The Dirty "C" Word, Part I

Okay, now, don't get too excited.  Of the many "C" words that might occur to you, the word I'm talking about today isn't actually risque--except, perhaps, in the minds of fellow creatives.

That word is...competition.

(Some of you may need to sit down and fan yourselves at this point. Feel free.)

A pretty ridiculous notion has taken over the creative world of late. This wouldn't be surprising, in itself: creative people can be just as ridiculous as uncreative ones. But this notion has been embraced so rapidly, completely, and radically that it borders on the closest thing to religion some of these people have. And fundamentalists ain't got nothin' on them when it comes to upholding this shining credo, and shaming those who dare to challenge it.

The notion?

That as writers, we don't compete with each other, because "we're all in this together."

Whoever came up with that notion? Ought to be taken out back and doused with cold water. In January. In the Northern Hemisphere. 

Because it's simply NOT TRUE.

Let me say that again.

Wonderful, warm, and affirming as it sounds to say that all creatives are "in this together"--and therefore, never, ever, ever, ever, EVER in (gasp) competition with each other--it's NOT TRUE.

Real life experience will prove this over and over and OVER again. It's even common sense, not to mention backed up with fact. 

But just try going on social media and saying that out loud.

Go ahead. I dare you.

This blog post is even stepping out on a ledge.

So where did this cockamamie notion come from? 

I suspect it has its roots in a couple of sources.

First, the influence of New Age thinking, The Secret, and all the rest, which preaches a "limitless universe" and scolds us against a "scarcity mindset." And, in one sense, this has some veracity. Publishing, after all, has become rather limitless; you can put together a book and "publish" yourself, any time you like. You simply have to have the resources to cover all the details involved, from buying ISBNs to cover art to copyright registration (just to be on the safe side), and voila! You're a published author. You're independent, you collect all the profits yourself, and no one stands in your way. 

In terms of publishing "freedom" and "access," this is great. In terms of quality?

Yeah. Sometimes, not so much. 

(But the few times I've said that out loud, I've gotten raked over so many coals that no wonder my skin gets thicker every year. Never mind that it's true; it still gets the kind of knee-jerk vitriol we used to reserve for animal abusers and serial killers. 😒)

Second, I believe it comes straight out of the participation-ribbon mindset: that people should be rewarded and applauded merely for showing up, breathing, and standing upright. That heaven forbid we should dare to say one thing is "better" than another, or that one "wins" and another "loses." The self-esteem damage of losing does terrible things to our young ones' confidence. It demotivates them. It depresses them. It can damage them forever, and forever keep them from achieving their true potential. Potential, according to these people, needs constant affirmation, watering, nurturing, reinforcement, and praise in order to develop fully. Any negative assessment of efforts to do so? Any aspersion cast on them, or evaluation of them that is less than glowing, or constructive criticism of them? Will bring about certain disaster. Maybe even physical damage, but certainly emotional. And, hence, tragedy.

Apparently, potential--be it writing talent, musicianship, artistic endeavor, or anything else--has no strength in itself. If not coddled like the proverbial hothouse flower, it will wither and die before it even takes root. Young (or even not-so-young) artists are to be celebrated for effort, and rejoice in that the only people they're "competing" with are themselves. 

Only problem is...that ain't how the real world works, Karen.

And it's long (DAMN long) past time someone was brave enough to say it out loud.

Before the denial of reality does way, way more damage and breaks way, way more hearts than that evil competition monster could ever do in a thousand lifetimes.

I'm here to tell you that not only is competition not an evil monster...

...but that we're all doing it, all the time. And it's long (DAMN long) past time we realized that, admitted it, and put it to work for us, instead of trying to shame it out of existence.

We'll talk more about that in part II!

Janny

Timing...Is...

Long ago, the hubs and I did a prank message on our answering machine that has the title above as its punch line...but this post isn't about that. Trust me: if you're curious about that story, I can tell it in another post. And I probably will.😀

This is about a realization prompted some time ago when I heard "The Swan of Tuonela" on Music Choice--and was swept away with memories.

But also, with wonder at the genius of God's timing.

Let me explain. 

Jean Sibelius's "Swan of Tuonela" was one of many pieces on a listening list for music theory and ear training for me, 44 years ago this summer at Harper College. And, yes, I remember most of the pieces almost indelibly, for many reasons. One of which was, it was one of the few times in my life I've ever gone to summer school. The reason behind that, and how what came next unfolded, leaves me in awe to this day.

I was in summer school to take semester 2 of Music Theory and Ear Training/Sight Singing for the Music major track. Our instructor in the 101-102 track had alerted us that we needed to take these over summer; if we didn't, the 102 courses wouldn't be offered again for another year, and that would screw up the sequence of being able to accomplish two years' worth of music education in, literally, two years. 😉

A very small group of us took these courses. Maybe a dozen, total. Of which one was my future husband. Which I didn't know at that point...because at that point I was already (unhappily) married to someone else.

Come the fall of 1979, my ill-advised (and invalid) marriage dissolved...and I became friends with Patrick. And, as they say, the rest was history.  But consider, for a moment, how God arranged this timing.

It's only dawned on me recently that Patrick wouldn't have been in those classes, in that sequence, with me had he not started at the same time I did--which was January of 1979--in Music Theory 101. But he graduated from high school in the summer of 1978. So the logical time for him to start in Theory would have been fall, not January. 

Only for some reason known only to Harper College (and God), the Theory sequence didn't begin during fall of 1978.  Had it begun at the point a freshman might reasonably expect, he'd have been ahead of me. Which means we might never have met...had Harper College (and God) not timed their course offerings the way they did. 

Had he been in a "track" a semester ahead of me, we would never have done homework together.

Would never have been thrown together for tutoring, as one of our professors did when she realized I was pulling As in Ear Training while he was struggling.

Might never have been in chorus together, although that's still a possibility...but that association was so peripheral that were it all we had, it wouldn't have carried us into the closer relationship that sharing the same classes, for the rest of our music education, did.

I've always said I "lucked out" in terms of meeting Patrick, and getting to know him, when and how I did. Because there were three guys in our Music Theory track: one was married, one was stoned half the time...and then there was Patrick. And I was the fortunate woman who ended up catching his eye.

But I wouldn't have ever been able to catch that eye had we not been plunked into the same classrooms together, slogging through the same theory and analysis, and gradually growing closer by the day. Because we helped each other. We made each other laugh. Eventually, we fell in love.

And God, who knew we needed to meet and bond in these particular ways, not only arranged my life and Patrick's, but an academic schedule, so that could happen. When it did. How it did. And to the splendid, heartbreakingly wonderful conclusion it did.

Part of that plan, I know now, was summer school. 

And listening lists.

And Sibelius. 

And God's timing was perfect in all of it.

If anyone ever doubts how much God cares about whether we're happy in His will...this story ought to help reassure you. 

To a musician, timing is everything.

And I praise the Lord who knows that. 🙏

Thoughts?

Janny

Caution...Frissoning Ahead!

For years and years and years, romance novels in particular have used a word I never saw anywhere else: frisson.

As in, "A frisson of unease went through her," or  "A frisson of awareness sparked between them" or the like. While I never ran to the dictionary, the context was usually enough to give me the hint of what a frisson was: a shiver. A tingle. 

Imagine my utter dumbfounded shock, then, when I actually looked it up...to make sure that, if I used it in one of my books, I'd be using it right...and discovered it's a thing.

Something backed up by research, no less.  

And something I've had all my life.

I've always considered myself a bit eccentric for it. I feel music, to a point and at a level I haven't heard many other people talk about much. I know virtuosic artists must feel this to some degree--there's a reason a brilliant player will, in a very real sense, "make love" to his or her instrument. 

But in my ordinary, everyday life, even in music school, I stood out to others for the intensity of the exhilaration and excitement I felt. It was more than merely enjoying music, or loving it--far more. It was an intoxication, a "high" that probably explained why I never dabbled in chemical "highs" of any kind, not even during high school or college.

But as I've grown older, it has an additional component that comes over me when I'm truly making music. Or, as I'm fond of calling it, "kicking musical butt." When I'm in the "zone," in the "flow," or whatever you want to call the results that happen when years of hard work, love, and learning all come to fruition. 

There is truly nothing like the "high" I've felt at those times. 

Like nailing that high A in Gounod's Ave Maria...at 7:30 Mass on Sunday morning.

Or giving the solo on Michael Smith's All Is Well all I had on Christmas Eve...which I did for several years running.

Or pretty much anytime, with anyone, that I can sing the Hallelujah Chorus.

When I've done those things, I've felt a physical chill run down my spine. A subtle one at first. Not dramatic. Just...there.

Now, however--probably because of my "seasoned" status as a music maker--that chill isn't subtle anymore. I'm feeling it regularly. And strongly. Both when singing, and at the piano.

I have a couple of pieces I work on now that I was working on 40 years ago, in school. Yes, 40 years ago. No, I hadn't mastered them yet then, and I was away from the keyboard for enough years that I didn't master them in the interim.

But they're in my blood. And, so, I've hauled them out again--this time, determined to get them under my command, and fit for public consumption.

This hasn't been easy. Because these are not easy pieces.

One of them is the Rachmaninoff Prelude in G Minor. Look it up. It's one of the most awesome things you'll ever spend your hearing on.

Another is the Chopin Waltz in C# Minor, famous for what most of Chopin is so famous for: running lines up and down the keys, this one culminating in a lovely high C sharp at its end.

I've been working these things and working them and WORKING them. Because 40 years away from something usually means you need to reintroduce your hands to it. And, at my age, some of that practice is a bit more challenging, due to arthritis that wants to rob the mastery from my fingers.

I've gradually gotten better, though. To the point where Rachmaninoff is about halfway along, and Chopin is "almost there."

I'm also taking on new stuff I never played before. Grieg Lyric Pieces. Mendelssohn Songs Without Words. Beethoven's Pathetique and "Moonlight" Sonatas. And an Elgar piano reduction of Nimrod, from the "Enigma" Variations, that is loaded with emotion in and of itself.

So, when I play any of this fairly well...? I have to fight off physical shivers. And if you think that's easy...think again.

But I'm welcoming them. Because now I know not only am I not crazy to be feeling these things--there's actually a word for them. An official, recognized, scientific term.  A name for the spell music casts on me, and I try to cast in return.

It's called frisson. And it's real.

So if a day comes when you see me play these things, and my hands are shaking...
...know that reaction probably has little to do with nerves and a lot more to do with an artist trying desperately to keep control of her musicianship while she's breaking out in goosebumps and feeling a chill clear to the roots of her hair.

It's almost scary.

But I hope that, as long as I listen to, learn, and make music...I never lose it.

Thoughts?
Janny

Who's Been SIlenced, Again?

We hear a lot in the media now about "underrepresented" populations. "Marginalized" groups. "Own" voices. 

And publishing is doing its level (woke-fueled) best to cater to groups it sees as (or has been told are) underrepresented.  Inadvertently--or, if you believe the propaganda, advertently--silenced. If not outright censored, then at least ignored. Passed over, in favor of "white-bread" work that publishers wanted to sell to their target "white-bread" audience.

Unfortunately, this attempt to make perceived "wrongs" right isn't being done well.

Oh, it's being done with all the good will in the world...but, like any other quota system, it's a self-defeating phenomenon. It will, eventually, embarrass itself, and collapse like the flimsy house of cards it is.

But that's not the reason behind this post.

What's inspired this is an "own voice" that has been silenced for generations.

It's been disparaged. Discounted. Ridiculed. Called "toxic." And...worse.

It's the voice of men.

It's no secret I love men. I always have. I always will.

In junior high and high school, this got me points with my girl friends, who couldn't figure out the secret of "how to talk to boys." I, who had boys hanging around my house all the time, had deduced that secret ages ago:  that boys were, in the end, just people. Like girls were people.

Lest we have any misunderstandings here...I didn't have boys hanging around my house to be with me. They were there for my brother, and the garage bands he was perennially forming, reforming, and playing in.

But they were still boys. Members of the male sex. 

And I loved 'em all.

However, for a long, long time, our culture has not loved men.

I can remember, as a kid, hearing people complain about how TV shows and commercials--even then--typically portrayed men as bumbling fools. 

If something got solved on a commercial, it was a woman who did it.

While the man stood by making dumb remarks and scratching his head.

I suppose it was inevitable that, from that root, came the next phase: where the kids solved all the problems, while the parents stood around making dumb remarks and scratching their heads.

But even then, the dumbest of the dumb was still Dad.

The husband hardly ever won in any of these things. Be it a commercial, a sitcom, or even a drama...the butt of the jokes and insults (or the person who made all the foolish and/or thoughtless mistakes) was usually the man of the house.

And I agreed with people when they said, "Wait. This is wrong."

Fast-forward to my adulthood, in which for a brief time I was on the evangelical Christian side of the Tiber. Baptist, to be exact.

Now, these were good Christian women. Subservient to their men. Honoring the men's authority, their position as head of the household, et al. Right?

Hardly. 

The running joke in these households was a backhanded compliment to the wife: "We husbands are in charge, for all the world to see...but we know who really runs the house." 

That might've been cute, in its own tongue-in-cheek way.

But the women's running joke wasn't cute. 

It went along the lines of, "Well, we make him look good...but we all know men are just overgrown little boys. And you have to treat them that way."

(Don't look so shocked. I'm sure you heard it dozens of times growing up.)

Once again, I found myself thinking, "Wait. This is wrong."

Fast-forward again, to my writing conference days, when I heard a keynote address by none other than Susan Elizabeth Phillips in which she talked about why the "alpha hero" was such a popular trope in the genre. 

You know the alpha hero. He's the swaggering man's man; he's rough, he's tough, he's a shade uncouth at times, he might be a bit crude, maybe even vulgar--until he meets the heroine, who sees the gentle soul inside and "tames" him. 

Roughly paraphrased, she laid the steps out: the heroine teaches him to feel, to express his emotions, to control his barbaric urges and passions, to have manners....

"...in other words," she finished, "she turns him into a woman."

And the place roared laughing.

Only even as I laughed, I thought, "She's right." And, close on its heels, once again thought, "Wait. This is wrong."

And it is. 

Ridiculing men, calling their masculinity "toxic," decrying "patriarchy" as if it's some kind of evil (news flash: it's not)...it's all quite the thing to do lately. 

But there's an even more insidious wrong being done to men now, behind all the rhetoric and hostility.

And that wrong is the worst of all.

It's that men have, over time, been oh-so-subtly...silenced.

The most striking example I heard of this recently was a perfectly "innocent" commercial on the radio. For Xfinity, as it turns out. 

I have Xfinity. I like it. A lot.

I wish I could say the same for their commercials, most of which are embarrassingly not funny, or even mildly witty. (One has to wonder how low the bar is set at ad agencies now.) 

But this particular commercial brings out, in stark relief, what I'm talking about.

The setup is a kid--clearly, a young boy who sounds about twelve--pretending to be a "salesman" for Xfinity's new 10G network.  He begins, "Mom--Dad--Sis--"

What follows is gently funny--Mom asks why he's "in a suit," and Sis identifies his "card" as "just a gum wrapper with your name on it," and the like.

But the interaction, for the entire commercial, is only between the boy, his mother, and his sister.

Even though he begins the commercial saying, "Mom--Dad--Sis," Dad doesn't have a single line in the entire ad.

It's not like it's an ad dominated by a voiceover, either. There's quite a lively exchange between Mom, the kid, and his sister.

So where's Dad?

Is he asleep during this "presentation"?

Did he leave to get a cup of coffee?

His kid addresses him...so where is he?

And if his kid is "selling" the family on a major outlay for something like Internet service...shouldn't he be involved in the conversation somewhere?

He's not.

Which is odd enough.

But what's odder? And SADDER?

That this commercial went into production and no one corrected that.

It's a glaring example of what has happened to men, slowly but inexorably, in the media landscape. 

First, their voices have been decried as too loud, too boisterous, too uncouth, too unkempt...you name it.

Then, their authority and intelligence have been ignored--or, worse yet, deliberately undermined.

And now...they've finally done what the culture clearly wants them to do.

They've gone away.

They've become invisible.

And no one seems to realize they're gone.

You know what?

That's wrong.

You want to champion an "underrepresented" voice?

Champion a man.

Let men speak again. In their own natural, wholesome, masculine strength.

Let men be men again. 

Without insulting them, accusing them, ridiculing them, or refusing to listen to their wisdom. Because they do have some, you know.

At least as much as a woman does.

Ladies, we're not the ones whose voices haven't been heard.

We've been shouting down the other half of the population at such a volume, and with such stridency, we don't even realize we've completely taken its voice away.

We all need to stop doing this (not so) "subtle" silencing.

Now.

Thoughts?

Janny

Enough.

The writing world is, in many ways, reminiscent of the Wild West lately.

It's got its share of outlaws lurking, too, seemingly more than there ever have been before.  And they have one target in their sights, constantly:

Traditional publishing.

And it's starting to get really, really irritating.

If you haven't heard the popular manifesto, it goes something like this:

"The traditional publishing industry is a dinosaur that deserves to die and, if there's any justice, it will. It's a closed system in which you have to know somebody, you have to have a celebrity name, you have to have 'pull,' and even then it's impossible to get an agent and even get your manuscript in the doorway. But say lightning strikes, and you do get in the doorway?  They'll then dumb-down your work, tell you what you can and cannot write, and ignore both your cover and your title ideas. By the time they're done with your story, you won't recognize it anymore. But, hey, at least they'll then take two years to get the book out, pay you a pittance, give you no marketing support whatsoever, and blame you when it doesn't sell. No one with a brain should subject themselves to that!"

Well, yeah. If all of that was accurate, no one would.

Only it's not.

But then, it brings about incidents like I witnessed recently in a writers' group on Facebook.

A writer posted that a publisher had contacted her with a four-book deal, and she was turning it down. Why? 

Because the publisher was going to make her take down two of her indie-published titles from Amazon when they took them over, and she didn't see that there would be a financial benefit to doing that. And she then proceeded to elaborate further on why self-publishing was the way to go because no publisher would ever make it worth your while to give up that precious independence!

But many, many of us raised questions.

Such as...why in the world would a publisher pitch an author?

(Note: unless for vanity presses, it doesn't happen that way. No. Not ever.)

This was by far the biggest question most of us had. About which some of us, myself included, expressed doubts that this "offer" was legit. 

Did the author thank us for caring enough that she not get scammed?

Hell, no. 

She lashed out at many of us--yours truly included--accusing us of calling her a liar.

She even had her friends chime in and lambaste us as well.

And in the mix, of course, were dozens of "me-too" echoes from people who repeated the same tired script about how horrible traditional publishing was...ad infinitum.

Only...

It should surprise absolutely no one to find out that in her initial post, this author hadn't quite told the whole truth.

A publisher hadn't approached her out of the blue to publish four new books; a publisher who had already published one of hers had expressed the offer to take on more. The offer wasn't a "pitch" to lure an indie author into the evil of Traditional Publisher Servitude.

This woman has published 40 books on her own, some of which look fairly competent. If that sounds like damning with faint praise, there's a reason.  I would have tried to explore more of them, but I couldn't; there were no "look inside" features for any of her stuff. The most I could glean was a blurb for one of her fiction titles--something so atrociously written that it was clearly done by someone with no clue what a "blurb" was.

(Something going the "traditional" route, by the way, can help you learn to do.)

If any of the people lambasting us took the time to read even that far on her author site, they might have smelled a rat.

I suspect very few did.

I did respond to the accusations of calling her a liar, by merely stating that in her initial posting, the publisher sounded like the liar...not her. And that some of us were sincerely trying to keep her from making a mistake. But that she also hadn't played fair with us, and I didn't need to stick around for more of that.

I left the Facebook group. And I ain't going back.

But let this stand as my manifesto of sorts, if you will. 

I'm fed up. 

Fed up with this slanted, error-ridden narrative. 

Fed up with how it paints an entire industry with half-truths, casts them in cement, and encourages newbies of all stripes to swallow them whole. 

And I'm fed up with spending social media "networking" time with other writers having to debunk, and debunk, and debunk...over and over and over again.

If you're out there independently published? God bless you.

Just stop lying about what the rest of us are choosing if we take the other route.

Enough...is enough.

Thoughts?

Janny

Are You Trigger Happy?

No, this isn't a post either for, or against, some Second Amendment aspect. So all of you on either side of the fence...just take a deep breath, relax, and move along if you need to.

There. Now, for the REST of us...

Recently, in some FB writing groups--and in the Twitterverse from time to time--the question has arisen about putting "trigger warnings" on our writing.  So people who have "issues" won't stumble into something that makes their lives miserable, even for a moment.  And the general consensus seems to be incredibly generous and benevolent: "Oh, of course we should do that. People should feel safe reading our writing."

Too bad it's hogwash.

Feel free to call me names, if you like. Everyone who's come out on the "other side" of this question has been labeled, defamed, and otherwise insulted, by people who don't know anything more about them than that they dared to say, "But, wait a minute."  (A rather interesting reaction from those claiming to espouse a point of view that emphasizes "compassion." LOL)

The fact is, it is hogwash. For many reasons--but two main ones are the strongest:

1) It is impossible to anticipate every potential trigger in a reader. 

Or, to put it more colloquially..."Everybody's bothered by something."

If there's one thing I've learned by being in a heavy-duty grief process--and supporting others in same--over the last six years, it's that everyone processes life differently. My grief is not your grief. Therefore, my triggers are not your triggers.

My triggers can even change from day to day, week to week, and mood to mood. 

Sometimes, I can't bear to hear songs from the 80s, because they bring back too many memories of my husband; sometimes, I embrace them, because they make me laugh, smile, or dance.

Sometimes, I find comfort in rereading love letters. Sometimes, they tear me apart.

Sometimes, I enjoy seeing young families out having fun together. Sometimes, they only reiterate to me what I will never have again.

I know people who've dissolved while shopping for groceries, because their spouse was a "foodie." Or smelling a favorite flower, because it was an unforgettable first bouquet he gave them. Or trying to navigate past a greeting-card or gift aisle when it's full of valentines or other "special occasion" reminders...that, frankly, only bring pain. 

But we don't tell stores they can't play oldies over their Muzak.

We don't put up caution signs at the end of greeting-card or flower aisles.

And we don't limit families to one end of the picnic area, and singles to the other.

Just. In. Case.

Neither can we anticipate what may trigger someone in our writing.

So, the only option we have available is to issue...what?

Blanket "caution" signs?

Some writers claim that the only "trigger warnings" necessary apply to scenes that involve violence--especially sexual--or abuse--again, especially sexual. But what that's saying is that certain kinds of trauma are worse, or more "worthy" of being warned about, than others.

And that's hogwash, too.  Because trauma is trauma. Pain is pain. And espousing that kind of narrow, discriminatory "compassion" is just plain ignoring the facts.

Which leads us right into the second reason "trigger warnings" are hogwash:

2) It's not an author's job to police your eyes...or mind.

If you read back cover copy of a book and it uses terms like "gritty" or "seamy," or comes right out and talks about sex and weapons and crime and danger...don't you kind of know what you're going to get on the inside?

And if that reflects something of your past, something you're still healing from...

Don't read the book.

Kind of obvious, isn't it?

And no, I don't mean to be callous here. But it's come to a point in today's culture where no one is responsible for anything they, themselves, do anymore.  It's always someone else's job to "protect" them and give them a "safe place"...

...while at the same time, these people rail against censorship of any kind.

Or, to put this more colloquially, "You can't have it both ways."

If I read something that's advertised as a "hot" book, and I then complain because it's sexy, who's at fault here? The author, for not warning me that some scenes may be offensive or objectionable to me? Or me, the reader, for deliberately wading into the swamp without mosquito spray and then blaming the swamp because I got bitten?

The bottom line is, we cannot hope to cover, protect, and shield everyone from everything that's ever going to trigger them. And if we can't do it for everyone, it's both shallow and pointless to do it only for certain people and certain traumas.  

Occasionally, yes, we can get ambushed by something. We in grief know all about that, too.  And that might mean that, temporarily, we've got to absent ourselves from the site, the page, or the author's work that did that. We might be able to return, again, at a future date...when we're stronger. Triggers aren't always forever, either. 

But, again...that's our stuff. Not a culture's. Not a grocery store's. Not a florist's. 

And it shouldn't have to be an author's, either.

Thoughts?

Janny

No, It's Not Bohemian Rhapsody...

 ...but this week's Musical Monday selection does offer us a visit from Scaramouche!

Enjoy...

Janny

In Praise of a Truly "Small" World

Many years ago, when I had a short-lived (and doomed!) job as an administrative assistant for a PR firm, a coworker had a radio on all day playing pop music. Why do I remember that so well? Because of one song in particular: the infamous Disney theme from EPCOT, "It's A Small World, After All."

For some reason, 70s pop music stations thought they should bombard us with that song at least once a day. If not more often. Don't ask ME why; I could barely tolerate it. But my coworker had a different, and much more dramatic, reaction to the thing. Every time it'd come on the radio, she'd call someone--I have no idea whom--and tell them their song was on.

Every. Single. Time.

I couldn't help but wonder whom she was calling (I never asked) or why. Clearly, that song meant something to someone in her world, and so every time she heard it, she'd share it. And since this station played it regularly, that gave her an excuse to make a personal phone call every single morning. In between lighting cigarettes and chain-smoking. Which she did, in the office. Because those were the days when you still could do such things in an office!

This song came to mind (briefly only, thank heaven) when I read a FB entry by a fellow author about getting to know an online consultant in Ukraine, and sharing a few thoughts with that man. And our author friend concluded with the obvious: that, in the end, a lot of the social and political issues we're obsessing about in this country really aren't all that important, and we should remember the suffering fellow human beings closer to us than we might think--hence, the "small world."

All of which is true.  And worth understanding.

But, in my perspective, is an attitude that can also be hazardous as a steady diet.

In our everyday existences, our own worlds are very small, indeed. We deal with minutiae: kids and parents and neighbors and carpools and appliances breaking down and Internet access and work issues and laundry and dinner and mowing the lawn and what our pets are getting into...

It can all seem so insignificant and selfish, compared to the "problems of the world."

But the little-known (and even less-believed) secret?

It's not.

Contrary to what media and culture seem bent on "guilting" us with--this small, limited, "unimportant" life most of us live is not only whole, and real, and legitimate...but a healthy, sane means by which we effect long-term betterment for an entire world.

Something that, by contrast, is not accomplished--and can never be--by constantly looking outward instead, and agonizing about all the things beyond our scope to fix.

This concept may be horrifying to some of you, in that it comes across as self-absorbed to the max. It concentrates on who, and what, is right in front of you, what your day brings in terms of challenges and opportunities. And leaves the rest to fate. Or God. Or whatever higher power you recognize (and we all recognize one, whether we admit it or not).  

What does a life look like that's lived this way?

Rather peaceful, truth be told.

And I can say that because it's a life I've lived for years.

My life is, quite deliberately, not hemmed by news reporting, argument, or gossip.

It is a life not governed by worry, stress, frustration, or rage.

It is a life in which I can go for days without knowing that a natural disaster occurred thousands of miles away, on the other side of the world...and, consequently, without feeling awful about it.

It is a life in which I am "behind the curve" in terms of contemporary mores, tragedies, or social idiocies...and consequently, don't expend energy or emotional investment on them.

It is a life in which, as much as possible, I try to stay focused on things I can do.

Things I can control.

Lives I can impact.

Direct actions I can take to influence policy, personalities, or public opinion.

The rest, I ignore.

Yes. You heard that right.

I can hear the indignant reactions now.

"What do you mean, you ignore what's happening all over the world? You have to be informed! You need to know what's going on!"

To which I always respond, "Why?"

And, to this day, I haven't gotten a good answer to that question.

In fact, the people I know who make it their business to be "informed," and who do always "know what's going on"? By and large? Are psychological messes.

They're so balled up in anxiety, in anger, in fear, in worry, and in suspicion and/or cynicism that, ironically enough, their lives are  "smaller" than mine is. They don't "dare" do things I'll do in a heartbeat, because it's "not safe" to do those things. Even when, as I do them, I'm perfectly safe the entire time...and enjoy myself in the bargain. And speaking of enjoyment? Some of these "informed" people can barely laugh, really laugh, at anything anymore. Or make a joke, even a perfectly innocent one, without looking over their shoulders.

Surely, that's not the way human beings are supposed to live.

Because, during His time on earth, even God laughed.

Yes, He did. 

And yes, He cried, too.

But He lived in balance. And when the world was too much with Him, or His disciples, He urged them to get away. To separate themselves from the melee, take some time for peace and quiet, and recollect.

Reconnect.

Renew.

Refresh.

Some of us take "retreats" in which we do these things. But I firmly believe we need to go way beyond intermittent "escape"...and start practicing some judicious, everyday ignorance. 

Because a life lived with one's finger endlessly on the pulse of the world at large, endlessly vigilant, and endlessly concerned about things that, most of the time, we have no control over...

Has no room for refreshment, recollection, reconnection, or renewal.

And eventually, then, it has no room for humor. 

Or whimsy. 

Or creativity. 

Or spontaneity. 

Or optimism.

Or...faith. Or hope. Or real charity.

I have all of these elements still at my disposal. And I use them, when I can, and when I need to, to make things better. I don't have to go looking for opportunities, either. What needs me to tend to it, as I've often said, shows up--without fail--at the doorstep. 

Which is plenty soon enough to deal with it.

Remember, Jesus worked miracles one person at a time. He was divine--but He still understood, and respected, sane human limits.

No amount of "information" will give you superhuman powers to go beyond that.

So stop expecting it to--or expecting yourself to be superhuman as a result. 

I do my best with the small world I've been given to live and move in.

And in the end, I believe, that will turn out to be more than enough.

Thoughts?

Janny

"I'll Be Bach."

Happy Musical Monday!

Well, okay, technically I won't be...but HE will.
Enjoy!

Janny

"They're Playin' Bas-ket-baaallll..."

...and it came to pass, in the gray days of March, that the Lord looked down on his American people and said:

"Hey, word up, there's nothin' happenin' down there. This is neither spring, nor winter, neither hot nor cold. It is not good to have man living in these doldrums of halfway between.

"So let us shaketh things up a bit. Let us make of March a special time, that shall be henceforth known as 'Madness.'* At this time, men shall procure a roundball, made of leather, filled with the breath of the wind, and shall bring it to a 94-foot hardwood court. There, they shall string cotton beneath a wide orange cylinder of metal, one at each end of the court, at a height of 10 feet from the floor. And groups of men shall band together, and shall make it a mission to launch the roundball through the cylinder, so that it makes a special music through the cotton cords. And yea, verily, when the roundball passeth through the cotton net, there shall be rejoicing and great jubilation in many lands.

"They shall do this in the city; they shall do this in the country. They shall do this in the small town, in the places time forgot. They shall do this in the Ivy League and in the Midwest Athletic Conference, on the Atlantic coast and in the heartlands; in the Mountain West and the Pacific lowlands; and the people shall behold it and marvel.

"And let us make this an annual feast, a time when small men can dream big dreams. Let us celebrate and rejoice, and make merry, when the Big Dancing begins. And let March be forever blessed with this glorious festival of team colors and cheerleaders, slammin' and jammin', 'diaper dandies' and buzzer-beaters...to bring joy and craziness to all my people."

And God saw it...and it was very good.

Let there be Roundball!!!!!!!

Janny
(*Yes, we are aware that the IHSA claims that Illinois High School Basketball was the original "March Madness," and we have no doubt whatsoever that this is true, as we can remember this term from way before it was used for the NCAA Tournament. We have merely exercised a little poetic license here, and trust that the reader will be accommodating.)

***(Reprinted from March, 2009)***

What's On Your Liszt For This Week?

This is on mine...

Happy Musical Monday!

Janny

Mindful Coffee

...no, I never heard of it, either. But...! 

I love my morning coffee. Or afternoon coffee. Or, on some occasions, even evening coffee. Which is why, IMHO, the Keurig is among the best things ever invented. All that coffee, one cup at a time, whatever flavor you fancy...and quick to make.

BUT...lately, I've had the *other* kind of coffee, too. No, not perked on the stove (although that's still among the better ways to make a pot)...but perked from grounds in my Keurig. As in, hand-scooping the grounds into one of those reusable cups you insert into the coffeemaker. Also for one cup at a time.

But a whole lot messier. Which means that every time you make one of THOSE cups, you have to really think about it. In terms of the cleanup work involved. Because coffee grounds, I'm here to tell you, migrate worse than spaghetti sauce toward a white blouse. No matter how careful you are in measuring out those grounds into that teeny little cup, inevitably some will...leak out.

Not to mention the cleanup of the used grounds afterward.

So, then, I got to wondering...

If you need to take care, and extra time, to make an individual cup of coffee...

...does that make it MINDFUL?

As opposed to just tossing another premade pod into the machine and brewing a second or third cup?

And do I get extra credit, then, on the "mindfulness" scale...for making the coffee more from scratch? Not to mention extra points for wiping up every spare speck of coffee grounds?

It's an interesting question, I think.

😇

I mean, hey--sometimes you need to take your meditation points where you get 'em.

But I also gotta say: sometimes, folks, I just like my coffee mindless. Snatch a pod, stick it in, push the button, and go.

Does that make me shallow?

Am I missing a chance for extra-deep thoughts while I scrub out a reusable cup?

Or...?

Yeah. 

I doubt that'll keep ME up nights, either. 😛

Thoughts?

Janny

[[Photo by Ante Samarzija on Unsplash]]

"All You Need Is Love..." And A Second Bathroom!

Yeah. The little-known second line to that lyric? (LOL)

This thought came upon me as I've been ruminating over the possibility of someday in here, "being with" somebody new. As in, having a romantic relationship that could turn into marriage and cohabitation.

And I started considering that, in light of the house I presently call home.

Now, this is a great little house. From the outside, it looks like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs live here: It's a little blue cottage with a stone chimney in front. It is two bedrooms, a large dining room, a tiny kitchen, a cozy living room, and a bathroom. No basement, no second level, utility room is literally right off the living room (when they say laundry is "mere steps" away, they're not kidding!).  It's on a slant, as are most houses in this area that were built in the 1940s and "settled." You can put a marble on the floor and check the slant for yourself, any time. Or you can take it from my Mini Taktell metronome, which cannot find level purchase upon which to keep time!

It is funky. It is charming.

But it is SMALL.

And it has only one bathroom. 

A basic bathroom, at that. No double vanity, no separate W/C, none of that wonderful stuff. It DOES have a bathtub--which nowadays, for reasons known only to builders, is NOT always a given--as well as a shower, and it's in pretty good shape, although dated. If a designer came in here, the first thing he or she would do is groan, then start tearing out all the old woodwork and cabinetry and replacing them with sleek gray & white.

Which wouldn't be all bad. And if I could afford it, I'd likely do some of that myself.

But, again...it is SMALL.

As in, it has no linen closet. I use part of the master bedroom closet to stash linens and other storage. And, once again, as in it has only ONE bathroom.

And I know, for a fact, that if I moved in with someone else again...that wouldn't be enough.

The older we get, the more we need bathrooms to be handy, accessible, and OPEN.

For many obvious reasons, none of which will I bore or gross you out with now.

We had one bathroom in the condo in Wauconda, and there was more than one instance in which I spent some looong minutes waiting for it, when it was occupied at a time when my biology wanted me to be occupying it instead!

So, in addition to the considerations attached to forming another emotional connection, dealing with all the baggage that could ensue from that exercise, and doing the usual adjustments one has to do when one is too used to living on one's own...

...I'd have to find a bigger house with another bathroom in it!

No, it wouldn't have to be lavish. And, truth be told, even a half-bath would do.

Just for Important Functions When They Need To Be Tended To.

So, the sentiment will never make its way onto a Valentine card.

But it's a very practical way to make sure everybody feels loved...going forward!

And to me, it's a basic necessity I don't want to live without.

Whadya think?

Janny

It's Musical Monday again!

Some warm music for a cold Monday! A few  piano meanderings by a composer who hasn't gotten nearly enough attention yet...(but we're working on it!)

Enjoy!

Janny

Happy Birthday Robert Burns!

In honor of the occasion...a quintessential love song, sung by one of the greatest of all time. Have tissues handy.

And...you're welcome.

A Red, Red Rose

Janny

For Musical Monday...A Surprise!

 Yes, it was for ME, too.

Check it out!

Janny

A Miracle Musical Monday!

I think this is probably one of the best ways you could start any week. But, then, again, I think it's pretty much impossible to listen to Haydn and not smile...

So enjoy the rest of your week with this as accompaniment!

Janny