The Sadie Lecture Series continues . . . from under the lampshade of doom . . .

Sadie speaks to me.  Well, not in so many words.  Well, not in any words, but she is constantly teaching.  I like it when I remember to learn.  

One morning last week was much like most mornings - pretty great, actually.  We had dropped off the kids at school and were running errands.  Sadie was overjoyed to be riding along, resting with the hum of the engine and feeling the warm sun beat down on her head.  Often she shows 'overjoyed' with a good nap.  (She's easy to read.)

We stopped off before home at the enchanted forest near our house.  That's what I call it, because it is way too beautiful to be called a vacant lot and because it is very fun to know (even if no one else knows) that I visit an enchanted forest every day with my dog.  There are flowers and signs of long ago life there for me and there are smells and grasses and space for Sadie.  We really like it.

You get the picture.  It was a great morning.  

We got home and began the rituals of the early day - the trash, the mess, the laundry, the usual.  As I was gathering the trash to take to the street, Sadie was cut by something (I've never been able to find) right under my nose.  She yelped once and then ran along as usual.  When we got inside, though, I realized she was very different.  She was nervous and hurting.  A further glance found the blood along her leg, and I knew we had to go to the vet.  

Bother.  Expense.  Pain.  Distraction.  We both thought our thoughts about the inconvenience of this whole escapade and we both remembered how awesome our little morning had been just minutes before.  Bummer.

We went to see the nice vet.  They took care of sweet Sadie.  They stapled the cut on her leg; and even though stapling doesn't sound like a nice thing to do, I rested assured that she was in good hands.  The vet went over the drill.  She explained what I'd need to do, when we would come back, what medicine to take.  We had it.  Sadie stopped shaking for the first time in a couple of hours when she got safely back in my arms and we headed home.  

That's when Sadie started teaching.

She glanced at me from the back seat and assured me that everything was all right.  She showed me she wasn't shaking anymore and she got comfortable.  I learned.

She hurt a bit, but she got back to her main activity at home - sleep.  Sadie is a perfect, world champion sleeper.  It is a marvel to behold.  She does it well.  

I learned as I watched her reevaluate her situation and figure out a way to do what needed doing. 

Then came the really hard part for me.  After twenty four hours, I had to remove the bandage and put on the awful, cruel lampshade.  Uggghhhhhh.  This implement of misery that I had laughed at when I saw it on other dogs wasn't funny at all when I had to be the one to snap it into place around her neck.  

She was scared to death.  She ran into walls constantly.  She thought she was being threatened from both sides.  She looked hard into my eyes and willed me to explain why I had done what I'd done.   She was miserable.  I was miserable.  

She taught me more, though, when she quickly forgot I did it to her.  She doesn't hold onto bitterness long.  She doesn't keep score.  She went on with her life.  

It was hard and uncomfortable and strange, but she did what she needed to do.  She bumped into every wall she passed for at least three days.  She had trouble eating.  She constantly thought something was after her.  It was hard to watch, but I kept learning.  

Sadie was long past wondering and worrying about why it happened or who did it to her.  She was well into living the life she lives.  She had to work hard, but she made it all work.  All of her usual routines had to be adapted a bit.  She did that.  I learned.  

She is a good teacher.  She keeps on showing.  

We are a week into this thing.  Some call it a 'lampshade.'  Some call it the 'dome of doom.'  And others laugh and call her Queen Elizabeth or Laura Ingalls Wilder.  She's fine with all that.  She doesn't like it, but she has made it work.  She didn't ask for it, but she is dealing with it.  

I know when the dome of doom gets removed.  I know that she only has three more days.  That's not information she is privy to, but she's all right anyway.  She makes it work.  She teaches.  

She does more 'walking the walk' than 'talking the talk.'  She's a great teacher.  I'm sure I miss a lot of lessons out there for the taking, but I'm mighty thankful when I recognize them. 

         Sadie leads on from inside the dome of doom . . . 

teaching us about things that we know but forget to remember.  

I'm thankful.  

List 41 - Fifteen pieces of perspective . . .

This week's list is a bit different.  I hope it works.  My intent isn't to make anyone angry or to start a dialogue over the pros and cons with the USA's work on poverty.

A thought just keeps coming up in my head this week, and I can't help but say this . . .

The 'disaster' on the cruise ship this week sounded awful.  It sounded hot and miserable and gross and stinky.  It would be a great disappointment to finance and look forward to a wonderful trip, only to have it end up as a slowly sinking failure.  That's just it, though.  It would be disappointing.

And then the folks from the trip could go back to their 'real lives' and eat a big, juicy hamburger, take an extra long hot shower, adjust the air to their liking and tell some awesome vacation gone wrong stories. There is no doubt that it was a miserable experience.  I'm glad for them that it is over.

Actually, after some of what I saw in Nicaragua, I'm glad for them - period.  The travelers aboard the cruise ship were dealt a shoddy hand.  They had bad luck.  They were forced to endure conditions that most of us don't ever see.  I'm sorry it happened; but oh, how I wish one of them would use their fifteen minutes of fame to underscore the reality that millions of folks live in conditions far worse than the ill-fated cruise ship and they do so every day of their lives.  I wish just one of them would acknowledge that the situation was a complete mess, but that they are fortunate not to live that way all of the time.

I met people who live in a dump; and though they aren't the majority of the fine folks of Nicaragua, their story and their realities haunt me still.  They live in the midst of a mess.  They don't have running water.  There are no bathrooms.  They don't have enough food and no boat comes in with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  The babies didn't choose to be born into that, and I hope I never forget what I saw.

So, today, just a few photos that show people - often smiling, happy people - who were born into something different than you and I know.  Today, a list of photos . . . to help us all remember that sometimes our yucky, smelly, hot, dirty, unlucky, ill-fated disasters might not be the 'worst thing that can happen.'  I hope everybody has a great weekend.   If I have my own cruise ship gone bad story, I hope I'll remember to keep it all in perspective.

(I promise I have stories that aren't about the dump . . . but some memories just scream out to be told first.)

The Wednesday Pop - vol. 7 . . . It's Hammock Time

My Dad is a smart man.  I've told you that before.  He has a lot of things figured out, and it may surprise you that he is also the world's great rester.  Yes, rester.  He has an unbelievable talent with rest.

He is able to take a short nap in almost any place you could imagine!  He naps on the couch in his office.  He can nap on the ground during a picnic.  He once found a room away from the action and napped while we spent the day at my kids' school!  He's a champion rester!

He slips away from a family gathering, finds a bed, has a rest and gets involved in the conversation again, faster than you would believe.  While the rest of the folks sit around complaining about all that needs to be done or yawning lazily as the conversation lags, he takes a nap!  Oddly enough, when he arises, he's whistling a happy tune and running circles around the rest of us!

I love a good hammock - I assume everyone does - but no one has the relationship with the hammock that my father does.  He is one with any hammock he has ever met!  So, here is where I relate my unbelievable trip to Nicaragua to my Dad's love for resting . . .

In Nicaragua, there are hammocks everywhere!  Unlike our backyard hammocks, swaying alone in the breeze, these hammocks are used and used all of the time!

Are the folks in Nicaragua lazy?  Are they trying to dream away their work?  Do they not have enough to do?

Nope, that's not it.  They have plenty to do, just like my Dad.  Funny thing, though . . . they've figured out that more gets done when one is rested.  They've also figured out that a body and a mind needs rest and that sometimes just dreamily watching the waves or praying or meditating right in the middle of a day is a very good thing.

Once on my trip, I found myself in a hammock.  (Well, actually more than once I found myself in a hammock, but that's not the point here.)  I was talking with another friend on the trip, and we were discussing how odd it was to 'just rest' right in the middle of the day.  I began to think about Pop, my Dad, and something very important dawned on me . . . 

He might rest more than anyone I know, but he also gets more done than anyone I know.  What's up with that?  Apparently, my Dad and some friends in a far away land have discovered something that the rest of us busy people don't yet understand.  

It makes sense to rest in the middle of the day when a body and a mind get tired or when the sun beats down so heavily that simple movements are difficult.

Folks who rest more, do more.  It's that easy.  So, why don't I act on that?  Why don't you?  Why do we feel like we have to act busy all of the time?  Who's watching?  Why do we care?

Seems to me, I just visited with folks who understand far more than most of us.  They have cool, colorful hammocks at their houses, and they use them.

Sometimes they take to a hammock when they are tired from the morning's work.  Sometimes they get in side by side hammocks and have lazy visits, talking about whatever arises.  And sometimes, they just take a few minutes or a few hours and get away from their real world to spend a while with God or with themselves.  Sometimes they just rest.

I'm more than impressed by this talent.  I want to put into action what my Dad and my friends in Nicargaua already know.  

Resting is a good thing.  

A very good thing.  

I think we should start a trend.  What do you think?

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 2 We'll start at the Fox . . .

Don't think I haven't driven my brain crazy trying to decide where to start with The Wednesday Pop.  I have.  There is much to tell, as I told you last week in The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 1 .  Where to begin, I pondered a million times since last week.  A couple of nights ago, though, I found my answer on the tv, of all places.  

We found a show on PBS devoted to the the Fox Theatre in Atlanta.  It was wonderful; part history, part legends, part documentary.  I enjoyed it, and it served as a trip down memory lane through so many awesome adventures in my childhood.  About twenty minutes into the show, I realized I would start my Pop stories at the Fox.  It makes good sense.  

I'll explain.  My Dad (often known as Pop, his grandfather name) is grand with grand celebrations.  (I realize I just used the same word twice - it was intentional.)  He can magically turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, the mundane into something special, the occasion into an event.  And so many times, he did that while he introduced my sister and I to a great, big, interesting world - often at a performance.  Many times, as you might imagine, the Fox came into play.  If you don't live in the Atlanta area, please click on the link above and investigate this fine theatre.  If you live near here, and you've never been there - you must remedy that immediately.  That is your homework.  Period.

As a child, I had no idea that every kid I knew didn't make frequent trips to the Fox.  I assumed that everyone went to see Rudolph Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov, whether or not they were into ballet.  I thought all kids saw The Royal Ballet of Everyplace, and for a while, I took it for granted.  When the Fox was in danger of being demolished, I figured all children were kept abreast of all that was happening and that most other kids had their own "Save the Fox" t-shirt, like I did.  

Didn't most families go to see Chinese Acrobats and the Atlanta Symphony?  Surely other kids knew the story about the Russian ballet couple who had been held captive in one room when they tried to defect, but practiced their ballet in the small space they had.  Surely others, like me, got to see them at the Fox, on their first tour in America.  Surely other parents told their children about this couple's story, shared the tales of their determination and cried alongside their daughters when the couple took to the stage.  Surely, they did.

I assumed most folks saw the first running of A Chorus Line and Phantom of the Opera.  I figured that most folks took their kids to see Gospel singers bring down the house on a regular basis.  (As a side note . . . if you are a singer who is female, a bit past middle-age, African American and a tad on the puffy side, my father will find you and hear you sing.)  I just knew that other kids heard boys' choirs from everywhere, rarely missed the Alvin Ailey Dancers and sometimes sat through plays and performances whose names they could barely pronounce.  I thought that was the way everybody did it.  

Eventually, I got a clearer picture.  I noticed that other kids my age didn't talk about their experiences at the Fox, or any one of Atlanta's other performance venues.  I began to see that my parents were different, that we did things that lots of other folks weren't doing.  And though I'll never know all that went into planning these events and pulling them off without the finances to provide for such, I did start to see that my Dad was different.  My eyes opened up a bit more, and I realized that he was consistently affording Jodi and me chances to see tiny glimpses of all that awaited us on this interesting place called Earth.  

When we were learning about Martin Luther King, Jr. at school, our family went to his church for a service and saw his home and roamed around his neighborhood.  When we reveled in the successes of the U.S. figure skaters, we were there at the Omni to see them in person.  When Jodi started taking gymnastics, we started seeing the famous gymnasts live.  I took note . . . my parents weren't steering us in the direction of their own lives, exactly, they were providing for us a summary of the many things the world has to offer.  We heard authors, listened to choirs, saw circuses, went to concerts, ballets, folk performances, plays and comedies.  We went to football games and swim meets and saw the visiting tours of anyone and anything that came through Athens, Ga.

I don't list these things to brag.  I list them now, as a thankful daughter and a learning parent.  I marvel at the experiences that my folks gave me on a limited budget and on the many ways that they put aside their particular interests to introduce us to the gifts of the world.  It's amazing to me, still.

In March, I wrote about the many ways that my mother touched this world, but I write this to begin to tell you the myriad ways that my Dad is changing this place.

Luckily, I wasn't grown when I began to notice all that he did to stretch our minds, our experiences or views of the world.   Thankfully, I realized at least some of what he did while I was still young and under his full time tutelage.  I remember when I first wondered about 'where Dad came from.'  How did a man who grew up poor in Griffin and Forest Park, Georgia learn about all of this?  How did he know that all of these things went on in the world, when the adventures weren't part of his daily life?  

He grew up with two amazing and loving parents, who adored their three sons.  They were poor; and though they brought themselves out of poverty and achieved so much, the majority of my Dad's childhood was filled with hardships.  It was filled with love, too.  And humor, and appreciation and church and singing and laughing and family.  I guess it was filled with enough of all of that good stuff, that he was instilled with a deep appreciation for the individual.  He learned about the many parts that make up a whole person.  I guess he came to know, maybe earlier than most, how important it was to know folks' stories.  I am thankful that he continues to pass that down.

I remember once trying to come up with a way to ask Dad how he came to know about the great, big, wide, interesting world.  I was frustrated, thinking I might not have the words to explain exactly what I was asking.  He got it, though, and he told me straight out.  I hope I remember his words correctly.  . .

He said everything opened up for him on a school field trip.  He said he remembers being brought on a bus from Forest Park to Atlanta to Symphony Hall with his classmates.  He remembers looking around.  He remembers noticing the building's architecture, the careful ways the space was created to carry sound and he remembers seeing the people of all sorts who were there to hear the musicians.  He recalls marveling at the talent of all of the orchestra members and the conductor and the people in the audience who seemed to understand it all.  He explained that he made a choice, right there - he decided that he would know that world, those things.  He decided that he would learn what they knew and visit that building again.  He would check out this big, wide world.

And he is doing just that, and taking the rest of us along on the journey.  Thanks be to God, that he is my Dad, that he dreamt up all that he did and that he introduced me to all that I saw.  I KNOW NOW that what I had wasn't the norm.  I know now that I was part of something extraordinary.  Today, I marvel at how he pulled it off.  I wonder how he made it happen, where he got the energy, came up with the money, had the tenacity to keep it going.  How could one person introduce that many different things to two little kids from Georgia?

I just hope I remember to take advantage of the 'Save the Fox' t-shirt moments with my own kids.  I hope I remember to stay awake enough to see all that happens in this bright, beautiful world and share it with them.

I am learning from the master, maestro, conductor, tour guide, choreographer, artistic director, coach, and mentor that is my Dad.   I am learning from the best.

Feeling the love . . .

You know I love what I do, and shooting photos of people who are enjoying life is the best.  I adored photographing this awesome duo and their sweet dog, Phoebe, as they prepare for the blessings on the way - a little boy AND a little girl.

Phoebe was a rockstar and these two were game for anything, as we worked on illustrating their story.

Clearly, this trio will be ready and able to shower those lucky twins with all of the love they need!

Photography is fun when people are natural and comfortable in their own skin, and these guys were amazing.  

You can feel the love when you see these images . . . I dig that.  Great smiles and happy hearts.

Cheers to you!  I can't wait to meet the kids!

You can see the whole session at Robin, Paul and Phoebe

Joy . . .

That was the word that kept popping in my head as I shot photos of this precious trio.  JOY.  This little fellow emanated joy.  He couldn't stop smiling, and ran from shot to shot with a happiness that I loved!  

It was freezing cold the morning we met, but you would never have known.  The smiles were rampant, and this awesome family was up to anything.  Such fun!

When I emailed to let them know that the images were up on the site to view, I told Jen that I kept thinking 'joy' as I photographed them and again as I edited the photos.   I loved hearing the surprise in her answer, when she let me know that 'joy' had been in the forefront of her mind on her wedding day and the idea for each day in their home.  I think it's working!

joy * joy * joy

I'm quite sure that I could watch this little guy happily run all day!

And, yes, I could look into these eyes all day, as well.

Here's to joy and to another family that makes me know I've found the perfect (a)vocation.

Thanks, friends!