Thursday, September 29, 2005

Play it again, Sam.

My life has a soundtrack. That's perfectly normal, right? Everybody walks around like they are starring in their very own musical...don't they?

Whatever. All I know is that when something happens to me, be it good, bad or indifferent, a song always comes to mind. And to tell you the truth, I am apt to burst into song at any given moment for no good reason. My Kitten is the same way. The only difference is that she has a beautiful voice and me...well, not so much. I have an indescribable love of music, but people don't always love to hear me loving it.

The most romantical thing I ever said to Mr. Man was this, "I love you so much I could live the rest of my life without ever hearing another note of music because you're my song now."

Feel free to vomit.

I can get all caught up in a song and whether it's OCD or just your garden variety of crazy, I will listen to it about a gozillion times. I click the repeat button on my stereo remote and over and over and over again it will play until finally my son screams, "MOM! I am going to pull my hair out!" That's my cue that I might have overdone it a little.

You can totally tell what kind of day I'm having by simply sitting in the street in front of my house and listening. My music is my mood ring. Here's the handy chart Mr. Man uses to decide whether he should actually come in the house after work.

"He Oughta Know That By Now" Lee Ann Womack
Holy crap. Sher is one step away from throwing my clothes and my collection of Copenhagen cans in the front yard. Must buy chocolate.

"Fighter" Christina Aguilera
One of the ex-husbands has made her mad and now I'm about to pay for it.

"Right to be Wrong" Joss Stone
We're going to discuss the argument we had last night for approximately seven straight hours.

"Jesus Walks" Kanye West
Uh-oh. She's forgotten she's a middle-aged white woman living in the Midwest. She's going to yell at me for being the Man that keeps her down.

"At Last" Etta James
I am so getting lucky.

"Remember When it Rained" Josh Groban
I hope we have enough tissues to make it through the night. Try not to stare directly at her Rudolph nose.

"Wires" Athlete
There is a rejection letter on the kitchen table and Sher's underneath it with a can of frosting and a box of Kleenex asking the dog why he loves her.

"Let Me Up" Kenny Wayne Shephard
I'm going back to work.




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Monday, September 26, 2005

How nice.

"You sap sucking, monkey licking, cross-eyed, pigeon-toed, pimple-faced twit!"

That's what I said. OK. That's what I said in my head. What I said out loud was, "How nice".

I am such a weenie. You have no idea. I let people get away with any number of evil things and hateful comments because I don't like hurting people's feelings.

Mr. Man has no such problem. When I told him what completely ignorant and horrible thing someone I know said to me this weekend, he said what he always says when I've wimped out. "Well, you know what you should have said..."

The thing is, most of the time I care about what the other person is thinking and what they will think later when they are lying in their own bed obsessing about my nasty comment. The idea that I might make someone cry or feel bad about themselves absolutely kills me and even though I often think of the perfect come back, in most cases I will not dare utter it.

It's for this reason my stomach hurts a good ninety percent of the time and I draw devil horns and warts on all the magazine cover girls on my coffee table. Color me all repressed.

Part of the reason I am icky, phony sweet is because of my OCD. I'm terrified the last thing I say to someone will be mean. That's also why I end every phone conversation with "I love you", which is fine except when it's a business call. Then it's just weird.

The biggest reason I am such a wimp though is my Southern Belle upbringing. While my brothers were encouraged to spit and scratch and skin anything that couldn't run fast enough to escape their shot gun blasts, we girls were raised differently. "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all," my parents said. We girls were taught to smile pretty, keep our opinions to ourselves and marry the first man with a decent job that we could trick into thinking they wanted to marry us.

About the meanest thing you will ever hear a polite Southern woman say to you is, "How nice". While that may not sound harsh to the untrained ear, you should first consider what they are really saying.

"How nice" loosely translated means, "I hate you with a white hot hatred that is so intense, I must also direct a great portion of it toward your inbred, knuckle-dragging parents that fornicated to make you. I spit on the day your inebriated father paid your astonishingly unattractive mother the sum of twenty-five cents and a bucket of fish bait to have sex with him. I wish you nothing but poverty, acne and ugly children for as long as you live. Oh... and I mean that in the most Christian way."


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Sunday, September 25, 2005

I'll say this about that.

I love email. Love it terrible. I get some great stuff in my inbox each and everyday. In truth, I should probably say "inboxes" as I have more than one. I have two devoted solely to business, one for business plus a few people who I actually want to hear from, one for this blog and a semi-secret gmail account I have just so I could use the name SadieMonkey.

(That's right Mr. Man. Mamma can play the secret email account game, too.)

Every morning when my eyes fly open at about 0430, I start my coffee and pop open my handy dandy lap top to find out how much money the Google fairy left me while I slept and who has what to say to me about any number of topics.

Dear Sher,
That whole penis thing is hilarious! My husband has one, too. Don't you hate it?

Dear Penis Hater,
Now, when you say "don't you hate it", I'm hoping you are referring to the evil power of the penis and not the penis itself. (Could I possibly work the word penis into this blog more?) Penis, penis, penis. Yes, apparently I can. Sorry, Kitten.

Dear Sher,
I looked at your Flickr. Really nice! Thanks for sharing.

Dear Person I swear to Mr. Man I really don't know,
I don't know who you are but I totally didn't show you my flickr. Only a handful of husbands and my gynecologist have seen my flickr. Well, and that one guy at the automatic car wash but that was the result of a freak hot wax accident. I don't like to talk about it.

Dear Sher,
If you do this for me I will love you even more than I already do.

Dear person whose unmentioned identity will drive Mr. Man completely insane,
Not only will I do it for you, I may do it twice. Three times if the moon is full.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Saturday, September 24, 2005

Kitty Cat magic.


It's been a GREAT weekend. My Kitten came home to visit and short of winning the lottery or having James Spader tap dance naked in my living room, nothing could have made me happier.

Kitten is the most beautiful female ever born and I'm not just saying that because I gave birth to her. The truth is the kid looks nothing like me (this photo is evidence and note to other old ladies: do not tilt head...makes you look fat), so it's not like I'm taking some sort of credit for her beauty. I have no idea how the kid got to be as pretty as she is and I refuse to give any credit whatsoever to the male that was involved in her conception.

She thinks maybe she was switched at birth. Well "thinks" isn't as much the truth as "hopes" I believe. I think every time someone knocks at her door she says a little prayer that maybe it will be her "real" Mom who will not yell at her for watching MTV or constantly tell her to sit up straight.

Anyway, I got to hear all the stuff going on in her life, that the grand-puppies aren't talking quite yet and that her friend is dating a slimy "old guy" (translation: thirty-three) that is chasing skirts all over the Midwest. It was absolutely wonderful and absolutely what I needed.

My Kitten is magic and I'm the luckiest woman who thinks she's a mom but is really just the lady who brought home the wrong baby from the hospital in the whole, wide world.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Friday, September 23, 2005

Waves.

I feel compelled. That's the only thing I can come up with to describe how I feel that makes any sense to me.

The reality that he is gone comes in waves. For a while I am fine and going about the business of life and then I'll think of him, of what his last days must have been like, of the lonesome agony his wife must be suffering, of his lying deep in the hard, cold earth… and I lose it.

For reasons I can't explain I looked at his obituary and as I knew it would, it knocked the breath out of me. In stark black and white I read his end of life biography. It was more than I could stand. Strangely enough, his family chose a picture from the time period when he and I were very close for use in his online memorial and when I saw it, I can't even express what it did to me.

There he was again, exactly as I remembered him to be. I shouldn't have looked.

I whisper to him during the day and at night, I remember who he was and I wonder where he is. I find that at a time when I most need to believe in the existence of Heaven I am suddenly questioning whether maybe the end really is the end. Why is that? The idea that he is in the ground somewhere far away is so, so painful. I desperately need to believe that he is not there at all, but rather some place unseen and spectacular. Why is that so hard to accept as fact now, as previously I have always accepted it to be?

I spent yesterday morning with a close by friend who I knew would be a good listener and would have something wise to impart. I didn't want to be alone at the moment when my far away friend was buried.

"It's ok to be mad at God," he told me. "It's ok to question what's going on." I knew that's what he would say and I suppose that's exactly what I wanted him to say. We sat and talked and ate pie and he made me feel better. But as we visited, I couldn't help but hope I am doing and saying all the things that I should so that I don't suffer the should-haves if he would go before I do. He's a good and faithful friend and I've never been more conscious of the fact that the time to tell someone what they mean to you is always now.

Compelled.

I am compelled to say I love you. I am compelled to question God. I am compelled to cry. I am compelled to write. I am compelled to do something that would make him proud of me. I am compelled to search. I am compelled to wonder.

I am compelled.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Thursday, September 22, 2005

One more time for him.

His service was this morning in a far away state. Graveside.

My service for him. Friends, tears, memories, old pictures, old songs.

Reminiscing

Friday night, it was late
I was walking you home
We got down to the gate
And I was dreaming of the night
Would it turn out right
How to tell you girl
I wanna build my world around you
Tell you that it's true
I wanna make you understand
I'm talkin' about a lifetime plan.

That's the way it began, we were hand in hand
Glenn Miller's Band was better than before
We yelled and screamed for more
And the Porter tunes "Night and Day"
Made us dance across the room
It ended all too soon
And on the way back home
I promised you'd never be alone

Hurry, don't be late
I can hardly wait
I said to myself when we're old
We'll go dancing in the dark
Walking through the park and reminiscing

Friday night, it was late
I was walking you home
We got down to the gate
And I was dreaming of the night
Would it turn out right
Now as the years roll on
Each time we hear our favorite song
The memories come along
Older times we're missing
Spending the hours reminiscing

Hurry, don't be late, I can hardly wait
I said to myself when we're old
We'll go dancing in the dark
Walking through the park and reminiscing




Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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I don't want this.

My tears surprised me. I guess I thought I was ready for the phone call I knew would come. I realize now I wasn't.

For hours after the early morning announcement, I didn't cry. Even during a call I made to a mutual friend of ours to tell her the news, no tears came.

And then hours later, the realization that I will never again hear his voice and with it the flood gates opened. I cried. In the house alone, I yelled at him and I yelled at God. I was just so angry. I guess I still am.

"It's ok to be angry," said my husband. He talked about the stages of grief and how normal it is and on and on. I love my husband, but sometimes he can be so pragmatic. I don't want to do the math of the process of grieving. I want to shake somebody, hit something, and scream until my throat hurts. I hate myself for feeling that way. I don't want to be mad.

My ex-husband and his wife came over last night and we laughed and joked and as soon as they walked out the door, I felt ashamed of myself. How could I be frivolous when my friend was dead? How could I dare to act as if nothing was different when he was lying in a funeral home somewhere? How could anything be funny to me when his parents have lost their son, his wife lost her husband and the world lost him?

I fell asleep trying to remember every single thing I could about him. His hair, his hands, his laugh, the way he walked. I don't know why.

I know life goes on. Yesterday as I was crying I looked outside to see the breeze still blowing the leaves around and people driving past in their cars. The world continued to turn even though I felt like it was nothing short of disrespectful to do so. Maybe that's why I'm mad. It doesn't seem right.

I understand and I don't. Logically I know it's ok to laugh, to feel good, to enjoy living. In fact, I know that's what life is…the opportunity to do all those things. But right now, I can't get there. I can't quite swallow the logic. I know his obituary will be in the online paper in his hometown today and I am afraid to look. To see his life summed up in a few black and white paragraphs will be too real and I don’t know that I handle it. I'm sick of the facts, of the logic of death.

I'm just so angry.



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Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Good night.

It's over. No more pain. No more sickness. My friend has flown.

September 20, 2005 9 PM.


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Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Spiritual vines.

It's quiet. The people I love are sleeping and all I can hear are the soft sighs they make when they stir and the clicking of my computer keys. Allergies and thoughts of my friend keep me awake.

I dreamt of him last night. I walked into his room and like a child afraid of imagined monsters hiding in the dark, he asked me to hold him so he could rest. I laid down next to him and he snuggled in close the way my kids used to when they were little and nothing felt as safe or as sweet as Momma's arms. I kissed his forehead; he closed his eyes and peacefully drifted away from me and into the arms of angels.

All day long my stomach dropped every time the phone rang.

Try as I might to live an everyday life without dwelling on the fact that he is leaving, I may as well give into the fact that I am not built that way. My husband says it is because I am a good woman. I think it's because I am a selfish woman. I don't want anyone to leave me.

I've stopped asking God to heal him and begun asking Him to ease his suffering. I can't rest knowing he is in pain and so, so ill. The reports I get of his health say that he is in agony and unable to spend more than a minute or two without getting sick. I want so badly to help and yet here I am drowning in utter helplessness.

I still write him every day or two and sometimes twice a day. I feel overwhelmed with the idea that he must know he mattered; that he was important; that he made a difference. Worse than death is to lie in pain waiting on the end, wondering if your time here meant anything.

At the same time, I value the life that surrounds me more than ever before. I must whisper "thank you" a hundred times a day. When my son comes home from school, when my daughter calls, when my husband crawls in bed next to me, I offer a silent appreciation to God. How can I take anything for granted now? It would be blasphemous.

Some days I laugh at ridiculous things, some days I cry at nothing, some days I do both. But every day I am thankful. Every day even more than the day before, I am certain that love really is all that matters. Before I found out about my friend's vicious illness and before flood waters washed lives and misplaced faith away, I worried daily about whether I was ever going to have the kind of idyllic life glossy magazines and airbrushed icons told me I wanted.

To think I was searching so hard for something so completely valueless when the life that I've been given with its ups and downs and loves and friends is so invaluable makes me wince. What was I thinking? And what a bittersweet lesson it is to learn.

We intertwine, we humans. We weave together whether we intend to or we don't. Misery and pain and sickness and indifference hurt whether it's ours or someone else's. I'm glad. I'm glad that we can choose to let pain teach us or make us bitter. I'm glad that no man is an island. I'm glad we grow together, all tangled up in one another's lives, feeding off of and gaining new strength from the experiences, hardships and joys of one another.

I can't help him, but I can help someone else. For him. Because of him. In memory of him. He inspires me and he reminds me and I won't forget.


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Sunday, September 18, 2005

I got your envy right here.

I am the Queen of penis envy. There I said it. I used the word penis right in front of God and everybody and I only giggled a little.

It's true. Freud totally had me pegged. I want one of those things. Take a minute and pull your mind right out of the gutter, you gutter-minded person. I don't mean I want one that comes attached to a person with a hairy chest. I want my very own.

"Why, Sher?" you ask. "Why, oh why do you want a penis?"

Thanks for asking. I'll tell you why. Because having one is the equivalent of having a combination magic wand, get out of jail free card and unattractive but high powered snow-writing tool always discreetly tucked away in your pants, that's why.

You may not know this, but Mr. Man has a penis. I don't like to mention it very often because I don't want to sound like I'm bragging, but he's had one for years. It's only after witnessing first hand the versatile and amazing power of his penis during the course of our wedded bliss that I find myself suffering from a severe case of the aforementioned envy.

"Mr. Man, I have cupcakes in the oven and I need to go get my son. Can you watch them for me and take them out when they are done?"

Looking at me and then down at his lap he shook his head and said, "I can try but I can't promise I will remember. I don't know nothing about no cupcakes. I have a penis."

"Mr. Man," I said, "would you help me out and make the bed today?"

"I did make the bed," he said.

"Pulling the comforter off the floor and tossing it on top of the crumpled up sheets does not a bed make."

"Again, I'd like to call attention to my penis. It renders me physically unable to make the bed in any other fashion. If I were to do it the way you want, I fear my penis would actually fall off."

"Mr. Man," I said, "do you think you could pick up your dirty shorts from the bathroom floor? That would be oh so swell."

"Gosh, you know I'd love to help you out Honey, truly I would. Unfortunately my penis prevents me from bending at the waist. You have no idea what it's like to have one of these things. Ownership requires a certain responsibility and with that responsibility one must suffer the occasional sacrifice. Picking up things from the floor is one of them. And for future reference, so is going an entire day without talking about it, touching it or repositioning it."

"Say Mr. Man, could you do me a favor and put your tongue back in your head?" I said after watching him mentally undress an unsuspecting female. "I saw you looking at that girl who is young enough to be your daughter."

"Baby, you know it's not me! It's him. He makes me do it. I bear no responsibility whatsoever," he said, looking down on the area where he keeps his penis like he was almost angry at it. And then he followed with the ultimate penis trump card that every man alive has played at one time or another and every woman who owns a man has been forced to hear. Say it with me ladies....

"He has a mind of his own!"

UGH! One more time for the cheap seats: UGH, I say.

It's no wonder the people who have penises rule the world. (Or is it penis-i?) If I had one, I too could rule the world.

I would wear a crown and a sash that said, "Penis Queen". My car would have a bumper sticker that read, "Proud Penis Owner" or maybe "My other car is carrying my penis". I would never clean the toilet or wash the dishes and any time Mr. Man caught me drooling over the adorable and barely grown up deputy with whom he works, I would simply whip out my penis and everything would be all good.

I have only one concern when it comes to penis possession, though. I would much prefer not to carry it in my pants. Since I’m going to get the biggest one money can buy, I think it might be difficult to fit it comfortably in my clothing. (I'm not positive, but I'm fairly certain the rule is the bigger the penis, the more power it has.)

I suppose I could fashion some sort of handy penis carrying case similar to a purse or a backpack. Maybe something with red and gold sequins or pink feathers? I could mass produce them so that women all over the world could carry their penises comfortably and fashionably and I'd make zillions and zillions of dollars. I'll let you know as soon as they become available for purchase.

Until then, may the penis be with you.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Monday, September 12, 2005

Fly.

Long ago and in an airplane far away, I had an epiphany about death. Funny that tonight I remembered it after receiving a phone call telling me my old friend's flight from this world to the next will be very soon now.

It was a rainy morning when I boarded a plane in Kansas City bound for my red dirt hometown in North Carolina. In fact, it was raining so hard that I was beginning to have second thoughts about whether I really needed to see my family anyway. I don't trust whatever unseen magic it is that keeps a plane aloft and I worried the driving rain might throw a wrench in the voodoo.

Were I not a poor person who would have been sick at the idea of throwing away the couple hundred bucks the ticket cost, I would have phoned my family and told them I had suffered a nasty stroke that left me with enough sense to use a phone, but not enough to be expected to use my seat cushion as a floatation device.

The rain pounded so hard I could hear it battering the pedestrian tunnel as I walked from the terminal to the plane and the thunder was just tremendous. I was so scared and I wished I had been smart enough to have spent the two days driving rather than the couple hours this clearly doomed plane trip was supposed to take.

After buckling up and taking detailed mental notes of everything the flight attendant was saying, I white knuckled the arm rests and watched out my window at the sky that looked more like late evening than early morning and prayed to God for forgiveness of everything I'd ever done wrong.

The engines roared and even before I had a chance to finish listing all my sins, we were in the air. That could be because it happened so fast or because my sins were so many.

In the twinkling of an eye, I watched through the airplane window as the dark and stormy night, full of its terrifying sounds and paralyzing what if's, suddenly and dramatically disappeared as the airplane passed from one side of the clouds to the other. In its place a new image so breathtakingly beautiful, it's hard to put into words.

It was morning, but in the truest sense of the word. The sun was on the rise and as it hit the tops of the clouds, it looked like God had spun gold as far as the eye could see. Tranquility swallowed me up and all fear was immediately gone. I was overcome with sweet emotion and tears filled my eyes as I gazed across this secret Heaven.

The only thing that changed from one moment to the next was that I was on the other side of the clouds. The storm still raged on beneath my feet, but it had lost its power over me. I could see clearly now and thundering raindrops seemed such a silly thing to be afraid of from my new perspective.

Had anyone told me even moments before how lovely and peaceful and incredibly awe-inspiring life would be up there, I couldn't have believed them. It would have seemed to me like nothing more than a nice story someone was weaving to help ease my fear. I'm a human and as such, my vision is limited to what I can see right in front of me. I see nothing beyond the here and now.

This is death, I thought. This is how it must be to pass from life to life. Seamless, easy, and scary for only the time it takes to exhale one last time. Unimaginable beauty and peace beyond understanding waits just on the other side of the clouds.

The spun gold of Heaven.

My friend is making ready now for his journey. He's hanging on with all that he has left, afraid of the storm that rages all around him. It's so dark for him, so ugly…but only for a moment longer. Soon he'll be there, in that place of understanding and serenity… that place on the other side of the clouds. I picture him there now and it eases this ache.

I love you, my sweet boy. I will miss knowing you are here on this plain and I cry at the realization that the years of hope that you might be around the next corner have ended. Now I will stop praying my selfish prayers of life here and begin offering prayers that you'll have the strength to go, comforted by the knowledge that you will leave behind lives changed and your purpose fulfilled.

It's time for you to fly home.


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Saturday, September 10, 2005

Little boy lightening bolt.

"Sherri, do you spit?"

The tall for his age six-year-old asked me this out of nowhere question as we waited in line at Wally World. With as much seriousness as if he'd just ask me my position on prayer in schools, he waited for my response with a furrowed brow while little fingers rubbed his chin. It was apparent he wasn't the only one waiting. The giggles coming from the people in the lines around me indicated they were wondering what my reply would be as well.

"As a rule, I almost never spit," I said. "None of the best people do." My reference to the movie Arthur was lost on his youth.

"Yu-huh," he said, "Some good people spit. Chase spits, my Dad spits, Tyler spits. Mostly boys spit."

"Are you a spitter?" I asked.

He looked down at his shoes and shook his head in shame like he was admitting to kicking a puppy and said, "Yeah. Sometimes I spit." And then quickly looked up and added, "But I'm trying to quit!"

It's a uniquely human thing that someone can be so understandably sad for what seems like forever and then like an unexpected lightening bolt, something as simple as an inquiry into what you do with your saliva and BAM! You begin to laugh.

This particular kid has me wrapped around his little finger. He has gigantic blue eyes, dark hair and the personality of a forty-year-old Casanova. Evidence of his charm can be found in my grocery cart.

While it should only contain the four or five things on my list, it is loaded with little boy necessities. Chocolate milk, chocolate cookies and a container of strawberry swirl ice cream so large that it can only be described as a tub, far out number the honest to goodness food items. He didn't act badly or throw a good old fashioned hissy fit to persuade me to purchase his stash of munchies. He didn't have to. At six, he's already got my number. I'm a sucker for a sweet boy and once a boy of any age figures that out, they'll never do without chocolate milk again.

Feel free to color me with your gullible crayon.

"Hey, Sherri," he says with a devilish grin that I fear will be the down fall of many a good girl someday, "can I have some sour gummy worms?"

"Look in this cart, you little goober!" I said. No way was this kid getting one more sugary thing from me no matter what. I was resolute. I was determined. I was one tough cookie. "Why in the world would you want anything else anyway? Your teeth should spontaneously fall out just standing near all this sweet stuff!"

Without even thinking, he put his hands on his hips, rolled his eyes and put me in my place, "I said SOUR gummy worms, Silly! They're not sweet! DUH!"

How you gonna argue with logic like that?


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Sometimes.

Sometimes, I am confused. Sometimes, I just cannot understand the way the world works. Sometimes, I am wholly disenchanted at the lack of compassion surrounding me.

But not today.

Yesterday I spent packing. Box after box after box I packed with supplies that are now on their way to a small town in Louisiana that was suddenly inundated with evacuees from New Orleans. People from this little part of the country who probably didn't have the extra money to spare, showed their concern for a city most have never visited by purchasing for it's dispossessed residents diapers, formula, over the counter medicines, games and much more.

I happen to think that's a big deal.

Friday a week ago, we asked in a press release for locals who wanted to help to consider donating specific items toward the relief effort. Before the sun had set on Saturday, they began pouring out their love in a substantial way. Bags and boxes came filled with everything on our list…and they came…and they came…and they came.

Good people, my neighbors.

The thing that makes this most remarkable for me is that the men and women that make up this area are not rich, to say the least. They are hard workers who for the most part struggle to hold onto every penny they can. Nothing comes easy here.

And yet they gave. They gave willingly and joyfully and without hesitation knowing full well that their intended recipients would never know their names and that they could never hope to hear a thank you. It has been the most beautiful outpouring of selfless love I've seen in as long as I can remember.

My faith is restored. Sometimes that happens.



Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Friday, September 09, 2005

The compulsory tithe. Did Katrina really change anything?

Before flood waters, before thoughts of babies raped, before images of sisters and brothers lying in abject and shocking repose on American streets…

Before.

The cable bill is too much. My car needs new brakes. Hail damage. I need to make more money. Chew with your mouth closed and elbows off the table. Shoes I don't need. Age I don’t want. Husband works too much. Weeds in the garden. Not enough hours in the day. Chicken costs too much. I hate my life.

Before.

Aren't we fond of saying, "Profoundly impacted"? September 11, 2001 would change us forever and I suppose in some ways it did. Shoes come off before we get on a plane and we invoke the name Homeland Security as if like a god, it can protect us.

We are collectively self-satisfied, superior and infinitely elitist. I am, you are, we are. Bad things happen somewhere else. They are not allowed to happen here in the land of the free, the home of the brave. Bombs destroy other people; oceans swallow up cities somewhere else; people go to bed hungry in far away places.

It's easy for us to look at dark-skinned babies with bloated bellies on our cable window to the world. "That's a shame," we think and then we sit down to pass the pot roast and talk about that bitch of a boss that doesn't appreciate our spectacular and unparalleled contribution to a miserable company that doesn't deserve us anyway.

We have the 'I gave at the office' mentality. We'd much rather hand over a few bucks here and there to satisfy our guilt than to actually do anything. Anything but complain, that is. We have plenty of energy left over at the end of our day to point fingers at everyone and anyone that could possibly bear the responsibility for all that is wrong in this country and in the world, but we never point the finger at ourselves.

The President, the governor, the police, the National Guard, the bureaucracy, the poor, the stubborn who would not leave, God, global warming, SUV's, Republicans, Democrats, liberals, Bible believers… they are responsible for this mess. Not me. I didn't do anything. They did it and now I will sit on my dry sofa, sipping my diet Pepsi, in front of my television and my laptop computer screen and with a click of a PayPal button, I'll ease my conscious and pay the compulsory tithe that gives me the right to continue to complain.

Profoundly impacted?

What will I do? What will I change? Will I get rid of the gas sucking SUV that my citizenship says I have every right to drive? Will I stop allowing my teenager to sit mindlessly in front of MTV soft porn and require her to volunteer her time to a shelter instead? Will I pack up the ten pairs of never worn shoes I might want someday and give them to someone for whom someday is now? Will I tell my children that Christmas this year will mean one less PS2 game for them and in its place, gifts for people we've never met? Will I buy one less bag of Dorito's and three more cans of food to donate where it's needed?

Whose fault is this? Who can we blame? We have to blame someone. That's what we do here. We blame…but never change. It's someone else's responsibility to protect us, to insulate us, to allow us to continue to live a life of national excess that the entire world has told us for so long we have no right to live.

This is a choice. You're part of the problem or part of the solution. The luxury of middle ground has been washed away.




Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Thursday, September 08, 2005

Ask not. Do!

Red Cross. Give what you can.

Call it my Southern Baptist upbringing, call it a choice or call it ridiculous, but I believe in angels.

I'm a reasonably intelligent person I think, and I am happy to stand up among the cynics and announce that even at my grown up age, I remain absolutely persuaded that angels walk among us.

Not those fantastic winged things that first crept into our art during the reign of Constantine, but rather a functioning group of both spiritual and human armies, if you will, that stand ready to do good at the precise moments in life when human beings so desperately need to know good still exists.

Right on cue, since the day Katrina tore through the lives of Americans on the Gulf Coast, angels have been out in full force. You have only to turn on your television or pick up a paper to see them.

A lady doctor from Kansas loads her SUV to the top with medical supplies and medications and heads out to Mississippi to care for the broken and aching. "Who is paying for all this?" asked the reporter.

"My American Express card," she answered.

An anesthesiologist in the heart of The Big Easy stays for days in his hospital fort without food and with only the smallest amount of water so that he can keep a promise to about thirty or so evacuees. "I told them I would care for their animals until help came…no matter how long it took." And so he did.

A tiny church here in Southeast Kansas that heard about the supplies drive I have been coordinating and dug so deep I'm sure some of them will have to do without something in their daily lives to bankroll their giving. Bags upon bags of powdered baby formula, Tylenol, garbage bags, Ziplocs, crayons and coloring books they brought. "We also have $500 to give," their spokesperson said. We sent them to the Red Cross with the money and will send their donations to a Louisiana town that has requested help.

The families all across this country that are giving what the rest of us either aren't capable of giving or are too afraid to give… a life inside their own homes. They provide beds, food, water and even more than that, the magnificent gift of a most selfless love.

The police officer that knew a man wandering around New Orleans needed an antibiotic. He got a doctor to write a prescription and then set out to find the homeless man. "I can't believe you went to all this trouble just to find me," said the man overwhelmed with gratitude. From the look on his face and the emotion in his voice, I knew that even amid the destruction in which he stood knee deep, he had never in his life felt as valuable as he did at that moment.

In this country and abroad, regular human beings who quite possibly never before have performed what might qualify as an act of greatness, are springing into action without even a second thought. They don't have to be asked, they don't have to be persuaded and most of them cannot be described as affluent. They give no thought to what the bottom line of their bank account reads or what they do not have, but instead think only of what they do have…and then they share it.

Ordinary angels. Next door angels. Far away angels. Evidence of good. Evidence of God.

As I watch the events in this country play out, let me share with you what I will take hold of now. I will keep my eyes peeled for the angels and when I see one, I'll say, "There's one!" I'll be inspired by the way they push past the anger and get up out of their comfort zones and work to heal that which needs healing and following their lead, I'll do whatever I can to help.

In this country, there are a huge number of those that have infinitely more than do the rest of us. Many of the famous we see now showing up with supplies and hugs for the hurting. I'm thankful they are giving and thankful that some of the money our citizens have bestowed upon them is now being given back in good measure.

But, while watching a movie star hand out food and supplies off the back of a truck to a grateful crowd, I thought, "Just how many of those hurting people have contributed to the bank account of that person?" Whether they bought a movie ticket, or bought a product that helped to pay the salary of the movie star, I venture to say if we could somehow see the flow of money, we'd see a giant circle.

I call upon the rich and famous, the wealthy and the well to do to become angels in a way they never have before. Let's see a movie star buy an apartment complex in the Midwest and fully furnish it for the Gulf Coast evacuees. Let's see a wealthy corporate business person buy ten houses on dry land and everything needed to set up housekeeping and give them to the homeless. Let's see a television star step up and open one of their three homes to those that don't have even one.

If you are sitting at home listening to the "haves" attack the government for not doing a better job, ask yourself what else they are doing.

Are they giving until it hurts like the legions of ordinary angels that are too busy doing to spend time talking about what needs to be done? Or are they giving only the tiniest fraction of what sits in their multiple bank accounts or donating their famous shoes for auction or delivering food in front of a TV camera for which someone else wrote the check?

Don't forget it was you and it was me and it was the thousands of now homeless men and women who have provided their good fortune and rather than jumping on their band wagon of vicious words, let's ask them to give at least a good portion of what we gave them back. It's easy to give ten thousand dollars when you have ten million.

There is enough anger and disappointment to go around. I'm angry and you should be, too. But now I say let's collectively shut up at least long enough to do something. And while we go about the business of helping in whatever way we can, let's make a mental note of who is doing and who is only doing the talking and when the time comes again to decide which movie to see or which TV show to watch or which product to buy, let's remember and act accordingly.

But most importantly, let's look for the angels now and let's follow their lead by giving and giving and giving whatever we have to give for as long as the need exists.

"Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country."
John F. Kennedy, 1961



Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Wednesday, September 07, 2005

When in the course of human events.

Give what you can to the Red Cross.

It seems at forty-one I am forced to redefine my world. Things that I always knew for sure I now realize I'm not so sure of after all.

I was sure that police officers, firefighters, paramedics and most especially my own government could and would protect me in the event I needed to be protected. I've been raised to respect and hold in high esteem these everyday super heroes. Many of my friends serve in these positions of public service, and even my husband wears a badge. As a result, I have perhaps a deeper love and more profound respect for who they are than do most people. I believed in their power because I wanted to and because I had to in order to feel safe.

I'm not so sure anymore. I guess it's time I realize they are only human and in the face of what amounts to civil war, try though they might to protect me, they can't.

As I have heard the stories of Americans who watched their two and three year old babies being raped in governmental captivity, who slept next to decomposing bodies, who day and night heard the haunting cries of their neighbors as they lay dying from thirst and hunger, and who had to find the will to live amid the stench of human waste and death... I realize I must now admit the possibility that all those in the positions of elected power quite possibly no longer "hold these truths to be self evident".

Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness?

My politics are irrelevant. Who I voted for and whether I declare myself as a Republican or Democrat doesn't matter. My personal truth is that no matter who sat behind that desk in the oval office, I have always ultimately believed in their ability and desire to protect this country and her citizens. My unfortunate truth now is that I have finally had my naive bubble burst as current events have forever pulled back the curtain on the Great and Powerful Oz.

I come from a long line of what you might categorize as a sort of cliché southern militia. Unbelievable though it may sound to anyone unfamiliar with my neck of the woods, I really do know people who have weapons and money buried in their back yards. They've always been a joke to me and knowing that, they've told me that there would come a time when people who previously thought them ridiculous would come knocking at their door for protection and help in a time of need.

For the first time in my life, I am wondering whether it isn't in fact my own naiveté that is the joke.

"I want you to help me prepare a survival kit," I said to my husband yesterday. He is gone from our home more than he is here and should anything catastrophic happen in our city, it would fall to me to take care of our family while he worked to take care of other people's families. Among the things we discussed I might need readily available to me in the event of an emergency was a gun. Even as I write that, I can't believe I am actually at a point where I would consider such a thing given my formerly resolute stand on the issue of gun control.

We discussed how I would go and where I would and would not go. There will be no large public shelters for my family. If I have learned anything, it is that. While two weeks ago I would not have thought twice about taking my son and heading to a government sanctioned safe place, now I know that is absolutely not an option. I'll fend for myself, thank you and militant though it sounds, I'll protect myself and my son with whatever personal marshal law I deem necessary at the time and suffer the consequences of law later.

I will not wait for the cavalry to rush to our defense. I will be the cavalry.

I've heard the insensitive and ignorant blather on and on about how the captives on the sinking city of New Orleans should have left when they were told to leave. It makes me angry in a way that is almost too big for me to verbalize. New Orleans is a city filled with poverty. How is it that Americans have become so "rich" that the notion a family might not have a car, or even the ten or twenty dollars necessary to evacuate a city that stood in the direct path of Hell's fury is completely unimaginable to us? Are we that out of touch with the reality in our own back yard?

Where were the buses BEFORE nature unleashed her wrath? Where was my beloved administration while there was still time to deal in the business of prevention? "Get out!" they cried, and then they folded their collective state and federal arms and smugly said, "We told you so".

Would this have happened in Manhattan? What about Los Angeles? What about Aspen? Would we have seen images of wealthy, white couples with 2.5 children lying on the sidewalks dying from hunger? Would we have left the residents of the Upper East Side to sleep in total darkness next to decomposing corpses as their babies and their women were raped in front of them? Would we have seen the people we've placed in power stand in front of the cameras and tell America, "We're doing everything we can"?

If you think this isn't equally about race and about our country's implicit sentiment that the poor aren't as important as our wealthy, you're clearly not among the millions of Americans who are not white or who are living this very moment in poverty.

We should be angry. In fact, angry isn't a big enough word for what should overtake every single one of us who sit in our dry homes and watch this ugliness as it unfolds on television. The men, women and children who now call a shelter home must now go about the business of creating an entirely new life and must find a way to heal themselves and fall asleep without suffering the nightmares of what they endured after the rain had stopped. They don't have the strength to fight, so we are bound by our citizenship to fight for them.

Don't you dare just sit there and do nothing. Don't you dare think it couldn't happen to you. Don't you dare imagine for one moment that the enemies of the United States aren't poised even now to kick us when we are down. Don't you dare allow yourself to be lulled into a false sense of security so that you'll be surprised when in a matter of months we are attacked again by the forces of nature or wicked men or both.

Prepare.

Give.

Complain.

Demand.

Kick, scream and shout.

"WE hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness -- That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles, and organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient Causes; and accordingly all Experience hath shewn, that Mankind are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the Forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long Train of Abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a Design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security."

Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Three's.

A phone call came yesterday from someone who had word of my friend. "There is no hope," she said. She wanted me to understand that the time for hope was over so that I could begin to prepare myself for what the doctor's say is inevitable. "Maybe as short as a couple weeks now. Possibly sooner."

I didn't cry. I just sat staring, thinking. Prepare myself. How does one prepare oneself for such a thing?

More than anything else right now, I want to get on a plane and go to him. Even though he has my cards and letters, I selfishly want to look him in the eyes and tell him how much he has meant to my life. I want to hold his hands and tell him that I am so lucky to have known him and that my life would not have been complete without all that he brought to it.

"You know how much you meant to him, Sherri," she said. "I don't think he ever got over the way he felt about you." I wonder if it makes me a bad person because I like knowing that.

I can't go to him. There is no room for me there now. He is surrounded by family and by his wife...who I only found out the other day is still in the picture. I had heard that the two of them had separated. I guess impending death can settle differences that previously only seemed to be solved by divorce. I am relieved that he has someone who loves him sitting by his side. I hope she is holding his hand when he leaves that bed.

My sister wanted to know if I would come home for his services. I could barely stomach the question. No, I told her. I can't. It would seem so horribly ironic to wait to go to him when he can't know I'm there. Besides, when I close my eyes and see him now, he is still the man I knew. Tall and handsome and beautiful and different than anyone I've ever known. I can't allow the image of what we do to our loved ones when they pass to replace that picture.

I tell my husband every few minutes that I love him. I need to be sure he knows. If anything were to happen to me or to him, I cannot stand the idea that he may have wondered. Same goes for lots of people in my life, past and present. I wish I could gather them all together in a big room and tell each of them what they have brought to my life; how much they meant and how lucky I am to have been surrounded by so many wonderful people.

This week is the meeting with the "specialist" my father will see. He is sixty-one, but he feels much older. He wanted me to understand during our last conversation that more than anything else, he fears a nursing home. He is giving me something that he hopes will comfort me if the worst should happen. He wants me to be able to say, "At least Pop didn't have to go to a nursing home". He thinks that will make me feel better. I can't think anything would make me feel better if I lose Daddy.

Someone called me to offer support, but in doing so mentioned that, "these things come in waves of three". Now I look at everyone I love and wonder whether they are the third. Obsessive-compulsive fuel.

Today another letter and card will go in the mail for my friend. I will struggle for the right words and I will sit quietly for a moment before I close it, hoping that some of my love for him will imprint itself on paper.

I love him. I love many, many people. I want them all to know.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”
Dylan Thomas


Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.




Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Monday, September 05, 2005

The music of his life.

Just now as I was cleaning and cooking and doing all the necessary things while Mozart and Chopin kept me company, I had a thought.

Every time I listen to them, Mozart, Chopin, Brahms, Rachmaninoff... I am moved. Elevated to a place that amazes me. I never feel the same way about a piece of music twice, other than to know I like it. Each time gives me something new and each time leaves me feeling as if I know something about the world I didn't know before.

I think my husband experiences music in the same way. One of the many things I love about him.

My thought was this: every single note in every beautiful piece of music represents an emotion the composer felt about themselves and about someone else. Good, bad, hurt, anger, sorrow, shame, pity, longing. It's all there. The music tells the story. Many times it begins one way and I can feel the long ago joy and then a change, and I feel the pain.

In 2005, I can sit in my home and listen to the world of Mozart, a man who died in 1791. Until a few minutes ago, I've always felt a kind of quiet pain when I listen to Mozart for many reasons, not the least of which is because I know that hundreds of years after I am gone, I won't leave that kind of mark on the universe. Hundreds of years from now, no one will even know I existed. His music has a way of making me feel insignificant at times.

I've never given a lot of thought to the people who surrounded the man. We've all read the stories of his overbearing father and those of us who are curious can read about many of the other people in his life. Constanze, Sophie and Magdelana are names you'll know if you've done that. But there had to be many more. Friends, relatives, casual acquaintances were all characters who shaped the man.

What if each one was a note? What if everything they did and said and caused in his life was a note? I can't know them now, but I can feel what he felt about them. Without them, without the pain, without the joy, there would be no music. They were the notes of his life and while most of us can't compose the people in our own life that way, nonetheless they still create our music.

I was a note in my friend's life. No matter how many years have passed, no matter how much I wish I had done more, the fact remains that I am still a note that helped to create the music of his life. Perhaps at one time the notes were dark and painful or angry and full of passion. At other times they were light and joyful and filled with hope. But they were there. I was there. I mattered.

Likewise, he is a note in my life. Many, many notes in fact. Had I never known him, my music would be missing something. He had to be in my life and I had to be in his. He is part of who I am today and for as long as I live, he will be. And because he was a part of shaping my music, he is a part of everyone else's life for whom I have been and will be a note.

And so it goes.

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

John Donne



Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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My brain.

It bothers me that the mail will not run today due to the holiday. That means that I can't send a card or letter today. I already have one addressed and ready to go... but it will have to sit here until tomorrow. Every day is so important right now.

Yesterday I allowed myself a what if. I don't know why I do that. I should know better by now. I could see my friend, well and happy, and calling me every few days to talk. I thought how nice it will be to have him in my life again; to have the opportunity to know who he is now.

I have always had a hard time walking the fine line between optimism and pessimism. My heart wants to be full of hope and to think only positive thoughts. But the cynical part of me that often has a much louder voice than does my heart, screams at me to be realistic and never, ever get my hopes up about anything. Optimism says a life of hope is a life worth living. Pessimism reminds me that it serves to protect me from too much disappointment and heart ache.

I spent my weekend working on the supplies drive for the evacuees that I am coordinating. It feels good to do something that will help someone. To get outside myself is exactly what I need now. But, my factory-second brain tells me that if I allow him to leave my thoughts even for a little while, I'll lose him.

People who have obsessive-compulsive disorder feel perpetually responsible. We know with as much certainty as we know anything that our rituals and thoughts protect the people we love. Logically, we understand our omnipotence is merely a hiccup in our brain chemistry, but down to the cells in our bodies, we also KNOW that we must continue to perform or someone will pay.

Without question, I am positive that even at this moment, somewhere there are scores of obsessive-compulsives that are certain Hurricane Katrina was their fault. They should have prayed correctly or they shouldn't have touched a door knob with their left hand or looked too long at a "bad" number. I'm sure that sounds unbelievable to someone who doesn't have the disorder, but it's absolutely the truth.

So with my friend, I am pulled toward that feeling of responsibility. Logically I know my thoughts cannot make him well, but with my brain whispering again and again, "What if you're wrong? Do you really want to risk it?" I am afraid to spend more than a few minutes without a thought of him. I so much want him to be healthy and happy and a part of my life again. My OCD is at full tilt these last weeks.

I've "what if'd" how it would be if he and my husband met. Would they like each other? Would they be friends? I have a hard time believing they would. The two men couldn't be more different. At least, the man I knew him to be years ago anyway. Sadly, I don't know who he truly is now. I hate that so much. I wish I did. I wish I knew everything about him now. Is he a Republican or a Democrat? Does he still listen to the only kind of music I hate? I heard that he is Wiccan now. It makes sense to me that he would be. He was always his own person and was never satisfied with anything just because someone told him he should be.

I have to stay busy today. I will clean and do laundry and as much physical activity as I can muster. My son celebrates the day at the lake with his father and Mr. Man sleeps the day away as he worked last night. I feel lonely and already today, I'm fighting tears. I have to push that down and accomplish something today.

I wonder if I'll ever feel like writing something funny again. At the moment, I just don't see it. I've always appreciated the people who read my blog and send me email, but I knew for sure if I stopped being funny, the emails would stop. I'm amazed that so many of you have sent notes to me with words of comfort and encouragement. You can't know how much I appreciate them.




Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Sunday, September 04, 2005

Tears of hope run down my skin.

RedCross.org. Donate now.

I'm sick tonight. Swollen glands, sore throat, achey body. In this quiet house, I want to scream and scream. I have a little bug, only enough to make me slow down to feel bad for a few days and I can only think of him. I can't even imagine his misery. It's not fair.

I want to rage against the world. We shouldn't have cancer in 2005. Billions upon billions of dollars spent on the search for a cure and still we are no closer than we ever were. Still my beautiful friend vomits every few minutes and pulls his hair out in handfuls.

It's all a game. Someone raises the money, someone takes the money and someone is not doing with it what should be done.

What if? What if the cure is a root or an herb or something so simple that we've been cutting it down year after year until there is almost no more of it? What if they know it's name, but because it's something so readily available that it cannot be patented... and no patent means no more money and no more money means no more life of excess for the white coats.

I hate what passes for medicine in our culture.

Every time I think of him, which is every few minutes of every day, I want to do something that is valuable and important and worthy. I can't just be me. I can't just sit here, waiting.

I wish I were a Van Gogh. I'd paint a spectacular picture so full of power and emotion that anyone who saw it would understand who he is and how wrong it is for him to be sick. The paint would be dark and thick and even standing near it would move the world to action. It would change things.

I wish I were a Hemingway. I'd paint him with beautiful words that would make the world cry and no one would be able to put it down. It would change things.

I wish I were a Josh Groban. I'd paint him with a soulful voice and my words would send waves of emotion through anyone who heard them.

I can't do anything. Not one damn thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Remember When It Rained"

Wash away the thoughts inside
That keep my mind away from you.
No more love and no more pride
And thoughts are all I have to do.

Remember when it rained.
Felt the ground and looked up high
And called your name.
Remember when it rained.
In the darkness I remain.

Tears of hope run down my skin.
Tears for you that will not dry.
They magnify the one within
And let the outside slowly die.

Remember when it rained.
I felt the ground and looked up high
And called your name.
Remember when it rained.
In the water I remain
Running down
Running down
Running down
Running down
Running down
Running down
Running down

Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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You live.

Donate to the Red Cross now.

I continue to write. Each day a card or a letter from me gets a stamp and goes on its way. My beautiful, wonderful husband encourages me to keep writing. He knows who I am so well and he comforts me now as I try to comfort the man that used to love me.

My parents went to see my friend, but were stopped before they knocked on the front door. He's too sick, his ex-wife said. She wanted my parents to tell me he knows I'm writing him as my cards and letters were being read to him. I appreciate her, even though I don't know her. I'm sorry for her and her own should-haves.

Last night was a respite from the death and destruction... at least for me. Berta Lou called and asked me to come to a girl's night. Frilly drinks and a chick flick and girl talk were just what we all needed. I love my Berta Lou. When I walked through her door, my first inclination was to feel guilty. I had no business spending my evening laughing when life is so ugly for so many right now.

But she knew best. It felt like baptism in a way. I needed to have my spirit cleaned up and to have some of that dark aura that has been surrounding me washed away. We giggled and watched a movie and talked about boys. It was as good as a pill.

My job has seemed so insignificant for the past couple weeks. I am a business consultant who spends her days spinning words so that consumers fully understand they cannot live another moment without whatever product or service my clients have to offer. I enjoy what I do very much, but as you can imagine, I haven't been inclined to try to persuade anyone to buy anything lately.

Then I realized that the business owners for whom I work needed a way to help and to heal as well. So at the end of last week, I was able to make contact with a tiny town in Louisiana that has been bombarded with evacuees from New Orleans and desperately needs help to care for them. "There are so many young people," said the unidentified city hall employee I spoke with, "We need help."

A list of specific supplies was given to me: baby wipes, Germ-X, Tylenol, garbage bags, feminine hygiene products. "We'll use anything you can send us," she said. That's the moment I took a breath and stepped outside my own sorrow to begin moving. I have written press releases, contacted local radio and newspaper and asked for donations. One of my business owners will ship all of it, no matter how much comes. This is only the first wave of support from my generous business owner. We will continue to do whatever we can to help them and I will personally see to it. I told my husband that I almost feel selfish as I work to get people to offer supplies because everything I do heals me in a way nothing else has. It's therapy for me.

But in all I do, my thoughts are never far from my old friend who is so sick and hurting so badly. I can't get far from him because I feel like if I do, he won't be there any more. I asked my husband last week the question that has been such a central part of my consciousness lately.

"What does a person do when someone says you only have weeks to live?" I asked.

Without hesitation he answered, "You live".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I Could Give All To Time
- A Poem by Robert Frost

To Time it never seems that he is brave
To set himself against the peaks of snow
To lay them level with the running wave,
Nor is he overjoyed when they lie low,
But only grave, contemplative and grave.

What now is inland shall be ocean isle,
Then eddies playing round a sunken reef
Like the curl at the corner of a smile;
And I could share Time's lack of joy or grief
At such a planetary change of style.

I could give all to Time except - except
What I myself have held. But why declare
The things forbidden that while the Customs slept
I have crossed to Safety with? For I am There,
And what I would not part with I have kept.

- Robert Frost

Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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Friday, September 02, 2005

Take me back to the start.

RedCross.org. Every cent counts. Go there now.

"Come up to meet you
Tell you I'm sorry
You don't know how lovely you are
I had to find you
Tell you I need you
And tell you I set you apart
Tell me your secrets
And ask me your questions
Oh let's go back to the start
Running in circles
Coming up tails
Heads on a silence apart
Nobody said it was easy
Oh it's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh take me back to the start
I was just guessing
At numbers and figures
Pulling the puzzles apart
Questions of science
Science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart
And tell me you love me
Come back and haunt me
Oh and I rush to the start
Running in circles
Chasing tails
Coming back as we are
Nobody said it was easy
Oh it's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be so hard
I'm going back to the start."

The Scientist: Coldplay

Never before has life felt so finite. Death is everywhere. It's heavy and real and thick and it's hard to breathe.

People I love are face to face with it, battling it, wondering why it's found them so much sooner than they thought it would. It always does…find us sooner than we thought it would.

People I've never met and will never meet are shaking their fists at it while they stand knee deep in it. Some grit their teeth, determined to keep it at bay another minute. Some arm themselves and for a moment, enjoy a false sense of power. It will not take them, they reason... they'll control death. Still others lie down and wait for it, not as much afraid any more as they are tired of the fight.

I'm so small. I don't think I've ever felt so small and inconsequential. Love conquers all, they say. No…it doesn't. It doesn't conquer tumors or cancer or flood waters. If love were a conqueror, I'd overpower the pain and devastation and sickness and fear with it. If love were a conqueror, I'd take hold of time and go back to the start.

"I love you, Daddy," I say. "It's nothing. I'm sure of it." I love him so much that I have never wanted to believe anything more, despite what logic tells me. His pain is ferocious and it leaves him tired. He doesn't know that I know how much he hurts.

"Don't tell Sherri," he has directed my brothers and sisters. I'm the far away child and for my family, that's always meant I should be insulated from such things. Thankfully I have one sister who disobeys.

Every day I tell myself that my Daddy knows I adore him and for fear of upsetting him, I fight the urge to call him hour after hour to remind him. For as long as I can remember, I have known full well that if my Daddy didn't hang the moon, he was at least a major part in the execution of the event. When I was a child, Daddy was strong and bigger than life and the strictest man I knew. There were few tender moments back then, before he grew older and softer, but I remember every one and I hold them close.

How blessed I have been to be my Daddy's girl. If love conquered all, then my love would make it all go away. My tears would heal him. My conversations with God would be heard and we could go back to the start.

My friend, his beautiful hair coming out in handfuls I'm told, shaking his fist at God. He's angry and sick and hurting and I sit here unable to ease his suffering at all. "I will send you the cheesiest card in the whole world," I told him in my last letter. "It will be covered with kitty-cats and it will rhyme." I wanted him to laugh.

As though placed there by the cheesy card fairy, it was the first one I saw when I walked in Hallmark: a giant, tri-fold and utterly cliché spectacle of a thing with kitty-cats hanging by their paws from tree limbs. "As long as there is the smallest possibility a card or letter from me takes you away from your pain even for a second, I will continue to send them," I wrote.

I don't know what he does with my letters. I don't know if he reads them, I don't know if he smiles. What I do know is that they will continue to arrive at his door every few days. I'll continue to write, to send cards and to tell him how much he means to me and how much I want him to fight.

How blessed I have been to have once been loved by him. If love conquered all, then my love would make it all go away. My tears would heal him. My conversations with God would be heard and we could go back to the start.




Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com

Tell me you hate me at: Yeah. I'm so sure I'm going to make that easy for you.

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