God Bless the Moon Redux

My nephew, Kenneth, is the inspiration for this blog which I began writing, albeit sporadically, two years ago. One of the first posts I wrote was a story about Kenneth entitled “God Bless the Moon.” Initially, I intended to call the blog “God Bless the Moon” or, simply, “GBTM.” Although complications with the blog’s title caused me to choose another title, the original purpose of the blog, to celebrate the people, places, ideas, and events that enrich my life, remains the same.

My brother’s eldest son and the first of the family’s “next” generation, Kenneth occupied a place of importance in my life and especially in his dad’s life, the two of them being nearly inseparable. Our father’s eldest brother was called “Unkie” when we were young kids. When Kenneth was born, my mother, ever mindful of family roles and what they are called, announced that the elder brother is called “Unkie.” And, so it was.

Time passes and life takes unanticipated if not unwelcome turns. A hostile divorce, geographical distance, and the exigencies of everyday living have separated Kenneth from me for more than thirty of his thirty-eight years. Happily, the separation ended yesterday when Kenneth, once again, entered my life.

In many ways, I feel “ripped off” having been deprived of Kenneth’s presence in my life these many years. But, choosing to celebrate the blessings that fill my life prevents me from nursing unhealthy and unproductive resentments. Kenneth is in my life again. I am grateful for that blessing. We go forward.

A brief digression into the past before moving on
I saw Kenneth the last time over twenty years ago when he was probably in his late teens. Prior to that, I hadn’t seen him for at least ten years. I had a ring—a moss agate in a silver setting—that my grandmother gave to me before she died. I was fourteen years old. The ring belonged to my “Unkie.” I wore that ring for many years and cherished it because it had belonged to one I loved dearly. I decided it was time to pass the ring on and, on the occasion of what was to be our last meeting for twenty some years and, as Kenneth’s “Unkie,” I gave the ring to him.

Back to the present
The wonder of modern technology made it possible for Kenneth to “find” me yesterday through FaceBook. A brief message from him was all that was required to open the floodgates of happiness I feel about having Kenneth in my life once again.

Kenny (unless he tells me to call him by another name) sounds well-settled and happy in his life married to Lucy, a lovely woman who I had the pleasure of meeting and of chatting with over the telephone later in the day after our initial exchange of FaceBook messages. Kenny and Lucy have two beautiful daughters, Katie (19) and Alie (16). A trip in the near future to visit them and to become better acquainted with all is eagerly anticipated.

Beginning this blog, I had no idea what it would come to mean to me in terms of the people and events that bless my life. In writing a story about Kenny, I never dreamed we would come full-circle.

God bless the moon!

Change, Reinvention, and Grace

My college is celebrating its 35th anniversary. Recently, the college hosted a gala celebration attended by faculty, staff, students, alumni, retirees, and community members. Unable to attend, the college’s founding president sent a congratulatory video. Two former presidents also attended, one of whom left the college in unpleasant circumstances. Surprised to see her, I was more surprised by the change in her physical appearance. She was smiling, cordial, greeted me warmly, and explained that the physical change is due to a significant weight loss. As I observed her throughout the evening, she appeared at home, interacting comfortably with everone. Called upon to offer remarks in honor of the occasion, she did so with grace and sincerity.

A faculty colleague tells students that education is the process of reinventing oneself. It occurred to me that what I observed in our former president represented more than physical change; this was a courageous effort at reinvention. Considering personal commitment and the emotional risks involved in a decision to change, I realized that everyone is not only free to change, they have the right to reinvent themselves. More important, when one is willing to change, I have a responsibility to “allow” the change because acknowledging change in another person changes me. “The door to reformation is never closed,” my dad would tell me. As a kid, I had no idea what he meant, but I think I’m beginning to understand.

April is National Poetry Month

Any time is a good time to read or to share a poem, but National Poetry Month, sponsored by the Academy of American Poetry since 1996, is an especially joyous opportunity for sharing the magic of poetry. The wonder of the World Wide Web makes enjoyment of poetry possible in ways early poets never dreamed possible, from video recordings of poets reading their poetry, to favorite poems brilliantly read by famous actors, to clever animations of poems. Below are links to three of my favorite poems, each offering a different way to enjoy poetry.

Dylan Thomas. The Force the Through The Green Fuse Drives the Flower

T. S. Eliot. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Walt Whitman. When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer

The Academy of American Poetry is a nonprofit organization that supports American poets at all stages of their careers and fosters the appreciation of contemporary poetry.

The President of the United States of America!

Election night, November 4, 2008, I watched election returns with friends. We were all overjoyed with the result!

I followed the transition in the Los Angeles Times, The New York Times, on television, and in almost daily emails from President-Elect Obama’s transition team.

I was glued to my television from Friday afternoon before the Inauguration until late in the evening of January 20.

The experience was enjoyable, moving, breathtaking, and, above all, a testimony to American democracy and to the resilience of the American spirit.

Throughout the election, the transition, and the inaugural festivities, I’ve thought about my grandnieces, Keiara, 15, and Jada, 3. For Jada and her generation, their first awareness of the President of the United States will be of Barack Obama. For her generation, as District of Columbia Mayor Adrian M. Fenty observed, “Barack Obama is not the first African-American President of the United States. He’s the President of the United States.”

Recalled to life

“Dad! I checked your blog and you haven’t written anything since April!”

That my daughter, Susan, reads my blog is exciting news. That she expects me to keep it up is high praise.

I don’t blog to introduce guilt into my life. But, in this case, a little guilt may not be a bad thing. Well, let’s not call it guilt. I’ll settle for “awake up call,” instead.

May was busy with end-of-semester activities, graduation, and preparations for a month-long trip to Southern Africa (more about that in subsequent posts).

Since returning from my travels, my blog muse has been unusually silent and I have allowed myself to enjoy uncharacteristically low productivity and to wallow in major self-indulgence—though I suppose some will argue that writing a blog is the ultimate display of self-indulgence.

Thanks to Susan’s not so subtle nudge, I am recalled to life. More to come…

Paying It Forward

Last week, I lost my cell phone. This is not just any cell phone. This is a titanium Blackberry Curve 8300 that receives my email and holds my address book, calendar, to do list, notes, and important information like user IDs and passwords for a slew of online accounts. Discovery of the loss made me ill, not to mention angry at my carelessness.

My first response was to call ATT Wireless where I learned I could disable the phone by going to their web site and clicking on the “Report a Lost/Stolen Phone” link. Next, I changed passwords for accounts I thought might be vulnerable.

Having moved through the initial stages of shock, anger, and denial, getting to acceptance seemed the most reasonable way to handle the situation. I called ATT Wireless again and explored replacement options. Not eligible for an upgrade and without loss/replacement insurance, the cost of a new phone came to nearly $500. Acting as if I were in a state of acceptance, I placed the order.

My home phone rang about 9:30 p.m., just as I was preparing to go to bed. “I’m looking for Dennis,” said a male voice.

“He’s speaking,” I said.

“This is Phil R—. I think I found your cell phone in front of Staples this afternoon. I hope you won’t mind, but I went through your address book looking for a clue to who the owner might be. That’s how I found your number.”

“That’s no problem,” I said. “I’m just happy to know it’s been found.”

“You must be a pretty important guy, cause there’s sure a lot of stuff in there!”

We negotiated a meeting. Fifteen minutes later, I met Phil in the parking lot of Mickey’s Pub, less than a mile from my house. “Wow! Thank you,” I said, as he handed me my phone. “I’m so happy to have it back. This represents quite a loss.”

The following morning, I thought I was probably still in shock when Phil handed me the phone and I had failed to offer him any kid of reward or recognition. After thinking about it all day, I called Phil (his phone number was still on my caller ID).

“This is Dennis, they guy whose cell phone you returned last night. I just wanted to thank you again and to tell you how grateful I am to have it back.”

“You’re welcome, Dennis,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

“Phil, it occurred to me that I really should have offered to do something for….”

“I really don’t want anything,” Phil said, cutting me off.

“I understand,” I said. “I would feel the same way if I had found your phone. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Right,” he said. “I’m fine with that.”

“Well,” I said, “I think one good turn deserves another. I believe in paying it forward and I’d like to do something for you. I can make a contribution to a charity….”

“I don’t want any credit.”

“I’m going to do something, though, and it may as well be something you’d like.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

It’s been a week and I haven’t heard from Phil. Last night, talking with my neighbor, Cathy, I told her the story. “I have the perfect thing,” she said. “Safe Grad Night.”

“What a good idea,” I said. “I love that.” I went home and wrote the check.

A Circle of Friends

Google “circle of friends” and get over 3.6 million hits in less than 0.11 seconds. Everything from kids’ shampoo to support groups for Klippel-Fiel Syndrome, Maeve Binchy’s novel to Mexican imports. Mexican Imports, a web site specializing in rustic antiques and Mexican folk art, touts its “Circle of Friends” candle holder as “the world’s #1 gift.” That a piece of “rustic” Mexican folk art is the world’s number one gift is debatable; friendship is not.

Harriet and Don have been a part of my life for over thirty years. Living in Taft, a gritty little town in the southwest corner of California’s San Joaquin Valley, we were drawn together by a mutual love of literature. Over a period of eight years, we organized book discussions, poetry readings, foreign and art film screenings. We produced readers’ theater performances for children and adults, lenten programs featuring liturgical music, drama, and dance. We became friends.

When Harriet and Don retired, they moved into their dream home, a New England-style saltbox cottage on a wooded hill adjacent to the California Central Coast. Filled with primitive colonial American antiques, books, music, and memories spanning more than sixty years of married life, their home is a place where ideas are shared, discussed, and appreciated. It’s a place where Harriet and Don enjoy being known simply as “the folks who live on the hill.”

Two years after Harriet and Don retired, a change in career and lifestyle took me to Southern California. Throughout a period in my life I can characterize only as doubt-filled, confused, and tumultuous, I was sustained by Harriet and Don’s steadfast and unquestioning friendship.

Since leaving Taft, we’ve continued to organize annual or semi-annual reunions around particular themes or activities: a play, a music festival, a ballet, a movie, a poetry reading, a meal, simply being together. Regardless of the activity or theme, we’re fond of referring to our gatherings as “w’ot larx” after an exchange between Pip and Joe Gargery in Dickens’s Great Expectations.

Dori and I met when I joined a gay and lesbian business networking organization in the San Fernando Valley. Through her gay business partner, having recently lost her beloved son to the AIDS virus, Dori became active in the organization as a way of giving meaning to her life and of dealing with Kirk’s death. Our friendship was instant, organic, and without any question that we were destined to be the closest of friends.

Vivacious, effervescent, and intellectually curious, Dori radiates joie de vivre. Her presence lights up a room. People love her and love to be with her. Dori paints, writes poetry and prose, loves movies and music of all types, enjoys travel, and reads voraciously. “Enthusiasm” describes whatever time we spend together. There is never enough time. While we’re sad when it runs out, we’re always enthusiastic about the next time we’ll be together.

On a Sunday morning over an elegant brunch Dori had prepared, discussing a poem, whatever we were reading, or some idea of importance to both of us at the moment, I proposed that she meet my friends, Harriet and Don. “They’ve experienced the loss of a child, they have a daughter who is a lesbian, and they share your love of literature, art, music, movies, and travel.” Soon after, I arranged a week-end meeting at Harriet and Don’s. The chemistry was perfect and, as I watched it develop over the course of the week-end, I was suffused with gratitude that my intuition had been correct. Gathered in Harriet and Don’s living room to share the poems we’d each selected for the occasion, I recalled seeing on Dori’s patio a piece of crude terra cotta pottery she called “a circle of friends.” It seemed the perfect symbol of the friendship I shared with Harriet and Don and that we now shared with Dori. A few weeks later, an acquaintance returned from a trip to Baja California with several circle of friends candle holders. Coincidence? Synchronicity? I bought two and gave one to Harriet and Don.

By myself at home, when I light my circle of friends candle, I am immediately recalled to “w’ot larx” we’ve enjoyed. Its glow reminds me that the gift of Harriet, Don, and Dori’s friendship not only brightens my life, but that, like the terra cotta figures linked in a circular embrace, it binds me to a shared history and grounds my identity. The gift of my circle of friends enriches my life.

Bringing light

From her earliest days as an entertainer and activist, Joan Baez has inspired millions through her music and by her actions. Her life is characterized by her passionate and ceaseless efforts to bring the healing light of peace and social justice to the dark corners of the world. Until recently, she has resisted pressure to endorse political candidates. But, the times are changing for Baez and, I hope, for the future of the U.S. On Sunday, February 3, 2008, the San Francisco Chronicle, carried the following letter to the editor under the heading “Leader on a new journey:”

Editor – I have attempted throughout my life to give a voice to the voiceless, hope to the hopeless, encouragement to the discouraged, and options to the cynical and complacent. From Northern Ireland to Sarajevo to Latin America, I have sung and marched, engaged in civil disobedience, visited war zones, and broken bread with those who had little bread to break.

Through all those years, I chose not to engage in party politics. Though I was asked many times to endorse candidates at every level, I was never comfortable doing so. At this time, however, changing that posture feels like the responsible thing to do. If anyone can navigate the contaminated waters of Washington, lift up the poor, and appeal to the rich to share their wealth, it is Sen. Barack Obama. If anyone can bring light to the darkened corners of this nation and restore our positive influence in world affairs, it is Barack Obama. If anyone can begin the process of healing and bring unity to a country that has been divided for too long, it is Barack Obama. It is time to begin a new journey.

Joan Baez
Menlo Park

Nickel and dimed

I just finished reading Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America, a scathing indictment of welfare reform and its effect on the lives of the working poor in the U.S. In the book’s conclusion, Ehrenreich writes, “when someone works for less pay than she can live on… she has made a great sacrifice for you…. The ‘working poor’ …are in fact the major philanthropists of our society. They neglect their own children so that the children of others will be cared for; they live in substandard housing so that other homes will be shiny and perfect; they endure privation so that inflation will be low and stock prices high. To be a member of the working poor is to be an anonymous donor, a nameless benefactor, to everyone (p. 221).”

On the one hand, the book is utterly depressing. On the other, it is a jolt to my middle class comfort. I am angry as hell because this situation exists in the “wealthiest and most powerful” nation on earth. I am angry, too, because I am now more aware of it. I feel a need to find a productive use for my anger.

When I expressed my feelings to a community college colleague whose judgment and experience I respect, she reminded me that the work we do in community colleges makes a difference in the lives of people living on the edge; community colleges provide a path from the abyss of lifelong poverty.

At times it feels like there are not enough hours in the day for faculty, staff, and administrators to accomplish all that needs to done. But when I think about the programs and services offered through California community colleges that benefit students enormously, I am reminded why I love what we do, why I am grateful to be a part of what we do, and why I am grateful to share this effort with all of my colleagues.

Whether weather

It rained for a short time last night. Rain is unusual in the desert. I don’t own an umbrella, raincoat, or any rain gear, for that matter. Showers rarely last long enough to require rain paraphernalia. Now that I think about it, in the desert, we don’t have “weather” in our vocabulary. We talk about “temperature” and “sunshine.” Oh, and “wind.” That’s not weather. It’s simply what is. Whether hot, cold, or somewhere in between, there is always sunshine. And wind.

The Sierra Nevada Mountains lie to the west of us. In the Sierras there’s weather. And it changes quickly and dramatically. We know its winter in the Sierras because its capricious weather often dusts the mountain crests with a faint sprinkling of powdered sugar-like snow, as if to remind us that winter weather in the Sierras is real. Last night, the Sierra winter weather ventured over its mountain tops and marched down its eastern slopes to deposit a blanket of brilliant white snow as low as 3,000 feet.

It usually takes less than 15 minutes to drive the six miles from my house to my office. This morning, it took more that 35 minutes because of the frequent stops to admire the show the Sierra winter weather whipped up for us last night as we slept.

This evening, it’s gotten very cold. I’m enjoying a cup of hot chamomile tea and listening to Robbie snore gently at my back. It’s raining lightly as I write this post. I understand the Sierra winter weather has something more earnest in store for us tonight.