The Outcasts' Song

We'll wander, my band of gypsies and I.

not because we are lost

but because we have found our roving spirits

to be happiest in motion.

We'll sleep wherever our heavy heads

find themselves a place,

and bathe in the mountain streams,

and adorn ourselves with dirt, and dandelions, and dreams.

And we'll wander, my gang of rogues and I

in search of nothing

and with the hope of everything.

We'll worship in the cathedrals of the forest,

our scriptures hidden in the stained and bent pages

of cherished old books

read by the light of the fireflies.

And we'll wander, my crew of pirates and I

wearing silly hats

over wind-tangled hair

living in cars or caves

or circus tents, whatever comes our way.

We'll laugh at the jokes

no one else understands

and dance around the fire

all night to the rhythm of the

songs only we can play.

And we'll wander, my family of miscreants and I

not looking for home, but bringing home with us

to the fields and trees

to the stars and seas

our homes will be upon the lonely beaches

and the spare rooms of friends and lovers.

We'll love and share

and carry on

we'll all have each other

and the breeze

and the photos and stories

the remember when's 

and the yet to be's

and, always, we'll wander.

desert bloom

In the middle of the desert, life struggles on. It pushes and fights to survive against all the odds. It fights the heat, the scorching touch of the sun, the lack of water and protection from the elements. In a place where nothing should be able to make it, some things thrive in spite of it all. In the middle of a wasteland, surrounded by nothing but dry cracked earth and rocks, under the ceaseless rays of light, a plant grows. It may not be as visually pleasing as a lush rainforest. It may not be as impressive as the great redwood forests. But it is stronger than they are, more determined. It shouldn't grow, shouldn't bloom, shouldn't exist. But it doesn't care, and struggles on. Like a flower growing through a crack in the pavement, it says "i know i shouldn't be here, but here i am, and here i shall stay." It may be out of place, and it may have the world against it, but it sets aside fear and simply is. It wants to live, so it does. What greater inspiration can there be?

Giving Back

This time of year, everyone starts to give a little more thought to giving of themselves. Giving back to their community, donating to those in need, etc. While I wish this generosity lasted past December a little more frequently, any help you can give to those around you is worth the effort. Everyone knows about donating to Toys for Tots, volunteering your time at a soup kitchen or shelter, etc. There are a few lesser known causes that I think are worth your attention.


While media coverage of what is going on "over there" may be dying down, and much of the general population believes the war is "over" and all the men and women of the military are home safe now, that's just not the case. And because there is still a war, and people are still being sent over to fight it, that brings about some of them coming home hurt. When an injured Soldier, Sailor, Airman, or Marine come back to states, they don't generally go home. Many if not most of them go to Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Much of the time, their families simply cannot be there with them, due to lack of living arrangements, not wanting to uproot children, etc. So, if you're the Christmas card sending type, this year consider writing out one extra...not necessarily a "thanks for your service" type card, just a happy holidays...and send it to this address:

A Recovering American Soldier

c/o Walter Reed Army Medical Center

6900 Georgia Avenue

NW Washington, DC 20307-5001

Another cause that often gets overlooked is animals. There are far too many animals living in shelters these days. Consider going to your local humane society or similar facility and donating time, money, or even things the animals would need, such as toys, food, treats, blankets, etc. I realize not everyone puts as much value on animals as I do, but they have needs as well, and all too often shelters aren't able to provide everything for them. Even if you just go buy a box of milkbones or a squeaky ball, it'll make a difference in an animal's life.

The Old Crooner

He sits in a little old wrought iron chair, black with intricate, French-inspired design work. He's sipping out of a paper bag, a drink by the same name of the street he's on. He's sitting, and watching. Watching life whizz by him, wondering why his is standing still. His hands are dirty, his clothes worn and his face drawn. He looks in need of sleep. He asks a passing young couple for some change, they give him a dollar but he sees the judgement in their eyes. He straightens his old cabbie hat and sits up a bit.

On the corner, a band starts to set up for an evening show as the street lights flicker on. The neons spring to life all around him. The band starts to play…jazz, lively, just like the city. The piano beckons, the trumpet tempts, the sax calls his name. He gets up and starts to leave…stops, turns back. He starts walking toward the trio of sharply dressed men. He stands and watches among the crowd that's forming. His toes tap quietly on the sidewalk, his hand beating lightly against his thigh, keeping the rhythm. Five or six songs pass. 

The final tune starts, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows quickly as a tear springs to his eye. It's a song he knows well, one that speaks to his heart. This song is meant to be sung, not just played, he thinks. He pauses a moment, considering his options. He sets down the bottle in his hand, and steps forward. He stands in-between the band and the semi-circled audience. Everyone stares. He begins to sing, right on cue. The men in the band smile and continue on, a little more lively now. The man sings with such emotion, such an obvious understanding of the lyrics. The music ends, everyone applauds. He tips his hat, first to the crowd, then to the band, and starts to walk away. 

"Hey, Pops! Wait a minute man!" calls the trumpet player. The man stops, and walks back to them. 

"That's some voice you got there, old man. How come I ain't seen you out here crooning' before?" asks the pianist. 

"Well, thank you boys. But I don't perform…not anymore. I used to, but that was a different life. Hell, that was a different world." the man responds, allowing a slight sadness into his voice.

"Say, how did you even know that song, anyways? Don't nobody play that no more! We only know it 'cause my daddy used to put the record on. But even then, no one else knew it," the trumpet player says.

"Well…I…I wrote that song, son. A long time ago, back when I was like you. I was in a band then…we used to kill 'em! We'd have Bourbon street goin' so loud!" he laughs at the memory, and continues, "But that was years ago, back when I knew what mattered. We were gonna big, man! The whole damn world was gonna know who we were! But then this shit came into my life…" He looks angrily at the bottle shaped paper bag at his feet, "I messed it all up. Everyone would be playing our songs, but I didn't care. All I cared about was where my next drink was coming from. I could have been the King of New Orleans, and I gave it up for that." A tear or two slip from the old man's eyes.

The band members look at each other, surprise in their eyes. They can't believe that the beaten down man they're looking at is THAT man…that legend! How can it be?! The pianist starts to speak as he looks back toward a man they all worship…

"Say, man, why don't you come back down here again and…." he trails off as his eyes finally reach the spot where his hero had been standing…it's empty. The man is gone. All that they can see of him is a dark shadow under a far streetlight. The wind picks up for a moment, and an empty glass bottles rattles as it rolls into the street. 

Of Mice and Metamorphosis

You changed. I've watched it happen, sitting silently on the sidelines, growing concerned and fearful. I watched you change into something I never thought you would be. You were once the most optimistic person I knew. You kept my afloat in the roughest of waters, always sure things would be good again. You never lost your hope, your smile. You were always the one laughing, always the one cheering those around you, healing even the deepest of hurts. So full of life and joy, so open, so warm. I look at you know and can barely see the shadow of that sweet, confident, buoyant boy. I can't stand the man you've become. All you do is hate. You've become so negative and hurtful. You've lost your compassion and now only look down upon those around you. A suffering friend now gets only the response of "at least it isn't me" out of you. You have no hope, and see only ugliness. You hurt the people you once would have given anything for, but more so you hurt yourself. Then you use your self-inflicted wounds to fuel your anger, your distrust, your indifference toward everything. What happened to you? How did that boy grow into this man?

I've changed. I'm not sure how or when, but I think it's called growing up. I've shed the timid, lost child and become the woman I always longed to someday be. I've found contentment in the parts of myself I once viewed as bad. I no longer try to fit in, but have learned to embrace what i've aways been. I see the world around me so much differently now...there's more beauty than I ever knew. Even in darkness and solitude, there is peace, quiet, comfort. Where once I saw a useless weed damaging the sidewalk, I now see the hopeful flower, growing in spite of everything. I used to keep everything so deeply inside and shun those around me, and now I crave the comfort of others....I feel the joy brought by connections, even the most fleeting ones. I was a girl that hadn't found her voice, never spoke a word, that has changed into a woman singing at every chance.

We've traded places, you and I. Both grown from children to adults. In a few short years we came together, got lost in the big bad world. Along the way, we lost each other as well. Somewhere one of us turned off. Did you take this new path of discontent and jaded pessimism? Or was it I that wandered off, frolicking into the sunny open fields of "life is beautiful"? Where did our hands come apart? Why didn't we notice the other was gone?

love letters

To you-

Hello, my love. I just wanted to write and tell you how amazing you are. I love you so much. You're so sweet and caring. I treasure every second with you. I love the way you sneak up behind me and wrap your arms around me waist. I love the way you hold me, kiss me, look at me. I love that we can stay up all night, talking about anything and everything...from trivial joking to deep philosophical pondering. I love that you truly listen to what I say, and respect me for my opinions and beliefs. You make me feel beautiful, loved, protected, smart, funny, desired and needed. I love that I can feel your love for me in every touch, see it in every smile, hear it in every whisper.

I know things aren't always perfect. We get mad at each other, we yell, we hurt each other's feelings sometimes. But each bad moment is so heavily outweighed by the good. I don't want perfect, anyways...where is the fun in that? I love our crazy life, and all the wonderful adventures we have and will continue to have. There's a big world out there, and I wouldn't want to see it with anyone else but you. You, who understands that the flower you pick out of a field will mean more to me than any store bought gift ever could. You, that I can cuddle, travel, relax, explore, debate, or just sit and do nothing with. I love that you're content whether we are out dancing all night, or just sitting and reading as the sun sets. You don't care if we're out until sunrise at concert, or just laying in the yard watching the clouds roll by.

You make me the best possible version of myself. I hope so much that I mean that same to you...that I make you feel all the joy, peace, wonder, passion, amusement, hope and love that you give to me.

P.S. ~ I hope I meet you soon...

the perils of air travel

And no, I don't mean the cost. I mean, yeah that part is getting crazy, but I can deal with it.

Not the security lines, either. I actually rather like getting to show off my crazy socks, and my laptop easily returns to my bag once I'm through the line.

I'm not even talking about the other people. I've been stuck with the ill, belligerent, and crying masses. Annoying? Occasionally. But nothing to quit flying over. Hell, I've been the ill myself. (which reminds me...don't fly with a bad head cold. It will hurt your ears immensely, and leave you deaf for several days.)

No, the perils I speak of are the missed moments. Flying, while quicker, robs you of the experience travel is supposed to be. Like the old saying, "it's not the destination, but the journey." 

When you drive, you have an experience. You cram everyone into the old car, suitcases and coolers blocking the windows, radio blasting. You get lost, you pull off the road, you take a detour or the much beloved "scenic route" (fatherly code for "I'm lost but it'll work out.") You see cute little towns, out of the way attractions, and giant food on sticks. You stop at crappy little motels. You make memories.

I grew up travelling. My first road trip was when I was 4, from my home in Michigan to Disney World in Florida. In the time since, I've never really stopped roaming. That first trip was followed by two more to the World. There was also the nearly month long trek to the Great American West, which included the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore, San Fransisco, Portland, Death Valley, Las Vegas...and so many other places. There was a similar journey throughout the east coast...New York, Boston, Plymouth, Myrtle Beach. I've also ventured into Canada several times, mostly Toronto, Niagara Falls, and Vancouver.  I've been to so many battlefields, ancient cemeteries, middle of nowhere diners, beaches, historic landmarks, national parks...but I'm not done. I will always ramble, I will always wander.

And I will always do it in a car, not on a plane. You loose too much up there, pretty as the view may be. You miss the best of the trip.