Who Dat!

Well, tomorrow is The Big Day.

Superbowl Sunday has always been a cause for parties, food, competition, and big business. This year, however, the impossible has happened; the Saints are in the Superbowl, and the whole state has gone nuts.

Louisiana is in an uproar that makes Mardi Gras look like a toddler’s birthday party in comparison.

Sure, any state whose football team goes to the Superbowl is going to be excited. Remember, though, we’re talking about the state that put the “fun” in “dysfunctional.” For instance, we have drive-through daiquiri stands. (Of course, all drinks must be sold in “sealed containers.” I. E., a piece of masking tape over the lid.)

And...the Saints are in the Superbowl. Possibly the losing-ist team to ever play in the NFL. Other states would have given up, sold ‘em out. But this state full of crazies (and I can say that, because I’m one of them) has stuck by them.

The Saints. The Superbowl. Go figure. For the first time in a very long time, the people of Louisiana have teamed up for something positive. Sure, we help each other out in bad times; we share food, lumber, labor and even our boats in post-hurricane cleanup. But this??? All of us are grinning like idiots. Business phones are being answered with “WHO DAT!” If you have to call a Louisiana business on Monday morning, be kind. We’ll all be hung over. Our “official winter uniform” has changed from Mardi Gras beads to Saints teeshirts.

As a state, Louisiana has been a been short on hope for a while. The last decade was particularly nasty in terms of natural disasters. We, like the rest of the nation, have watched the economy nosedive.

But the Saints are in the Superbowl. THE SAINTS...the team whose own fans were wearing paper bags some years back. An NFL laughingstock. The Team Formerly Known As The Ain’ts. The team whose hometown sportscaster, Buddy Dileberto, swore he’d wear a dress if the Saints ever made it to the Superbowl. Buddy died before he could see this day, but I think he’s dressed in drag in heaven, shouting “WHO DAT!” with some other Saints.

It’s more than excitement. It is living, breathing proof that anything - yes, anything - is possible. It’s a reminder that hard work, coupled with belief, perseverance, and faith, can indeed result in something that feels like a miracle.

You’d think that a team that was born on All Saint’s Day would have had a better history. If they win tomorrow, this state is gonna go nuts. If they lose, well, we’re used to that! But regardless, they are now champions - and they have taught us about hope and persistence.

If the New Orleans Saints can make it to the Superbowl, anything is possible. Yes, I want to be in that number, when the Saints go marching in. Geaux Saints!

Good grief!!

Good grief!! June? And I haven't written in this blog since.......ummmm....February?

Yikes! Well, been working on new websites.

www.BlueMerlot.com

and

www.women-at-the-well.com

Do I need a written excuse?

Ghosts

h, the mysteries of an old house. We live in such a house, built in the years prior to the Civil War (or, as it is commonly known in the south, simply "The Wahr"). The house was moved about 17 years ago to its present location, and we have restored it to its original floor plan while adding some 20th and 21st century conveniences (such as indoor plumbing and central heat and air). I love its construction, its sturdy solidness. Thar's cypress in dem walls, buckaroo, and lots of it.

I also love its mystery. Sometimes I wonder if we have a ghost in the house. If so, she/he/it is benevolent, content to stroll around upstairs only on occasion. No one but my former housekeeper and a few others have heard her, as she is usually quiet. Of course, in the case of the former housekeeper, it could have simply been that she didn't want to clean upstairs. That is the kids' domain, and I can't say I blame her there.

But I have always wondered about the former life of this house. It is a Greek Revival raised cottage, with a steep gable roof and a cabinet floor style. When we bought the house, the main hall had been extended and the staircase was in pieces in the attic. Part of our work was to restore the floor plan and restore the staircase. The upper floor is split between bedrooms and attic.

The staircase, however, is a bit of a mystery - or rather, the handrail is. The upstairs, before we bought the house, was attic, and obviously always had been. No evidence of flooring or any finished walls, and slate dust from the original slate roof (which had long since been replaced with tin) covered the beams upstairs. Don't walk on the floor, walk on the ceiling joists. We became very well acquainted with the attic while removing the chimneys. (You can't move a building with chimneys attached, can you?)

The mystery lies in why the handrail (hand-carved cypress, lovely in its simplicity) was so worn. Yes, cypress is soft, and does wear easily. But oral histories gleaned from older folks before moving the house indicate that the stairs were removed no later than the 'teens, and possibly well before that - so it's not like the handrail had seen that many decades of use. I can only suppose that the attic, in spite of its "atticness," was well-visited while the stairs were there, perhaps by children looking for a place to play, or seeking the fascinating objects stored there.

So it is fitting that this former attic has been converted to bedrooms for our children, the original handrail being worn down even more by growing hands. Perhaps the "ghost" is simply the contented sighs of the rafters themselves, content to once again shelter these precious souls and their thoughts, hopes, and dreams.

Jesus-on-the-Wall

I grew up with a picture that probably hung in 95% of the 20th century's Roman Catholic homes. (I started to add "with children" to that sentence, and then realized that was probably redundant!) The picture was the one of the Guardian Angel watching over the 2 children who were walking over the rickety bridge. I loved that picture. Still do.

On the opposite wall was a large crucifix that had belonged to my great-grandmother. (I don't know what happened to her prie-dieu.) I didn't even think of asking to take the crucifix when I moved from my parents' home; not because I didn't want a crucifix, but this one was a fixture in our home.

The only time I ever saw it off of the wall was one day when I was 7. Mom and I were dusting it and I mentioned that I liked religious things. My mom then told me that I would be going to a religious (parochial) school the following year. We would have religion classes in school, every day. No more early hours or weekends going to catechism at Our Lady of Perpetual Motion or the local Catholic school.

It sounded like a good deal to me. I would have nuns for teachers, which at that time, I only knew as women in funny outfits who were like priests' secretaries or something.

That same crucifix was the focus for my kneeling prayers, on my hardwood floor (no prie-dieu, remember?), telling Jesus that I was sorry for everything. Sister Mary promply informed me that I, personally, was responsible for nailing Jesus to that cross. This, by the way, was news to me. True, I had been in the Lowly Catechism Classes for Public School Children, but I had somehow gotten the ideas
that the Romans did it. What did I know? It seemed that I shared this guilt with the rest of my 3rd grade class, but they (having been in a Catholic school since kindergarten) found this to be old news by then.

Regardless, I tried to do as instructed, and dutifully apologized for having held the hammer, driven the spikes, splattering His Precious Blood, and Holding Hate in my Heart. I couldn't wrap my 8-year-old brain around how I could have done such a thing, but there was the evidence. On the cross in my room, His alabaster agony was evident, crimson paint at his wounds, stark against the white paint of the rest
of him. Was any corpse ever so white? The blood, painted on many years before, remained a deep crimson. Cadmium? Vermilion? Selenium?

Jesus-on-the-wall used to be my buddy. He was there, from my earliest memory. We got along fine until I was told that His agony was my own fault, my most grieveous fault. I was young, but smart enough to know that there were bad things, and Really Bad Things. Apparently, my venial sins of pilfering M & Ms from my brother ranked up there with those Mortal Sins of Pride, Greed, Lust, Avarice, etc. - the Big Word Sins. I had an idea of what Pride was, and Greed (ah, those M & Ms), yet still managed to spare a few nickles from my Barbie Doll Fund to put into the "Rice Box" at school. Barbie and Ken's new convertible could wait for a bit.

As for the rest of those sins, I didn't even know what the words meant. Sister Mary did go into detail about gluttony. (That was easy to avoid in the cafeteria.) She avoided Avarice and Lust, except to sneer about them, and to sneer at me in a way that said "Ignorance of the Law is no excuse." She told the whole class that we were slothful on a regular basis. As for the rest of them, well, I worried a lot that I had brushed up too closely to the Near Occasion of such Sin without even knowing it.

I spent a lot of knee time, trying to offer up my suffering (waiting for that Barbie convertible...) for the Repose of the Souls in Purgatory. I'd also ask Jesus-on-the-Wall some serious questions about those poor unbaptized babies in Limbo, and if I'd committed one of those terrible sins without knowing about
it, did a general Act of Contrition cover it? Sister said it had to be a "Perfect" Act of Contrition. But then she said that no one was perfect (except Jesus), and the priest couldn't absolve me if I didn't know what my sins were, so I was pretty much looking at some serious Purgatory time IF I was lucky.

But Jesus-on-the-wall said basically, "Don't worry about all that baloney. Oh, and don't worry about sitting on one small corner of your desk so your Guardian Angel can sit. They don't need room. Get comfortable so you can study."

Made sense to me, but I didn't think that Jesus used words like baloney. He only spoke in "thee" and "thy" (at least, in the Unapproved and Almost-Sinful King James version of the Bible that was floating around somewhere in my aunt's house). So I wondered if I was making that stuff up.

I also asked Jesus-on-the-Wall why Sister Mary was always saying I was bad and a liar when I wasn't - or at least, I didn't think I was. If I told her I wasn't bad, she said that was lying, and proved her point. I also asked Him why she shut me in the closet that time and pinched me so hard on my leg. He said she was bad, not me. But the priests said the nuns were right, so I wasn't really sure. Sister
Mary kept saying that to think that Jesus was talking to us was really Satan, that Jesus never talked to bad children, only saints like Burnadette.

I asked Jesus-on-the-wall about all of this. I think He rolled His eyes, and His eyes still point skyward. He said something, but I wasn't sure any more it if was Him talking, or my imagination, or Satan. Part of the reason that Sister Mary thought I was bad was because I thought that Jesus or God could talk back to anyone. She said that was Satan, and that I was lying when I said I thought Jesus told me stuff.

I don't know if Jesus-on-the-Wall said much after that. I think He did, but I was too scared to listen. I had figured out that the way to survive Sister was to keep my mouth shut and my head down. I still couldn't figure out what all I had done wrong, and why I was so bad, and Sister had just said I should know. But I didn't.

Must have been one of those Big-Word Sins.

Get to Work!

I often read several books at once (although my husband scratches his head over this). I will have a novel (my Brain Candy, and useful for keeping my mind from boredom while on the Stairmaster), often a nonfiction work about something interesting, and "inspirational" books all on hand. At the moment, my inspirational" books include Julia Cameron's Finding Water, Sarah Ban Breathnach's Simple Abundance (a daybook, so it will be with me all year), and Paul Ferinni's Unconditional Love. A page or so each day, and they give me much food for thought throughout the year.

The other day, synchronicity appeared when I read the same message not 5 minutes apart in 2 of the books. SBB, in Simple Abundance, stated "We might not be able to control what's happening externally, but we can look to our own inner resources for a sense of comfort that nurtures and sustains."

Shortly after reading her writings for that day (January 16), I read the following in Finding Water: "I cannot control the outer world, but I can control the inner world I create in."

Indeed, the basics of Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy here. Yet it is easy to forget this. Life becomes so hectically busy that it becomes responsive rather than a life with time for turning inward and simply being. My Dutch "workaholic" heritage makes this difficult, too. An idle mind, an idle body, is bad.

What do you mean, you need 8 hours of sleep? What do you mean, you need MORE than 8 hours of sleep? How selfish can you be? Sitting down and watching TV only happens when I have clothes to fold.

Yet without such time, the inner being suffers. Art becomes nonexistent. And I lose myself. It is a weekend. There is laundry to be done, housework to catch up on (it is never done). Can I steal some time for myself?

Gumbo Weather.

Gumbo Weather. Did I leave that out in my earlier listing of seasons?

Tonight was the First Gumbo of the season. Chicken and sausage, c'est plus simple.

Trinity. Roux. Chicken. Sausage (fresh). Water. Rice (brown rice preferred). Louisiana Gold Green pepper sauce. Salt. File'. Such simple ingredients, such ambrosia.

And...leftovers. (That's why you make a HUGE pot!) Even better the next day.

On live music performance

Over the years, I've had discussions with people about creating and performing music. I've tried to explain that while strumming and humming can satisfy an urge to make music, that's not satisfactory for everyone. "You should be satisfied with music even if you only write songs for yourself" is what I've heard, phrased more or less the same way by several different people - some who play music purely as a hobby, and some with no musical leanings at all.

Frankly, I never accepted this idea for myself. I enjoy playing and singing for my own pleasure. I've written many songs that will never go beyond my own ears, and I've also written some that tear me up from inside, scratching to get out, demanding to be heard. It is as though they are children, clamoring to come out and play.

Consider this: There is the voice of the musician - be it the human voice, the instrument, the song, or any combination - that is incomplete without the listener. It isn't ego wanting attention; it's the completion of an equation written by the Divine Creator.

I don't think any musician really enjoys playing in a venue where they are treated as a jukebox. Some drunk asks to hear "Brick House" and you are a jazz band. Of course, it's fun to play your jazzed up, tempo-changed rendition of the song they requested, but that's a judgement call! But when you have even one person who really listens to the music (whether it's your compositions or simply your interpretations of songs written by others), there is a reciprocity, a type of relationship. There is a response in the listener, which brings out a response in the musician. It's as though invisible threads tie you together - for a song, for a while, for an entire evening or a small part of an evening. You may never speak or meet, but there is a connection there. The engagement draws in the musician, the music, and the listener, and all 3 are very active participants. The music and the musician are subtly changed by the Listener.

To claim that "oh, sure he'll play better if someone is listening" is simplistic, even pedantic. Such a claim ignores the dynamic nature of music, and ignores the relationship between music, musician, and listener. There is an interesting parallel with quantum mechanics: Observations affect reality. Observations affect the behavior of even nonliving things (i. e., is it a particle or a wave?) I'm not going to dive into quantum mechanics (just Google away), but it's an interesting point to consider.

Music + musician(s) + open listener(s) = another level of experience for all.