It's Not A Wonderful Life..Waiting for George Bailey

It’s Not A Wonderful Life – Waiting for George Bailey

Perplexed. Flummoxed. Aghast. Horrified. Waiting.

I still can’t get over it.

Donald J. Trump is our 45^th President. He is presiding in the hallowed halls of The White House.  You can’t take it back.  He is number 45 and kids will have to remember his name when they memorize all the presidents of the United States from here forward.  Ouch. It still stings to type or say it.

I see Speaker Paul Ryan shake the President’s hand and wonder to myself and to him, “How could you?” 

                                                    Photo by REUTERS/J. Scott Applewhite/Pool

I would have thought the Access Hollywood video would have been enough to stop the Trump Train from rolling down the tracks any further; it should have removed him from the Republican Pack.  It didn’t.

His association with an White Supremacist website, investigation into Russian ties, his not releasing his tax returns and his supposed lack of paying taxes, conflicts of interest profiting from the presidency, name calling, inappropriate disparaging of women heard on the Howard Stern show, on and on I could go that make him so wrong for the presidency.  

Yet, here we are. 

I am waiting for the “A-ha” moment.  THE MOMENT of the Awakening…

In “It’s A Wonderful Life” the Christmas Classic where a desperate George Bailey suffers financial hardship after his Uncle Billy “loses” the bank’s money (Old Man Potter steals it) and Old Man Potter has the upper hand on George and the little quaint townspeople of Bedford Falls charging exorbitantly high rent, foreclosing homes and threatening to close the Bailey Family Building and Loan, George is faced with a decision.  

Old Man Potter figures it to be better to have this smart bright young man on his side then as his enemy and lures George to come to his office.  Old Man Potter invites George to have a seat, and smoke an expensive cigar. George does and is feeling confused, off kilter in the lion’s lair. Old Man Potter spells it out.  He offers poor old George an enticing job with a big fat salary that will allow him to take good care of his family with plenty of money to spare, to even go on a vacation, perhaps. George has always longed to travel and see the world.  George imagines not struggling and is blown away by the offer, but he isn’t sure.  He reluctantly agrees to sleep on it and shakes Old Man Potter’s hand. When their palms touch skin to skin and release, it hits George like a lightning bolt; he stares in horror at his hand, the sullied hand that shook hands with the town’s oppressor; he swipes his hand on his jacket as if that would cleanse his debased skin.  He woke up! There is nothing to consider here. No! Not on your life would he ever stoop so low to work for a corrupt bully like Old Man Potter.  George Bailey would rather scrap and sweat his way through life honestly with integrity then accept a penny from a villainous heartless miserable Old Goat the likes of Mr. Potter.

                                                          photo credit: somewhere on the internet compliments of Frank Capra's, "It's A Wonderful Life"

To All Of You that stand behind President Trump and dutifully clap with each outlandish, perhaps, unconstitutional Executive Order that will harm humans, families, animals, our land, parks, water, and our liberties or Bear Witness to  potentially dangerous and/or reckless conversations in person, by phone or otherwise, I ask you this:

Which one of you is going to be brave and stand up for the goodness of America and its people? Who will be America's George Bailey to stand up for human decency and say, “No. This is not right!”?

Well?  Where and who is our George Bailey? 

We The People are waiting….

Daryl's House: Sweet Salve For My Soul

Rob Thomas, Johnny Resznik, The O'Jays, and on and on it goes.....all play in this gorgeous Connecticut Farmhouse studio.  They play Hall and Oates songs, and they play the visiting artist's songs with the infamous Daryl Hall twist of his vocal style.  It is magic.  It is beautiful.  Daryl Hall is the coolest chillest dude that welcomes all musical artists to come play / jam with him and his talented talented band.  Man, they all can play and sing and the pure joy they share together is so infectious. Geez, I wish I could sing with them, play the guitar with them.  I love to sing. I do.  I always did.  I sang Marie Osmond songs, I sang Linda Rondstadt songs. I sang and sing everything.  Guitar? I played when I was in 6th grade, minimally.  It sure looks like fun, though.  They play, they sing, they cook and share a dinner together.  Who could ask for more?

Daryl Hall is a beautiful soul who welcomes everyone into his house.  He plays every genre, music style with openness and sheer appreciation of simply, this...music.  Making music together is important.  Making music together is a gift.  Making music together is living life.

Daryl's House and the magic they create there is music to my ears! and food for my soul!

Give it a listen, people! 

I mean, look a their happy faces!

Blizzard? Make a Garden! Clay Play

So, I took my own advice and reached for art on a gloomy nerve wracking day feeling anxious with the Blizzard of 2017 bearing down in its full fury upon my house.  With the news being what it is, excruciatingly painful and scary as hell, as well, I was feeling beyond nervous and pent up with emotions bubbling to the surface that needed to be released.  

I had an old package of clay that I bought for my boys when they were younger and reached for it.  I had always wanted to play with clay to see what I could do, what I could mold with my hands, so I clay was the medium of art I chose!

Additionally, I have been missing my grown up boys, newly flown from the nest as they both joined the service weeks a part from each other.  It has been difficult for my husband and I as we had to let go of their boyhood, our parenthood, feeling a horrible sense of loss...I know. I know.  It isn't necessarily loss in a physical sense, but then again, it is.  They are not here.  They are not dependent on us any longer... It is a hole.  Sometimes, it really hurts, hurts bad.  I see a picture of them younger on their little bikes, or the picture of all us at the Cliffs of Mohr Ireland snuggled up against us tightly in the cold wind, all of us smiling.... God, why does that hurt so much?  I miss it.  I miss our closeness.  We all are still connected, still close but life turned with a click of a switch. Well, in a matter of months.  Boot camp was hell for us, as we dreaded what was happening to our babies...and it was happening to our babies.  Boot camp is boot camp, hell.  When it was graduation day for both, I felt like we were helping them escape from prison.  It has been tough... Another thing in addition to the mourning of our boys' youth, we are mourning the loss of ours.  We aged in massive acceleration mode.. I suddenly, am, well,...old.  I am looked upon as an older female now... it's weird. Everything got weird.  Hair loss, deep wrinkles, bones and muscles hurting when I do too much in the gym and extraordinary fatigue.  What the hell happened?

Again, like a switch was flipped. Click.  Time moved in a giant leap.

Yeah, so all of these feelings are swirling in me at once, in addition to my father failing as well.  And, he is failing seen so clearly in his withering body. This, too is weird and is heart wrenching for me.  Heart wrenching and tough to stare right in the face the cold reality of the inevitable.  My mother passed suddenly and unexpectedly.  There was no chance to think, anticipate or prepare.  This, is different, way different.  I am seeing it slowly happen and it hurts.  It is like peeling a bandaid off very slowly and you are almost at the end of what's still stuck on ready for that last yank, ripping it off altogether...  That's where we are at with my dad.  I feel like I've stuck the bandaid back on again and again and it has stayed on for as long as I can manage to re-stick it.  But it is falling off and ...

I can't even finish that sentence...

Back to art.  So, I pulled out the clay, rolled up little pipes of colors.  I pulled out a napkin as a placemat...and plucked some pink ..some green... It hit me. Flowers... I made a big flower like a Gerberia Daisy.  Then I came back thinking of a stone mosaic floor they uncovered in Turkey that looked like a painting. I thought of taking little dabs of clay and making a mosaic of a garden... it didn't actually turn out to be a complete mosaic..maybe the clouds and sky a bit, but I made flowers and more flowers, and grass and soil and rocks... I had fun with it.  I kept adding and adding.  It isn't any thing truly fantastic or anything, but was pleasing enough to  me that for a while....all that I thought of was just making flowers. And that was the point of it.  

Escape.

Art was my escape hatch of my own emotions for a while.  I gave myself a break from myself.

It was what I needed.

Everyone should play with clay once in a while.