An exhalation, slow and disappointed, comes from behind. I don’t have to turn around to see who it is. I know it’s my long dead grandmother, Reta, watching me beating a pie crust into submission with her ancient wooden rolling pin. Why did she have to show up right when I’m obviously failing pie crust, her specialty?

“And you claim to be my granddaughter,” she says, looking out at the muddy creek below the kitchen window, bloated from snow melting in the mountains.

Like so many times before, my imagination has her dropping by to revisit her favorite place in the cabin that she and my grandfather, Malcolm, built in the late 1950’s. A spotless apron, freshly ironed, covers her good Sunday dress because my mother’s family, her daughter, was considered company. Silver hair waves past her ears but doesn’t make it to her shoulders. She stands as if her back is held upright by a wooden spoon.

She glares at the mess being made in her dream kitchen, a domain that was once hers alone before it passed to my mother and then onto me. She tries to cross her arms over her massive bosom but they settle instead somewhere underneath, close to her small waist. I’m a child again, underfoot and failing to live up to her expectations.

“But I can explain,” I say. “I don’t want to make a heart attack disguised as a pie so I didn’t use lard and white flour like you used to do. I’m trying to make it out of whole wheat pastry flour and olive oil instead.”

She looks at the hard-packed glob smashed like a cow pie over the worn spot on the counter.

“It’s suppose to be healthy.”

Her eyebrow raises in a doubtful curve. “Healthy doesn’t necessarily mean edible,” she says. “But, I’m sure the squirrel will like it.”

I follow her gaze to the platform nailed to the side of the pine made especially for him. It still holds the soggy remains of last week’s fermented muffins. Even the magpies are giving it a wide berth.

“Actually, he’s getting tired of my cooking too.”

She leans on the scratched and pitted porcelain sink that holds the last of the apples picked last fall from the tree that my grandfather planted over 60 years ago.

“Maybe the squirrel yearns for the good ol’ days when I was the one cooking in this house,” she says. Softly, she adds, “Just like me.”

In her day she was considered one of the best cooks in this Wyoming mountain community. She was a master at pies and a champion with flowers. And yet here I am in her kitchen, acting as if I have the right to be here.

“You can’t tell it by this piecrust, but actually Grandma, I’m a pretty good cook. I just cook entirely different than you.”

I haven’t the guts to tell her I’m a vegetarian and that I won’t be trying my hand at a mince meat pie, roast beef or corned beef hash, some of my favorites when I was a child sitting at her table. I say instead, “You’d be proud, I think, if you gave me half a chance.” I’m sounding braver than I am. I’ve never talked to my grandmother this way. In a rush not daring to look at her, I continue, “For instance, I don’t cook with white sugar. Not even for a pie.”

I’m still holding onto the hope that the piecrust will fulfill its destiny, in spite of my grandma’s doubts. “I’m going to use agave nectar.”

I brave a look in her direction. Confusion furrows her brows. I burst out laughing and a rare smile blushes her lips.

“Weird, I know, but look.”

I reach down to open the two built-in drawers my grandfather made to her specifications. Long ago, the top one was filled with white flour poured directly from the sack she bought from the Best Out West mill in town. The bottom was filled to the brim with white sugar. A battered tin cup was half buried in the middle of the white mound. These two drawers, when she dictated what was put where, were uncluttered and pure.

Now that I’ve moved into her kitchen, I was careful not to break the tradition of flour in the top and sugar in the bottom, but with major variations. In the top, no white flour. Instead tins of whole-wheat pastry flour, brown rice flour, spelt, rye, buckwheat, quinoa and a bag of kamut elbow for room in the deep drawer.

In the bottom drawer, there’s no white sugar. Containers of raw sugar and date sugar fit securely in the corners while jars of rice syrup, unfiltered, locally grown honey, and agave nectar from the tequila plant leave sticky rings on shelf paper since the 60’s.

“Well, good luck with that,” she says, turning to go.

“Wait, Grandma,” I say, reaching out and touching her muscular forearm. The sensation surprises us both. My mother’s family was not demonstrative. I don’t recall my grandmother ever touching or hugging me, but surely she did, didn’t she?

The other day I came across a photo of the two of us. I’m standing in eight-year-old awkwardness in front of her, my hands placed stiffly on my thighs. The difference in how tall the spruce trees behind us have grown marks the years between. Our hair is almost the same, aged silver and innocent blond, falling to our shoulders in soft curls.

I’ve looked at this photo many times, but what I never noticed until now is that my grandmother isn’t touching me. It would have been so natural for her to rest her hands on my shoulders since I was standing so close. Instead, her arms are clamped resolutely to her sides.

“And I’m good at gardening and growing flowers too, just like you,” I say, looking for approval 42 years after she can no longer give it.

She looks toward the table where her old glass flower vase can barely hold the vibrant colors of spring tulips and yellow daffodils. Her gaze continues around the knotty pine walls, noticing what changes I’ve made to make it my own.

My collection of blue antique jars filled with grains, seeds and beans are stacked in righteous rows on a shelving unit I found in the garage. I’m curious if she notices which jar is hers – the one I found discarded in the basement as if it held no value.

She lingers longer on the photo of an 18-year-old Reta, newly married to Malcolm, framed in ornate chrome salvaged from an antique cook stove.

“Was I ever that young?” she says so quietly I barely hear her over the raging of the creek – a creek raging against growing old in this house, and for the growing seed of dementia that tangled her thoughts the last years of her life.

I make myself recall her in better times. “I remember watching your hands work as if on automatic pilot making the cinnamon rolls I had requested and looking out at that creek.” We both look out the kitchen window at the only thing that has not changed drastically in the intervening fifty years.

“And the smells coming from this kitchen… oh my, Grandma, it was the smell of my personal heaven.”

“Mine too,” she confides. “This is where I was happiest.” She pats the worn Formica counter. “This is where my heart still lives.”

“And I honor that every time I step into this spot.” I don’t tell her what an honor it is for me to stand here, or how it has grown to become a sacred spot in the old house. My grandmother wouldn’t cotton to sentimentality, but I gather the courage to add, “I intend to do it justice for the rest of my life.

“I know you will, Janey,” she says quietly. I smile. Calling me by my middle name instead of my first was her term of endearment for me even though I didn’t realize it until years later. It is as personal as my grandmother ever got with me, this secret between us, until I took it for my real name in the 6th grade.

She looks down at the forgotten piecrust.

“Start over.” A firm demand but the right choice.

She won’t let me subject my husband to this glop even though he bravely eats whatever I cook and doesn’t complain. I scrape it up with effort and plop it into the compost can. I doubt if the deer will even eat it.

I start over, but lard is out of the question and I can’t bring myself to use shortening, but maybe I can splurge this once and use butter.

“How about butter?” I ask, turning around.

But she is gone.

I set to work. As if Grandma is guiding my hands, they move swiftly and with confidence measuring the flour and salt, using the pastry blender to mix the butter, and dribbling in the ice water. In no time, the dough is not too wet, not too dry, but just right. A miracle. I pick up her wooden rolling pin.

“I think I can do this,” I whisper.

I feel a soft touch on my shoulder, reassuring. I smile and the creek laughs.

I go turn up the stereo until the harmony of the Eagles rocks the walls, breaking old traditions and setting a new precedence. I dance my way across the small kitchen floor where my grandparents once waltzed and my parents sashayed a two-step. I feel the aging floor creak and shift as the old gives way to the new. I step into the treasured spot, claiming my rightful place with no apologies, but with great reverence and gratitude.

I. Am. Home.

When Tupelo’s father was transferred into the hospice, we were told it wouldn’t be long before he’d pass on. We turned toward Texas at 1:00 in the morning after a performance in Arizona to get to his bedside as quickly as we could.

The following few days were unlike anything I had ever experienced and felt privileged to be a part of it. The family gathered close, forming a loving and supportive circle for his transition. The hospice provided a peaceful place for this to happen. The hospice staff was loving and attentive. A steady stream of friends came, bringing food, flowers, and saying prayers.

This was a new situation for me and many times I found myself not knowing what I could do to help. I’ve been a part of this family for over 30 years, and love my father-in-law deeply. I knew that just my presence was all that was required. Still, I wanted to do more.

So I make soup. It wasn’t much, but at least it made me feel like I was doing something. Tupelo’s family came to our RV to get a respite from the hospice room and a bit of warm nourishment on the side.

I met new people and hugged old friends, but one shimmered a bit brighter than most. Jan is a close friend of Karla, Tupelo’s sister, and unlike me, she knew exactly what to do. When Poppy was brought to the hospice, Jan was close behind bringing a basket full of snacks and fruit. It sat on the table ready for anyone who needed it at any time of day. She replenished it daily.

She had been a nurse, so her expert hands and medical knowledge was a solace to the family. She spoke softly but wasn’t afraid to laugh. When she arrived, joy followed her into the room like an eager puppy. In the long hours that followed, I got to know her better, and was comforted by her presence.

When Poppy died, Jan was the first to show up at the house bringing an entire meal, still hot from the oven.

She did this, and much more – aided by a wheel chair.

I marveled at her ability – her ability to know what to say, and exactly what to do at the right time. She knew how to calm, how to love, how to laugh during these amazing circumstances.

I wanted to be like Jan. I wanted to flow like cooling water into a difficult situation, filling what needed to be filled, making things easier for everyone.

So at the funeral, I asked her. Straight out – Jan, how do you know what to do.

She was surprised at the question. She didn’t think she was doing anything extraordinary. But my eyes told her I was sincere in asking and wanted an insight. She smiled.

I just let Spirit tell me what to do, and I do it.

Simple.

I know this. This is how I try to live my life too, but it took watching Jan in action to be reminded. When Spirit guides us it knows what is needed and when. We just have to relax and let it act through us. That was my problem. I worried too much that I’d do or say the wrong thing because I had never experienced anything like this before. I had self-doubts. Worry stifles and silences our inner voice. I’m working on not letting that happen again.

I saw first hand what happens when a light shines bright from the heart. It heals. It loves. It laughs. Its timing is timeless. It always does the right thing. Now that I know Jan’s secret, perhaps the next time, when I find myself in new circumstances, I will remember her amazing example, and let Spirit guide me in doing the right thing.

The other day, Tupelo and I had an errand to do at a local print shop. I sat down and loved on the resident golden retriever while we waited for the quick job to be done. All kinds of sayings covered the walls – mottos – creeds – posters – inspiring words, all. I had plenty of time to read most of them.

One caught my eye. It read: “What would you try if you knew you couldn’t fail?”

Ooh, I liked that one. Imagine having a golden touch, and anything we wanted we could have. With every goal we could think of, we’d be successful, fulfilled, thrilled and content. Our inner critic would not exist. If failure was taken out of the equation, our imagination and determination would soar. Undeniable strength would come from knowing how powerful we are as creators. Our life would be exactly what we would want it to be. The law of attraction wouldn’t be a theory or a philosophy, it would be fact.

When Tupelo came from the back room, I pointed it out to him. He smiled. Like me, he considered it a pep talk – a sentence to jumpstart our thinking into doing without having the fear of failure.

The owner of the shop saw which one we had singled out from the wall of words and nodded. “I like that one too. But an older gentleman came in the other day, and when he read it he said, ‘If I knew I wouldn’t fail, I would do nothing. What good is it if you already know the outcome? Where’s the challenge?’”

Ooh, I liked that too. I understand the man’s point. Imagine what it would feel like to know ahead of time that whatever we tried, failure would not be an option. Every cake would come out of the oven magazine perfect. Every creative endeavor would end up exactly like we had envisioned. Every client would be thrilled with our work. Metaphorically, we would reach every mountain we set out to climb.

I agree with the gentleman. After a series of easily achieved successes, we would think, what’s the point? Our joy in the achieving would feel hollow, our effort inconsequential. We’d fall into an uninspired state, and do nothing. It would have the exact same outcome as if we were afraid of failure in the first place. We would do nothing.

Think of the last time your efforts turned out successful and re-experience the elation that came from it. Why would we even consider short circuiting that feeling? It’s the mystery of not knowing the outcome that creates deep joy and satisfaction. Success or failure brings us our greatest life’s lessons.

It reminds me of the time we hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with some close friends. Tupelo and I thought we were fit enough for the strenuous hike and were well equipped for the four day camping trip. After hiking seven miles down the Kaibab Trail that first day I was doubting my sanity the following morning when I couldn’t roll out of my sleeping bag. My legs hurt so much I couldn’t walk without squeaking in pain with every step. My back ached with the memory of the 60 lb. pack.

Three days later I almost kissed the ground when we got to the top of the Bright Angel Trail. I was elated. I made it! I had blisters the size of quarters on my feet. Every cell in my body ached. But I was thrilled. The journey to the bottom of the Grand Canyon on a full moon, autumn equinox was not the easy outing I had envisioned. But because of the immense challenge and toll it took on my mind and body, it turned out to be one of the most memorable and worthwhile experiences of my life.

So the statement, “What would you try if you knew you couldn’t fail?” is true from both vantage points.

Coming from the first direction, let your imagination fly with the inner knowing that whatever you try, you will succeed. Put no limitations on yourself. Make a list if you want to. Then let this list be an inspiration to make your life better – however you envision it.

Coming from the gentleman’s outlook, let the statement be a kick in the butt. If life was easy, what would be the point? Life is worth every drop of sweat, and every tear we shed. The point is that we have to take charge and try beyond our abilities.

We do have a golden touch. We just need to believe we do, the courage to use it and the heart to try.

Tupelo and I meet a lot of people. On the nights we perform, we see new faces, shake new hands, talk to new people. Incredible possibilities to meet interesting people, but instead, small talk dominates these evenings because there is just not enough time to get to the big questions.

For example, the conversation never goes from, “So, where ya goin’ from here?” to “So, what’s your purpose in life and what have you been doing about it lately?”

I understand this and don’t fault it a bit. I can add to a conversation of small talk with the best of them. Traveling as we do to places where we’re not performing, I rely on small talk at first so that I can meet people.

Notice that I said at first. I can give it three, maybe four sentences/questions, and then I want a more meaningful conversation. It doesn’t have to come down to “So, what do you think happens when we die?” but if I haven’t laughed or learned something or heard an intriguing story, I’ve pretty much lost interest.

Some people don’t get beyond the small talk, not even with their family or their closest friends. This can be dangerous. In this case, small talk becomes our big talk. And it’s the big talk that can define us. If our conversations are mundane, chances are, our lives tend to be too. Sounds boring, doesn’t it? If we don’t stretch ourselves to consider new ideas, new feelings, have new conversations, small talk takes on a much bigger role. We give it more power than it deserves.

Here are some examples of small talk. Gossip is small talk. Complaining or whining are too. How about self-deprecating words such as “I’m so stupid,” “I’m too fat,” or “I’m clumsy, (or unlucky, poor, or ugly, etc.)”? Also unkind or sarcastic remarks to or about family or friends are demeaning to everyone involved.

Small talk can kill close relationships. Small talk can kill intimacy. Small talk limits us. Small talk becomes big talk when it dominates our conversations and dominates our thinking. We’re too big for that.

Notice the conversations you have during the next week. Does the small talk ramble on longer than it should? And who’s fault is it? Yours or the other person? If you find yourself not going to a deeper level with your words, chances are, the same thing is happening in your life.

Skimming the surface with friends, family, or strangers means that the encounter can be of interest for only so long. Don’t be afraid to kick it up a notch. Go deeper. Get to know someone better. Let them get to know you. The ones that still hang around after a few of these conversations are the ones we want in our lives.

Make room for them by eliminating the small talk.

I didn’t grow up in an overly demonstrative family. I don’t remember my parents ever saying to me, “I love you.” But the thing is, I never doubted their love for me. They didn’t have to say it. Instead, they showed me on a daily basis how much I meant to them.

I was shown in numerous ways – in the way they spoke to me, in the way I heard them talk about me, in the way they took care of me, and in the way they touched me.

The phrase “I love you” gets said with such casualness at times, that it is rendered meaningless and impotent. Such as, an automatic response in saying goodbye on the phone. The salutation at the end of an email or letter. The quickly said and-I-love-you-too, as if in a race to get to the obligatory response so that we can get on with our lives.

Words are sometimes inadequate when it comes to expressing love. More people than not find it difficult, and in some cases, impossible to say how they truly feel. So what else will work? It doesn’t take much. Give me a loving touch on the shoulder, a simple kindness or a heartfelt smile any day over the impersonal gesture of an expensive gift or flowers.

Don’t get me wrong. I love flowers. And not in a sensible, oh-aren’t-they-pretty kind of way, but in a rather fanatical kind of way. They jazz me to my very core just to look at them. Tupelo knows this, but in over three decades of being together, I can count on one hand the number of times he has given me flowers.

His style is more subtle. Instead of an occasional tsunami wave of garishness, I get small reassurances of his love on a daily basis, as if coming from a constant babbling brook. And after all these years, that is much more to my liking.

To make this life sweeter, all we need is just a little love around the edges to soften, protect, and make us feel good. It can come from friends, co-workers, children, family, life companions, Aunt Minnie or the mailman. It can be a tiny kiss, a tender hug, a good deed, or a “random act of kindness” from a stranger. I see them on the edge of my life as little bursts of light, firing like an endless string of firecrackers on a Chinese New Year. The spark they ignite in me makes me feel good.

If we love the world and the people in it, the world will love us back. If we embrace our place in the world, get ready to be embraced back. The trick is to tune into and notice the myriad ways we are shown. Feel good about it and then reciprocate in kind.

If we enjoy having love expressed around the edges of our life on a daily basis, chances are, the person next to us does too. Get crackin’ and see what happens.

A car passed us one day while Tupelo and I were driving across the southeastern desert of the U.S. in our motorhome, Bailey. As it zoomed by I caught a glimpse of the bumper sticker on its tail end. “Celebrate Diversity,” it read. “Ooh, I like that,” I said, and proceeded to have many miles of pleasure thinking it over.

I don’t know the driver’s reason for plastering this statement onto his bumper for the entire world to see, but I came up with a long list of my own. As a traveler, I agree wholeheartedly about celebrating the world’s diversity – its peoples, its languages, its customs, its different ways of looking at things, and the big one – its spirituality and many religions.

It seemed to be such a simple statement at first: Celebrate diversity.

Oh yes, let’s do that, shall we?

The deeper I thought about it, the more complicated it got. In this tumultuous time when the world is splitting apart because of the different ways we look at God and the opposing interpretations of religious teachings, the simple sentence isn’t as innocent as it first appears. Now we have to question our beliefs and see if we truly can celebrate how different some of the world’s peoples act in the name of God. One is waging war on infidels, the other on terrorists. It’s hard to draw a solid line between what is right and what is wrong and then decide which side we are on. Diversity is dividing us.

If we choose to not take a side, then yes, we can celebrate with a clear heart the diversity of the world in all of its guises and contradictions. But it’s not easy. It’s hard to stay objective and loving in the face of so much hate. But who said personal and spiritual growth would be easy? Not me.

And perhaps the tougher question: How do we celebrate the diversity in ourselves? How can we celebrate who we truly are and not become so judgmental it’s to our detriment, not to our enlightenment?

We are complicated creatures. Our emotional stew is made up of so many ingredients it has kept therapists’ couches warm for centuries. And our mental state? Oh man, I don’t even want to think about that. And there are so many conflicting philosophies and beliefs when it comes to our own personal spirituality we’re afraid we might die and go to hell before we find which is the right path to be walking on.

If we want to celebrate diversity in the world, we must first celebrate the diversity in ourselves. If we can, change what can’t be celebrated, embrace that which can’t be changed – for instance, what Dr. Carl Jung’s called our shadow. We are not all good and not all bad and when it comes to choosing sides, we need to be on our side, no matter what.

Bumper stickers are one thing, putting the sentiment into action is another.

Celebrate diversity. Oh yes, let’s do that, shall we?

It’s been over 35 years since I flew to Europe by myself in 1973. My travel legs are steadier now. My armor is thicker, my patience packed deeper. I’ve endured much since then. Rank smells, huge bugs in my bed, outdoor meat markets and hordes of flies. I’ve been smashed together with people and pigs on a Guatemalan bus for 12 hours, only to do it again the next day. I’ve been sick. I’ve been stranded. I’ve been robbed. I’ve been lost. But none of this stops me from starting to pack a month before I’m due to go to a place even more remote and unknown. I must love it.

And not for just the stories I glean from it, but what it does for me. I like the person I am when I travel.

If you strip away everything you are accustomed to – language, clothing, customs, landscape, the appearance of the money, the food, everything – you get a real close look at who’s left standing. You either like who you see, or you don’t. When you travel, get ready to know yourself a little better.

Recently, Tupelo and I were rumbling through Cambodia on a bus heading to Thailand’s border. As the bus shook over the bone-rattling road, the hard seat beneath me made it impossible to get comfortable, but I didn’t complain as I looked out my window as if it were a TV screen. Plowed fields were churned dark behind overworked oxen and sweating men. Naked children played in the mud. Fat pigs wallowed in shadows cast from thatched huts on stilts.

I felt removed from the scenes blurring by my window. The ancient bus quarantined me from their lives. I could never fathom their joys and sorrows, their deepest secrets. I was just skimming through their world like a dried leaf on moving water. And yet I felt my heart opening, exposing long held beliefs, questioning them, fleshing out new thoughts, surprising myself. Gratitude for my own life spiked with a tender barb.

When we booked the tickets the day before, the smiling travel agent pointed to the poster on the wall that showed a sparkling, luxury motorcoach. We laid our money down gladly, envisioning the comfort we’ll be floating in for the 150 dusty miles to the border. What showed up the following morning was nothing more than a repainted school bus. It was too late to make other arrangements so without a word we jumped on board. The promised air-conditioning was an opened window. Luggage stacked high on the seat in front of us threatened to fall with every curve and pothole. But we are used to it. This is just the way things work in the third world.

When you travel, you’ve got to leave behind the tendency to have everything the exactly way you want it to be. Instead bring along an endless supply of patience and a hefty dose of humor. Otherwise it’s going to drive you crazy.

You can’t travel stiff. Because of the immense differences in cultures and peoples, one has to bend to fit in, to make do, and hopefully enjoy the process. Travel tests our limits in nearly every way. We have to be willing to find out what they are, and then go beyond.

Travel shakes out the good, the bad, and the ugly. The good for me is the incredible sense of awe and fascination I feel when immersed in a new culture, and finding out how well I fare in varied or difficult situations. The bad is the heart breaking scenes of human conditions and the mistreatment of animals. The ugly, hum … I guess I haven’t found that yet, but to tell you the truth, I’m not really looking.

The unexpected brings us deeper and more meaningful travel experiences. Giving up our tendency for control stretches us, sometimes digging up traits or fears we thought were long buried. It can be unnerving, but eventually this can be a good thing. Like I said before, if you travel be willing to get to know yourself a little bit better.

Getting to know yourself better should be at the top of the list for reasons why you travel. Go ahead. Let go. Surprise yourself. You can thank yourself later.

It’s winter in Wyoming. The mercury in the thermometer has headed south, not to warmer climes but diving below zero into teeth-chattering cold. The clear mountain creek and bare limbed trees out our dining room window have been changing every day. The recent cold plays with the water as if its Play Dough. Taking advantage of the thaw-freeze-thaw cycle it rearranges the mounds of white on the exposed boulders, twists the ice that flows through and around them, and draws a white sheet over the running water as if it’s dying.

This is where I sit each morning to write, but the beauty outside the window continually lures me away from the computer screen. My artist eye tries to capture what my camera cannot. The scene stuns me with frigid, fragile beauty. The creek whispers a message, muffled by the ice and snow, so I sit for long periods of time just listening. Here’s what it tells me today.

The changing face of the creek shows what we do to ourselves when harsh outside conditions cause us to hide from others. When cruel words, unloving gestures, or tough experiences happen, we harden and close ourselves off to the world. We draw a sheet up over our emotions and cower underneath. We bury deep feelings, careful not to show too much. Our love becomes frozen, impossible to chisel from our hearts.

Then comes a warm touch, a sunny smile, an experience that makes us glow with pleasure. We thaw. Not much. But enough to let our true selves come up for air. Just like the appearance of the ice, we change with the circumstances, letting small patches of our always-flowing, inner being show when we feel safe. But things can change quickly. Harsh conditions can ambush us when we least expect it so we keep our cover ready.

Brave are the ones that disregard what others say or do and stay true to themselves no matter what. Their cover of ice is non-existent even with the toughest human interactions. They set themselves up to get ridiculed and teased. But their spirit is a strong running current, making it impossible for a hard cover of ice to form. They don’t cower or cover up. Their hearts stay open and accessible.

We should all live like this.

The trick is to not let outside conditions have such a profound effect on us. The stronger we get, the stronger our inner flow will become. The stronger our inner spirit becomes the less chance someone or something can change our personal reality. Ice will fail to encase our heart.

Tupelo and I watched a full grown mountain lion use the ice to cross the creek one winter. His tail trailed behind him, leaving a shallow trench in the 6” of freshly fallen snow. His muscles rippled, and then he jumped across a patch of open water to get to the opposite bank. Ice wasn’t a deterrent. He used the ice to his advantage and got to where he wanted to go. Good for him.

This morning, the creek peeks out at me from the encroaching ice in a game of hide and seek. It’s not whispering anymore. It’s laughing because it knows its true strength, its true beauty will never go away. It will always be there, flowing strong and steady. It will never let the white cover of ice smother it completely. It waits with patience for the eventual return of spring.

We can learn a lot from Mother Earth if we just listen to her. Like what she said to me today: keep your inner spirit flowing strong – no matter what.

Washington, DC – Metro Station.

On a cold January morning in 2007, the man with a violin played six
Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approximately 2 thousand people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

After 3 minutes . . . a middle-aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.

4 minutes later:

The violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.

6 minutes:

A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

10 minutes:

A 3-year old boy stopped but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time.

This natural curiosity and interest was demonstrated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.

45 minutes:

The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.

1 hour:

He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world.

He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.

This is a true story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste, and people’s priorities.

The questions raised:

* In a common-place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty?

* Do we stop to appreciate it?

* Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

Possible conclusions reached from this experiment could be:

If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made . . . it makes you wonder:

Are we capable of recognizing talent, one person at a time? Or, do we need the approval of the masses first, and then simply go along with the herd and agree? Is social proof more important to us than our own personal experience?

How many other things in Life are we missing?

What other amazing experiences are right in front of us that we miss because we are too busy focusing on our preconceived “appointments?”

How many special persons pass us by and we do not MAKE ANY EFFORT TO get to know them?

How many other masters do we turn a deaf ear to?

Everyone loves to laugh (well, almost everyone) . . . so this message is a reminder that it’s good for us.

I wrote a song a while back to help me remember the wisdom of this favorite quote . . .

“Life is too important to be taken seriously.” – Oscar Wilde

Here’s a link to the song . . .

http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescX.html#Anchor15

Here are a few great ideas about humor, and then an actual example of humor in action:

“Humor is by far the most significant activity of the human brain.” – Edward De Bono

“True humor is fun – it does not put down, kid, or mock. It makes people feel wonderful, not separate, different, and cut off. True humor has beneath it the understanding that we are all in this together.” – Hugh Prather

“A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing.” – Clive James

And now (drum roll please) an example of people wise enough to appreciate the humor in their everyday lives . . .

After every flight, UPS pilots fill out a form, called a ‘gripe sheet,’ which tells mechanics about problems with the aircraft. The mechanics correct the problems, document their repairs on the form, and then pilots review the gripe sheets before the next flight.

Here are some actual maintenance complaints submitted by UPS’ pilots and the solutions recorded by the aircraft mechanics.

(By the way, UPS is the only major airline that has never, ever, had an accident.)

PILOT: Left inside main tire almost needs replacement.
MECHANIC: Almost replaced left inside main tire.
*
PILOT: Test flight OK, except auto-land very rough.
MECHANIC: Auto-land not installed on this aircraft.
*
PILOT: Something loose in cockpit
MECHANIC: Something tightened in cockpit
*
PILOT: Dead bugs on windshield.
MECHANIC: Live bugs on back-order.
*
PILOT: Auto pilot in altitude-hold mode produces a 200 feet per minute descent…
MECHANIC: Cannot reproduce problem on ground.
*
PILOT: Evidence of leak on right main landing gear.
MECHANIC: Evidence removed.
*
PILOT: DME volume unbelievably loud.
MECHANIC: DME volume set to more believable level.
*
PILOT: Friction locks cause throttle levers to stick.
MECHANIC: That’s what friction locks are for.
*
PILOT: IFF inoperative in OFF mode.
MECHANIC: IFF always inoperative in OFF mode.
*
PILOT: Suspected crack in windshield.
MECHANIC: Suspect you’re right.
*
PILOT: Number 3 engine missing.
MECHANIC: Engine found on right wing after brief search
*
PILOT: Aircraft handles funny.
MECHANIC: Aircraft warned to be serious, straighten up, and fly right.
*
PILOT: Target radar hums.
MECHANIC: Reprogrammed target radar with lyrics.
*
PILOT: Mouse in cockpit.
MECHANIC: Cat installed.
*
PILOT: Noise coming from under instrument panel. Sounds like a midget pounding on something with a hammer.
MECHANIC: Took hammer away from midget.

Life is Too Important to Be Taken Seriously This is just plain fun . . . an unlikely love song and reminder of the importance of making it a point to deliberately live life in joy, reverance, and with a light-hearted spirit. A good sence of humor always seems to come in handy too! http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescX.html#Anchor15 Celebrate Life Create your own personal celebration of life by your choices, rather than allowing life to be something that merely happens to you, or around you. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescHB.html#Anchor2 Preacher and the Bear I always appreciated the refreshing attitude of faith coupled with a healthy attitude of self-reliance demonstrated by this adventurous preacher’s style of prayer. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescAnth.html#Anchor11 Stuff, Stuff, Stuff, Stuff, Stuff About all the stuff you’ve been keeping that’s not good enough to actually use, but it’s way too good to throw away. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescAnth.html#Anchor4 You Gotta Have Fun Our moments are fleeting . . . and finite. Too few to squander on “bad news”. We must steer our attention deliberately in order to attract the kind of life we were born to live. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescAnth.html#Anchor20 Songs by Tupelo
The Six Mistakes of Man We share the journey, even though each journey is unique. It’s encouraging to know others are also interested in the mysteries of life. It’s inspiring to see others dedicated to living life to the fullest, in spite of the fact that humanity has been making some of the same mistakes for centuries. Your Passion as Your Compass Allow your passions to stretch their wings and the direction of your life could surprise you – in a good way. Celebrate life with passion! Being Present through Sensuality The idea is to occasionally turn off the senses in order to better tune into the aliveness that lies beyond them. The realization that there is something beyond the world of the five senses can provide an “aha” experience, especially at first. With the senses turned off (or even turned down), there remains a vibrant sense of aliveness – the world of feeling and the realm of being. Articles by Tupelo
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