Falling in the General Direction of Up

I am always amazed at the human spirit and what we can and will do to survive. What we are able to endure. When we feel we can't gasp one more meagre breath into our lungs, we manage to eek out the smallest half gasp which leads to another and another until we are able to fill our lungs. When we think we can't rise again - simply cannot pick ourselves up one more time - this time was surely the last wound our souls can withstand - we steady ourselves and with a mighty keening roar, half desperation  half determination - we pull ourselves upright, back straightened, shoulders back, firmly planting feet and stare back at our adversary. Sorry - this is not the time you will destroy me either.  I'm a little angry at the moment.  I grew up learning to be polite. Respectful. Find the silver lining. Make lemons out of lemonade. See the best in people. I also went to church so I was taught to forgive. Do unto others. Turn the other cheek. Love the unlovable. And there was

I'm sitting here listening to Joe Bonamasso on PBS. Again.  B3 and I caught the very end of last nights PBS broadcast with Joe and while the credits rolled he said, "Anton Fig - why do I know that name?" and I replied "Letterman. Paul Schaffer's band. He was the drummer." B3 was impressed. Yeah. I know stuff.   So I was excited when late this afternoon I discovered I could watch the PBS broadcast from the beginning. His music makes me happy. Jazzed. Inspired. THIS is what music should sound like. So while I listen, I'm looking at the seats that are available for his concert in Vancouver in November. And I struck a deal - I pay for the tickets and B3 pays for the travel and accommodation. Yes! While I let his music pour over me, I am also thinking of last Sunday's sermon. On saying YES to God. Saying YES to your calling. Saying YES to your God given gifts. Joe Bonamasso said YES. He opened for B.B. King when he was 12 years old . (Think abou

There are those days where mentally and emotionally, I am curled up in a fetal ball*. There is no one thing that has precipitated this condition, rather a plethora of niggling, tiny stressors. Well OK – maybe a few of those stressors are rather large but I am usually able to keep those suckers at bay. But from time to time they say “Uh, no! We are important. We need to be acknowledged. Felt. We need some eyeball to eyeball time.”  So I start to curl into that little ball and contemplate. Feel. Acknowledge. Pay those stressors – big and small – some respect. The Boy – the Beau – the Ballcap – calls himself an orphan these days. 20 years ago his dad passed away. This fall, his mother too. And although the McGifford clan had 10 children and he has many cousins, he is not close to any of them. He has an adversarial relationship with his sister, his only sibling. The only moment they’ve ever come together and agreed on anything was outside the hospice room in which their mother was bre