or defined and quotes the third US President as saying, "Question with boldness even the existence of a god; because, if there be one, he must more approve the homage of reason, than that of blindfolded fear." http://www.monticello.org/site/research-and-collections/jeffersons-religious-beliefs

Would voters feel threatened by a candidate who is atheist?  Why would it really matter?  What is there to fear?  In Maureen Dowd's piece, Mitt Romney's Mormonism dances into that circle because it provides something different from the predictable field of spiritual beliefs.  As Ms. Dowd notes, "Kent Jackson, the associate dean of religion at Brigham Young University, says that while Mormons are Christians, 'Mormonism is not part of the Christian family tree.'”  And so Mitt Romney, candidate, is tagged outsider Mormon first, not necessarily by his own choice.  I think the other candidates delight in the front and center dangling of Romney's religion because it has a sort of "X factor" potential to concern voters.  I, too, find myself skeptical reading about the Mormon "special garments" and the fairly recent past movement of "retrospectively baptizing victims of the Holocaust" as mentioned in Ms. Dowd's opinion. 

But it brings me back to my first question: What's religion got to do with it? Having or not having a religious conviction may be a part of any candidate's background but is it of primary importance that should be shoved into the foreground?  

Photo by Taoty of Free Digital Photos

I feel the weight of this topic as I reflect on my Catholic upbringing and want to believe that I can set aside a candidate's religious notions because they should not be a qualifier for holding a political office. If the candidate makes them an issue then that most likely makes it easier to look further.  When I get into that voting booth, the candidate whose secular abilities which meet my expectations will, I believe, be the thing that matters.

We Remember

The Sound of Silence

written by Paul Simon 1964



Portion of the World Trade Center North Tower
 antenna displayed at the Newseum
Washington, DC

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turn my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence


"Fools," said I, "you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence


Various newspaper front pages

from 9/11/2001

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound of silence

Pedestal Problem

I forget the first time I heard the warning about putting anyone on a pedestal - that the only direction they could go from the perch was down - but I remember feeling surprised by my ignorance. The more idealized we make someone, the greater the fall.  We sometimes want to forget about our clay feet because their banality doesn't lift us up. The same goes for those we admire. Admitting they are human derails our fantasy.  To stretch the current vernacular - keeping it real, keeps it real.

In his recent NYTimes essay titled "An Empty Regard," author William Deresiewicz presents a reflection on the over-sentimentalized regard we Americans have for our soldiers. It is a concept I have long considered but have just as quickly dismissed it.  Mr.  Deresiewicz offers a clear, well thought out position about what he calls the 'the cult of the uniform.'  He sees the unnecessary positioning of those in uniform onto a pedestal as dangerous and goes deeper into how we Americans could be better citizens. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/21/opinion/sunday/americas-sentimental-regard-for-the-military.html

From the outset, Mr. Deresiewicz is crystal clear. "There is no question that our troops are courageous and selfless.  They expose themselves to inconceivable dangers under conditions of enormous hardship and fight because they want to keep our country safe."  What the author challenges is a film of hyper-reverence by Americans who place those in uniform on a platform almost without question.

As we near the tenth anniversary of the events of 9/11/01, it is worth taking an unemotional look at how we view our military.  Mr. Deresiewicz  believes in the discourse of questioning and choosing transparency that makes the truth visible.  "Pieties are ways to settle arguments before they begin," he writes. If we worship it, then there is no reason to question it.  It seems we are overfeeding a national need to cling to a belief that we haven't been knocked off our patriotic pedestal.


Like most Americans, I recall the enormous outpouring of patriotic symbols after 9/11. Our psyche was mortally wounded. We raced to our flags and waved them with vigor. My daughter and her friend made and sold patriotic pins shortly after September 11 donating the proceeds to a fund to help victims' families. Americans united viscerally and sprung into action at all levels.


Traveling back from Pakistan in late October 2001, "Three Cups of Tea" author Greg Mortensen recalls the conversation with his wife as he describes the visual impact upon emerging from US Customs in Denver. He writes:

"It was Halloween. Walking through a forest of American flags that had sprouted from every surface, adorning every doorway and hanging from every arch, he wondered if the explosion of red, white, and blue meant he hadn't arrived on a different holiday."What's up Tara? It looks like the Fourth of July here.  'Welcome to the new America, sweetie,' she said."

Was it the new America?  Our wounds were fresh then but ten years later, do we demand a narrow patriotic view still? Mr. Deresiewicz notes, "The cult of the uniform began with the call to 'support our troops' during the Iraq war. The slogan played on a justified collective desire to avoid repeating the mistake of the Vietnam era, when hatred of the conflict spilled into hostility toward the people who were fighting it." I grew up during the Vietnam War.  While my immediate family had no sons drafted into that conflict, my strong memories are of a country deeply divided over it.  The returning soldiers were unwitting victims of this violent national rift.  

My daughter's recent high school summer reading included "Letters from Vietnam." Her remarks about this compilation of soldiers' letters home included surprise at their youth and shock at the horrors they witnessed.  Imagine their return to an ungrateful nation.

It does not surprise me that years later, in 2003, President Bush's premature swagger under a "Mission Accomplished" banner on the USS Abraham Lincoln answered our immediate need to be victorious, but its ultimate untimeliness and naivete served no one in the long run. Traditional symbols of victory did not add up this time and yet dissent was not tolerated.  Americans who questioned the post 9/11 burst of patriotism were summarily silenced. Comedian Bill Maher's comments regarding cowardice and the terrorists resulted in the cancellation of his show aptly named, Politically Incorrect. 

What to do?
"It seems little doubt that our armed forces today are more professional, and at the small-unit level, at least, more effective, than they were in Vietnam," Deresiewicz states.  Yet fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan continues.   Deresiewicz notes, "At the very least, our generals ought surely to come in for some criticism as they did when it was appropriate in other wars.  Yet the cult of the uniform has immunized them from blame, and inoculates the rest of us from thought."   


The term "hero" also receives attention by the essayist, noting, "Perhaps no word in public life has been more thoroughly debased by overuse."  He cites the skewed accounts of Jessica Lynch's rescue and Pat Tillman's death as examples of a duplicitous, overreaching by government and military leaders to manufacture heroes or heroic fiction and bury the truth to feed a nation of hungry patriots. 


"The irony is that our soldiers are the last people who are likely to call themselves heroes and are apparently very uncomfortable with this kind of talk," the author notes.  "The military understands itself as a group endeavor."  Maintaining a balance of appropriate praise and persistent questioning removes us from a juvenile posture and empowers us as citizens.  Deresiewicz adds, "It was wrong to demonize our service members in Vietnam; to canonize them now is wrong as well. Both distortions make us forget that what they are are human beings."  It is this kernel in the author's argument that resounds most for me. 

We need to stop looking to Daddy for the fix.  We need to look inside ourselves for strength and be better citizens instead of citizen cheerleaders.  Deresiewicz adds, "What we really need are citizens, who refuse to infantilize themselves with the talk of heroes and put their shoulders to the public wheel instead." Military families have their shoulders to the wheel.  We must continue to honor their sacrifices with constructive citizenship that looks unflinchingly into the eyes of a country at war.  There is no room or need for pedestals here.

William Deresiewicz is an essayist, critic, and the author of "Solitude  and Leadership," an address delivered at West Point in 2009 and widely taught in the armed forces.

Hands and Heart

(I wrote this piece last summer as a final project for a Public Speaking class.  Elizabeth was born on this date in 1901.  Her husband Vincent also had a 29 birth date in December and my birth date is also a 29 - in July.  For this little reason and many greater ones, I remember her today...and always.)

It is said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and in the case of my beloved maternal grandmother, her hands were the doorway to her heart.  Elizabeth Labate’s hands mesmerized me.  

The Seinfeld episode which introduced the term “man-hands” is somewhat emblematic of Elizabeth’s hands because they were masculine in size.  However they were a contradiction because Elizabeth’s hands ended with feminine flourish; they had long and strong fingernails that were usually covered with nail polish. I remember holding those powerful hands and painting those feminine nails when Elizabeth’s arthritis made it difficult for her to do it herself.  


Elizabeth’s hands tended to life’s experiences with robust, meaningful purpose.  Her hands did what her heart felt. 

Elizabeth’s young life knew love, loss and love again.  She was one of eight children who were well loved, yet when her mother died, Elizabeth and her younger sister were sent to an orphanage by their immigrant father.  The nuns took on the job of raising Elizabeth and taught her many things. 

Two things which stand out were her love of the rosary and knitting.  Elizabeth found solace in quietly praying the rosary.  Her hands would caress those beads and she would be transformed through her meditation as she sought the comfort of prayer.  I keep a set of her rosary beads on my nightstand, not because I pray the rosary, but simply because they bring me solace and remind me of her.

While the rosary kept her hands still, knitting moved them in a frenetic motion as Elizabeth made baby bonnets, booties, sweaters, hats, scarves and blankets for family and friends. She even made an afghan for my older brother with a peace sign on it.  In the era of peace and love, Elizabeth proved she was hip to the times!  She loved the creativity in making these items and, in this manual effort, happily gave of inner herself.

Elizabeth found love and married.  Her wedding photo shows a young, beautiful bride whose hands are wrapped around a substantial bouquet of flowers.  I marvel at how those young hands look like the same hands I knew so many years later.  

Those hands also cradled her three children.  In the 1940s, Elizabeth worked in the old Gimbel’s Department store in Philadelphia in, ironically enough, the wrapping department.  Her hands would wrap packages to be shipped elsewhere, with some headed overseas to loved ones fighting in World War II.  She loved this job because she could talk with families who had soldier sons defending our country. This connection brought her some comfort since her two sons were also soldiers in Europe.

 

Elizabeth’s hands opened a telegram in November, 1944 that contained news of her son, Pete.  He was fighting in Germany and was missing in action.  For many months, she and my grandfather waited for news of their son’s fate and in June, 1945 Elizabeth’s hands opened a second telegram confirming her worst fears; Pete had died in battle.  

Every night Elizabeth would gently raise her hand to her lips, kiss the tips of her fingers, and lovingly place those fingers on a military photo of Pete that hung at the base of the stairway.  I watched her do this many, many times and saw it as a sweet ritual but did not emotionally attach to it.  I did not know Pete and I had my grandmother with me, so I did not feel any sadness.  It wasn’t until I became a parent that I understood the depth of Elizabeth’s tender gesture.  She was doing what every parent loves to do each evening – Elizabeth was kissing her child goodnight.   

While Elizabeth ached for her son who was lost in battle, she had no idea she was preparing for a battle of her own when she was diagnosed with colon cancer.  Colon cancer was a death sentence in the 1950s.  She survived but not without some scars.  Elizabeth’s colon and a part of her large intestine were removed and for the rest of her life her hands would have to tend to the results of that surgery.  Elizabeth would wake up early each morning and her hands would remove her colostomy bag, irrigate what was left of her bowels, and reattach a new bag for the day.  My grandmother showed us that in caring for herself, it was not only a benefit to herself but one to us, because the more her hands tended to her needs, the longer she was in our lives.
  
Elizabeth loved life! She was feisty and fun.  She enjoyed playing bingo and would often take me with her when I was a youngster.  I would marvel as I sat next to her and watched her hands glide over what seemed like a hundred bingo cards, seamlessly placing chips on the correct numbers.  She would talk with her friends who sat nearby and keep track of her bingo cards effortlessly.  She would sometimes let me have a bingo card of my own.  I loved that.  Elizabeth’s hands would rub my head for good luck (which I never brought her) and her friends would do the same.  I bathed in the attention and chatter of this gaggle of women and loved the feeling of belonging. 
  

Elizabeth was also a wonderful cook and baker.  She made cinnamon bread year-round but especially at Christmas time, however, she never wrote down the recipe. 

 So, when I was in my early twenties, she and I spent an afternoon together baking cinnamon bread so I could record the ingredients and instructions to make this sweet treat on my own.  I watched as her hands kneaded that dough and bent it to her will.  Her strength amazed me and the aroma of the end result was long lasting. I remember thinking, “I want to be able to do that!” Each Christmas  I make many cinnamon loaves and give them as gifts to friends and family in honor of Elizabeth’s natural generosity and excellent baking skills. 
     

When Elizabeth was much older, my brother took her to see Longwood Gardens for the first time.  It was a chilly day and her arthritis made walking difficult. My brother pushed her throughout the gardens in a wheelchair supplied by Longwood as she covered her legs with one of her knitted lap covers.  She was awestruck by the splendor of the gardens and returned home full of wonder at having seen such a beautiful spot.  

A week later, Longwood Gardens received a package from my grandmother containing several of her handmade lap covers. She wanted other wheelchair users to have the same comfort she did in the cool temperatures.  This gesture was yet another reason Elizabeth was given the nickname by her grandchildren as of “Grandmom Give.”  Longwood Gardens, in return, sent a thank you note containing a membership pass to the gardens so she could enjoy future visits at no charge.

A year later, in 1979, Elizabeth died.  In her coffin, her hands held rosary beads, knitting needles, a photo of her son, Pete, and her Longwood membership.  It was our fervent hope that as she crossed the doorway to whatever lay beyond this life, Elizabeth’s hands would continue to be busy doing the productive work of her generous heart. 

(Elizabeth is the subject of a 12/17/11 post about the game of Bingo. http://asubjectforconsideration.blogspot.com/2010/12/b-one.html)

Color Her Barbra

I am a shameless, passionate, sappy Barbra Streisand fan. When I was 12 years old I listened to her albums in my friend Joan's bedroom - we were (and are) Barbra zealots. Whether it was classic 1968 "Funny Girl" music or this hipster, beat thumping homage to Barbra by Duck Sauce http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uu_zwdmz0hE, the feeling is the same - Barbra's timeless talent is tops.

"I'm The Greatest Star" from the motion picture Funny Girl

This is where I believe childhood is so powerful because hearing her softens and transports me to my pre-teen daydreaming self. It is a visceral response to something I'm not sure I even understand. I just know that she (and Joni Mitchell) do this for me. (Barbra did record Joni's "I Don't Know Where I Stand," but I digress.)

Today Barbra releases her 36th studio album, "What Matters Most" and I am once again transported in time but only five years back when I finally, finally saw her sing live.  In October 2006  Barbra opened her tour in Philadelphia. I saw her twice; first at her Philly dress rehearsal, seated in Section 1, Row 1, Seat 1 and again the next day in section 112 for the concert.  And if that does not make you ache with envy or joy, I understand.  But if it does resonate with you, then we share a deep musical appreciation. 


What hit me hardest as I reveled in all things Streisand was how much I missed my concert-going self.  From my senior year in high school when I would savor performances at the intimate Bryn Mawr Main Point, through the college circuit of performers then onto larger arenas in my twenties and early thirties, I loved attending rock, jazz, and folk concerts. 

And then, it stopped.  No grand finale…just a redirection of my life…marriage, house, kids. Somewhat numbed to this evolution, I sought out other avenues. Many kid themed concerts, ice shows and the like filled the void in a twisted sort of way.  Finally subscribing to People’s Light and Theater Company in Malvern helped satisfy my need for live performance and it still does.  But music continued to beckon. 

And then Streisand………

Barbra's 2006 concert tour

If giddy describes my feeling as I purchased my single ticket for Barbra’s concert, then wildly insane best illustrates my good fortune at receiving front row seats to her dress rehearsal on the day before her opening.  I could feel the concert mojo recklessly flowing my way. 

Memories of listening to Barbra’s albums in my friend Joan’s bedroom emerged from my youth. Joan was the enviable owner of a stereo and we spent countless afternoons hearing that voice and those songs.  We referred to Barbra as our “best friend” pouring over her album covers and contents.   It was teen rapture.  

Trying to explain this feeling to my then teen and pre-teen aged daughters was most challenging. As I told anyone who could bear to listen, I described my great fortune in that I would actually be breathing the same air as Barbra! My perplexed youngest daughter said, “Mom, I’ve never seen you like this!”  And she was right.  My concert self was emerging from its Rip Van Winkle coma.


Happily, after purchasing my ticket, I made an out-of-the-blue call to Joan only to discover she, too, was going to see Babs for the first time – a  50th birthday gift from her husband.  Could the gods be more benevolent?  We, who shared this childhood passion for Streisand 40 years ago, would see her together so many years later. 

That week my personal mantra was, “If it does not start with Barbra and end with Streisand, I don’t want to hear about it.”  This was business.

Concert and Dress Rehearsal tickets

My mom attended the dress rehearsal with me. As the music began (the Funny Girl Broadway Overture) and Barbra emerged on a platform rising from below stage, my mom squeezed my hand like a vice grip in her utter disbelief that Barbra was really there. We were stunned and then exhilarated as Barbra sang, joked, and caressed us with her unmatchable talent.  It was more rapture.            

Knowing I would see Barbra perform the next evening gave me the giddy reassurance that I could float in this bubble with no worry of let down – not yet.

Thanks to Joan’s suggestion, I wrote down the set list for review.  Joan did not want to see it but thought it would be a fun keepsake and she was right.  We met early the next evening for a pre-concert dinner in South Philly.  We reminisced and reveled in our great fortune to see our childhood idol – breathing the same air. 

Walking around the venue before the concert, I smiled at the collection of fellow attendees thinking how we all shared this thing for Barbra.  It moved me and is one of the precious memories of that evening. (Whenever I attend a sporting event or concert at this venue I look at section 112 with quiet joy). 

I savored each morsel Barbra offered. As the saying goes, she could have sung the phone book and I would have been riveted. A favorite song for me was “Starting Here, Starting Now” – so hopeful.  That voice. Those notes. That style. She delivered melodies with her signature vocal sincerity and mightily awoke the sleeping concert spirit within me.  I have attended numerous performances since, thrilled to be reacquainted with my concert self. 
 
Equally pleasing was sharing such a night with a dear childhood friend and fan. It is a highlight of my life.

For a review of "What Matters Most" http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/23/arts/music/albums-by-pistol-annies-barbra-streisand-and-zee-avi.html?scp=2&sq=barbra%20streisand&st=cse

CBS Sunday Morning featured Barbra this past Sunday in anticipation of her new album and here is the link to that interview: http://www.youtubehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?

"Music elevates life.  When you have certain emotions that are larger than life you want to express them in a larger way.  Music is so rich in being able to identify with feelings.   

It is powerful to the soul."  B. Streisand.

Be Curious

Ask questions.  Seek answers.  Don't stop.
This seems to be the essence of Philip Leaky's seventy-plus year old life. David Brooks of the NYTimes shares his recent visit with the son of famed paleoanthropologists Louis and Mary Leakey and comes away with one exceptional example of a life well lived. 

The backdrop to Philip's life in Kenya soars with frontier-like adventures that are everyday events in the African bush.  Brooks sums up the family dynamic when he explains, "The Leakeys are the sort of people who, when their car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, manage to fix the engine with the innards of a cow."

Philip, and his wife Katy live atop a mountain in Kenya and are involved in multiple ventures that use what is around them to provide employment, appreciation, and sustenance.  Immersed in their environment,  Leaky's sense of wonder and respect for the land seems limitless.  But it is Philip's insatiable curiosity that is the focal point of the article.  He does not seem to draw a line between work and interests - he melds them so that his work is comprised of improving and questioning things that cause him wonder.  http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/19/opinion/brooks-the-question-driven-life.html?_r=1&src=ISMR_AP_LO_MST_FB

This makes me wonder how much do I nurture my curiosity?  How much do I nurture curiosity in my daughters? In this 21st century moment, does curiosity get enough attention and fuel? Philip Leaky, born and raised in the Kenyan bush has married his nosiness with action resulting in many successes and I imagine an equal number of failures. Is this possible while living in suburban Philadelphia? 

I read and re-read the article trying to untether myself from Leaky's exotic locale so I could focus more on his motivation. Curiosity is not a location based drive.  We all have it. How much do we use it?  I recall my youngest daughter's questions about our car when she was a toddler. I called it our version of NPR's show 'Car Talk' because every single time we drove together for a few months she asked question upon question about how our car worked.  She was relentless, even in light of my weak answers. 

That's the beauty of having an inquiring mind - the answers don't drive you, the questions do.  (Now that she is 16 with a learner's permit, we are in a different stage of car questions like "Can I drive?")

Those early years contain the percolating persistence of questions like who, what, when, where and why.  This perfect cocktail blending expression and curiosity fuels young toddlers as they find their voice and spend the majority of their early conversation in questions and observations.  Philip Leaky never submerged this primary drive. 

I wonder how much I have asked "What do you think?" or "Why do you think this is so?" not only of my kids but of myself? While Philip Leaky's life has not one similar ingredient to mine in time and place, we share the primordial human instinct of curiosity.  I marvel at how accessible this makes his remarkable life. 

While he literally sits atop a mountain in his wonderment, Leaky is an active life participant.   Contemplation combined with action works anywhere, not just in the far reaches of Africa. Brooks has managed to write about Leaky's remote life as an example of how we all have power to exercise our inquisitiveness.  This article reminds me to place curiosity at the forefront of my thoughts and actions and to nurture/appreciate it in others.